auribus teneo lupum

"tell me, little wolf. would you like to punish those who have wronged you?" celeste augustina duval. xxii. montague.

[celesteduval-blog]

rafaellacapulet:

    What do you want? What does anyone ever want? Money, power, longevity…the list went on and on, the next item more outlandish than the last. But right now, in this moment, Rafaella only wanted one thing: information. A currency that outlasted any monetary value. Opening the drawer of her desk, she withdrew a white bottle then rattled it slowly. Tilting her head as if she were listening very carefully, she drew her eyebrows together in obvious thought. “Huh, wonder what might be in here.” Turning the bottle around so the label faced Celeste, she raised her brow. “I want to know why you had this.”

The other woman’s hand falls beneath her line of sight, presumably settling on the knob of one of her desk drawers, and the emissary half-expects something brutal to become of the motion—a blade or a gun or a relic of someone she love’s suffering, but it’s far worse, far subtler: a prescription bottle, long since replaced, bearing a name that was not her own.

She’s not sure what’s inside; she hardly remembers the name, but it’s easy enough to think of one herself: condemnation.

Swallowing thickly, she dares to quirk an eyebrow, some semblance of the woman she once was defiantly rearing her pretty, resilient head. “Have you never picked up medication for a dear friend, Signorina Capulet?” God knows you’re in dire need of them yourself, she thinks, deftly strangling the thought before it can find its way to the tip of her tongue.

[celesteduval-blog]

romanmontague:

Roman had given her his bed and he’d taken to the couch, his frayed nerves mostly settled by the time velvety darkness fell over his apartment. He’d hoped being somewhere familiar to her with the security of someone she trusted nearby would help her to get some peace, but still he couldn’t help but lay awake, eyes on his bedroom door, wondering if she was just as fine as she said she was. He couldn’t help his periodic check-ups, the weight on his chest easing each time he reaffirmed she was still in his bed, that she hadn’t vanished once more.

“Hi. Celeste.” He froze at the sound of her voice, blue eyes finding the outline of her silhouette in the darkness. “Sorry - I’d… forgotten something in my room.” He sat down slowly on the bed, beside her legs. “Can I get you anything, Seabiscuit? You sleeping alright?”

“Hi. Celeste.” The knot in her chest unravels and she can breathe once more, though each breath feels like it’s clawing its way down her throat and back up again. It’s him—of course it is, who else would it be?—and she’s happy to see him, even in the half-light just barely slipping through the folds of his curtains. 

“Don’t be,” she murmurs, voice little more than a rasp, and she means it. Any interruption of her nightmares—any waking minute—is a welcome one; having him here, alive and well and close enough touch after weeks of wondering about him is a better gift than she could ever think to ask for.

His eyes are still that pretty blue she always loved to fawn over when she’d had too many; something in her heart twists. “Too much, I think, and no, I’m fine. Just...” Painstakingly slowly so as not to make him think she’s retreating away from the possibility of his touch (even though she is), she pulls her legs to the left, the soft brush of cotton against her calves reminiscent of home—not one place, but several. “Stay a while. Talk to me.”

[celesteduval-blog]

LITTLE BY LITTLE— date: january 31st, 2017 time: 5:30 p.m. location: roman’s apartment closed: @romanmontague

She wakes slowly, groggily, and for a moment—before the ceiling of Roman’s bedroom comes into focus—she believes she’s just woken up from a particularly deep sleep, the kind that’s nearly tiring in itself. Her eyelids feel heavy, and unconsciousness still tugs gently at her hands, but she recoils—both physically and mentally, drawing her fingers into the sanctuary of her palms and struggling to sit up. “Roman?”

[celesteduval-blog]

lucreciafalco:

“Good.”

A smile dances across her lips as she relaxes into her seat. She errs on the side of caution as she chooses her next words carefully, recalling the exact questions she’d been given. Unsure as to why their answers would be of value, or why Rafaella would even assume a girl in Celeste’s position would give truthful answers, but she supposed that’s why she had been tasked with such a duty. To get those truthful answers, by any means necessary.

“The night of Alvise’s death—where were you headed?”

Leaning forward, Lucrecia raises her arms above the desk and rests them atop the table, giving her right hand better, and much quicker, access to the knob that will decide the girl’s fate if she dare not speak the truth.

It’s an easy enough question with a simple enough answer, and if not for the needles pointed threateningly at her fingertips, she might have been able to convince herself that she and the Falco woman were merely having a civil conversation, a discussion—two equals discussing her unfortunate twist of fate. But for all that the emissary across from her looks relaxed, at ease—natural, she knows that’s not true.

But the truth, at least this time, isn’t afraid to see the light.

“Back to my apartment,” she murmurs, dark brown gaze, robbed of its warmth, meeting hers. She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t inform her of what she might already know—that they’d taken her merely two blocks from her residence—because she’s learned the tells of a liar while learning the craft, and perhaps the most damning is this: a striking eagerness to be forthcoming.

[celesteduval-blog]

rafaellacapulet:

    “Not a fan of the Falco woman, hm?” Rafaella asked softly, eyes flickering over the shattered, broken thing that sat in front of her. She had been broken time and time again, but she had risen. This privileged creature sitting in front of her did not know the harshness of the world until she had been damned to the Capulet’s care. Shame, Rafaella thought, such a shame. Maybe in another life than could have been friends rather than broken enemies. “Are you going to tell me the same things you told her? If so, then I see no reason why I shouldn’t return you to her care so you two can have a little more…fun.”

“What do you want?” Her voice is like sandpaper where it was once silk, her voice raw from screams—those she’d succeeded in strangling, and those she had not. It’s reminiscent of business negotiations, cutting to the chase, like asking “What business?” when a partner seemed to only talk in circles. The last time she did business couldn't have been more than a few weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Briefly, she wonders if she’ll ever sit opposite a client again—not only if she’ll ever get the chance, but if she’ll take it.

[celesteduval-blog]

orpheusahulani:

He hummed lowly in response to her thanks, lifting his shoulders abruptly as if to say think nothing of it, although he knew as well as she did that this was not an act of generosity committed lightly, that it wasn’t every day that Orpheus deigned to look down from his shadowy throne for long enough to display anything even remotely resembling sympathy. He didn’t make a habit of going out of his way to help the members of that gilded elite he so abhorred - for the most part his benevolence extended only downwards, towards his realm. And so the half-shrug carried with it a reminder that this was not done without considerable thought, a silent acknowledgment of the fact that her gratitude was very much deserved, and his intervention not lightly earned.

The next comment (and the pointedness behind it) was rewarded with a smile, a chuckle. “That’s fair enough, I suppose,” he conceded, tipping his head to one side, gaze momentarily diverted to the cloth filled with ice as he finished wrapping it. “Although,” he intoned after a moment’s silence, voice almost melodic, resonant in the small kitchen space, “offending the person who’s meant to be babysitting you might not be the wisest move.” It was a light warning, with no heat behind it other than the flickering flame that danced behind his eyes; she was incapable of offending him, and he of taking offence at anything she could possibly say.

“There.” Once the towel had been satisfactorily wrapped, he pushed it across the counter towards her, tapping the side of his face in a silent instruction.

She lets her gaze fall when he does, dark eyes settling first on his calloused hands and then on the near-immaculate cloth. The stark contrast between the two—light and dark, smooth and rough—doesn’t escape her notice; few things ever do. “Perhaps not,” she concedes quietly, lips twisting into a rueful smirk at his use of the term babysitting. “You don’t have to, you know. You’ll find I’m really quite boring.” And to a man like him, she probably is, even if she weren’t nursing a dislocated shoulder. Orpheus Ahulani doesn’t strike her as the type to revel in a good novel or exchange verbal daggers in a negotiation.

But then again, he didn’t strike her as the type to offer his help—unsolicited. She’s tired of being wrong, and even more tired still of having to make sense of why, but more than anything, she’s simply tired. She wouldn’t mind in the least if he stepped outside and left her to whatever slivers of sleep she could manage. 

But he doesn’t, and she supposes she’s done enough of that—for now. Her delicate fingers close over the bundle like she’s picking up a bomb, and she brings it to her cheekbone after a moment’s hesitation, biting her tongue to keep a sharp hiss from slipping out between her teeth. “You seem like you’ve done this before.” Often.

[celesteduval-blog]

lucreciafalco:

There was something gratifying about the look of sheer terror on the girl’s face; Lucrecia had all the power. She held all the cards (needles), each one designed to elicit a carefully constructed and wholly truthful response. It was more exhilarating than she would have thought it’d be, torturing someone, that is. She was rather fond of causing such intense pain, and while she normally favored emotional over physical (the mind would always be her eternal playground), having Celeste on the receiving end gave her a feeling of slight karmic retribution.

“Before we start, let me explain to you how this is going to work, si? These,” she gingerly gestured toward the device—pointing out the needles specifically with a devilish grin on her face—of her own creation atop the table as if it was her own kin, something she was truly proud to show off,  “are purely motivational.” They weren’t there to hurt her, at least not on purpose. While Lucrecia knew it was a twisted way to justify inflicting such torment, she didn’t care. She knew any victim needed an incentive; Celeste’s would be not being prodded beneath her fingernails by six-inch needles.

“I will ask a question, and you will answer. If I think you are lying, not telling me the whole truth, or leaving out any piece of information, this,” she moved her hand to the right on the table, her index finger hovering next to a makeshift gear—turn to the right to inch them further, turn to the left to let them retreat back—and twisted it slightly to the right, watching as the tips of the needles pressed into the girl’s fingertips lightly, “will be the result. Are we clear?”

She tilted her head to the side, waiting for her to answer, but instead felt a small, sharp pang of sympathy for her deep in her chest. Lucrecia knew just how strong the Montague emissary was; she had to be in her line of work, especially when her allegiance was pledged to a fairly male-dominated side of this war. A woman always has to work harder to demand the respect she knows she deserves, and Lucrecia could only imagine what hardships someone in Celeste’s position had to overcome. And now? It was a shame just how alone she really was, thrown into the lion’s den, rendered completely helpless. But Lucrecia didn’t have much room for compassion where she sat. She had a job to do.

Leaning across the table, she extended her arm out and erased a falling tear with the pad of her thumb from the girl’s cheek.

“Shall we begin?”

She supposes she should look at the contraption with a bit more interest, a bit more curiosity, because it’s in her nature to wonder, to want to know how things work. But she’s already lost a bit of herself in that she doesn’t, choosing only to regard it as coolly as she could manage. Her curiosity, at least in stressful situations like these, has chipped away like worn paint. She’ll mourn the loss of it later.

If she gets the chance.

The unspoken warning in the other emissary’s explanation doesn’t go unnoticed; for all that she might know whether she’s telling the truth or not, she’ll be subject to the other woman’s judgment, and while she can’t say she knows Lucrecia Falco well, she knows enough to recognize that she’s sorely at a disadvantage. If the older woman wills it, every word out of her mouth will be a lie—never enough.

It takes nearly everything in her not to cringe at the mere thought of it, but she nods, casting a wary eye down at the woman’s quickly retreating thumb. “Yes.”

[celesteduval-blog]

maevepetre:

She is no emissary. The art of cleverly gilded words are lost on Maeve, a mere soldier who has yet to mold her heart into something silver, something obedient to whatever is thrust upon her; she would not be here if she could stand to have her decisions made for her. Though many accuse Maeve of being soft, far too gentle for the harsh world they rule, few can call her weak-minded. Her flame, while more of a hearth than a great wildfire, is her own. And she sees it in Celeste, who carries herself with a self-assured grace even when she is held hostage. But that does not mean I can trust her, Maeve reminds herself (though in vain — why else would she come to ask a question if she did not expect an honest answer?).

“It’s… a sensitive topic,” she admits, beginning to feel just how ridiculous her mission is. Asking a prisoner of war of peace? What inclination might Celeste have of making nice with her captors? Her cage is nicely cushioned, and clean to boot, but there is no luxury that can make up for the lack of freedom.

But still — Maeve would be Maeve if she did not at least try.

“You are a Montague,” she begins with the obvious, her voice becoming surer and surer with each word. She is used to this: making her case for peace, for kindness, for a better, braver world. “And you have seen the Capulets, the way we work. You’ve been watching us, haven’t you?” It is a statement more than a question; even Maeve does not expect Celeste to pass up the opportunity to analyze the Capulets’ inner workings.

“I… I can’t imagine anyone being in the same position as you are right now,” she says, her voice soft with admiration she is not supposed to feel for their captive. “So I… I must ask.”

A beat of silence, a deep breath, and then: “Do you believe… peace can ever be accomplished? Between Montague and Capulet?” Maeve hesitates, before adding slowly, “You and me?“

“You’ve been watching us, haven’t you?” She’s a gentle interrogator, the sort that asks, rather than accuses, and Celeste supposes it’s only fitting that she should be consistent; a girl who dares to bring a tin of sweets to a hostage—and one not currently in her captors’ good graces—isn’t fit for the sort of interrogation she’s been trained to weather. The Duval woman had been prepared for hurricanes; Maeve Petre is, it seems, little more than a spring shower. 

All softness (or lack thereof) aside, however, she’s never been fond of rain when there’s no roof overhead to shield her from it. She’s slightly uncomfortable, but she can take heart in the fact that the woman in front of her is even more so. She can see it in her eyes, the way she pauses to gather her words like a bouquet of wildflowers—a peace offering.

Slowly, the emissary nods. She’s been watching diligently, and without much effort to hide it; even traitors look like spies in the right light. But she stops once the Capulet asks her question, brows furrowing slightly. 

Peace. A man has been shot dead in his bedchambers and a captain has been stabbed at a masquerade ball hailed as a neutral event, and she has the nerve to propose peace—a ceasefire. Foolish, foolish girl—does she not realize that acts of war have resounding consequences? That the dead never wake and the living never forget? 

It’s a hard pill to swallow if you weren’t raised to see the world for what it was; before she catches herself, Celeste nearly envies her. “I don’t know,” she says honestly, willing herself to look the younger girl in the eye. “It’s hard to say. Things would have to change.” Drastically.

[celesteduval-blog]

catherinedaly:

The answer she provides is simple and easy to swallow; one cannot wish to speak to and garner favor with a deity without begging for forgiveness every so often (after all, they all are humans and they all make disastrous mistakes). Catherine is quick to agree with Celeste, the gentle nodding of her head the only acknowledgment the other receives until she murmurs, “So do I. Oftentimes, many of us only pray to ask for forgiveness.” Whether Catherine Daly is a woman who only speaks to God when she’s done wrong or not makes no difference; she’s here now, begging for forgiveness while speaking to a Montague, a harbinger of destruction, a possible reincarnation of ilLucifero in a disarming, wispy, feminine frame. 

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.

“Tell me, Celeste,” Cat begins softly, “how lost does a person have to be to act so out of character?” How long can a bird reside in her gilded cage before enough is enough? How long can a saint refrain from violence before she ultimately snaps? These are things the young soldier needs to know, needs to be so painfully aware of so she’s not so easily blindsided again.

“Is there always such a hideous breaking point?”

“Selfish, isn’t it?” The brunette asserts thoughtfully, made certain by the younger girl’s question—loaded and far more dangerous than any gun her mob could manufacture—that they were no longer talking about God. “The way we always seem to make things about ourselves.” She’d seen the potential in Catherine Daly to be more than near-sighted, more than self-centered—more than this, but a snake was a snake, no matter how softly it spoke, and one couldn’t very well gauge the waging of a war from a place so low.

How lost? She recalls waking up in a room she didn’t recognize with her throat raw from screaming for help that never came, her heart clambering out of her ribcage and into her throat—not lost enough. She remembers running through the halls of the museum, golden fabric bunched up in her hands, and coming within mere feet of freedom—not lost enough. And now, she swallows hard, lets a lone fingertip ghost over her fractured cheekbone, black and blue and throbbing, breath catching quietly in her throat.

How lost?

“You can’t push something over the edge and expect it not to crack, signorina Daly.” Celeste turns to look her in the eye, something solid and whole lingering between shades of brown. “And if you get cut while picking up the pieces, it’s through no fault but your own.”

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Shakespearean Character Ask Meme

ANTONY: What bad habits do you need to break? BEATRICE: What is the achievement you’re most proud of? BENVOLIO: What comes to mind when you think of peace? BIANCA: What do you want most in life? CELIA: Do you want to fall in love? CIRCE: Would you rather be loved or feared? CLAUDIUS: What is the worst thing you’ve ever done? CORDELIA: Do you consider yourself a good person? CRESSIDA: What makes you feel trapped? DESDEMONA: Do you believe that the truth will set you free? EDGAR: Do you want to make your family proud? EDMUND: Do you ever wish you’d been born someone else? If so, who? GERTRUDE: Would you (or have you) ever cheated on a significant other? HAMLET: Do you prefer to think things through thoroughly or act on impulse? HECATE: Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert? HELENUS: Do you believe in God? HIPPOLYTA: What is your biggest regret? HORATIO: Who do you love most? JULIET: What is your favorite luxury? LADY MACBETH: What is your favorite thing about yourself? MACBETH: Have you ever killed anyone? Would you? MALCOLM: What does honor mean to you? MEDEA: Do you have any quirks? MERCUTIO: Is there anyone you would die for? MIRANDA: Is happiness a choice? OBERON: Does reputation matter to you? OPHELIA: Is there anything you regret not doing? ORSINO: If you could have any material thing in the world, what would it be? PARIS: If you had the chance to rule the world, would you? PORTIA: When did you lose your innocence? PUCK: Do you consider yourself a mischievous person?  ROMEO: How far would you go for love? ROSALIND: What does your ideal day entail? ROSALINE: Which people from your past haunt you? SEBASTIAN: Is violence ever the answer? TITANIA: Do you believe in magic? TYBALT: If you could kill one person without consequences, who would it be? VIOLA: How skilled of a liar are you? VOLUMNIA: Describe the biggest sacrifice you’ve made.

[celesteduval-blog]

rafaellacapulet:

tea for two – but torture for one

Date: January 28

Time: 10:32 PM

Location: The Cathedral (Rafaella’s apartment)

Status: Closed for @celesteduval​

    Her fingers drummed against the surface of her desk, eyes watching the seconds of her clock tick away. How long had she been preparing for this? Two weeks? No, it must be longer than that – she had been preparing for this since walked away from the scene of her crime, the whole floor painted red. A sigh left her as she closed her eyes, burying her face in the palms of her hands. She wasn’t ready, she wasn’t ready, she wasn’t ready  – then came the knock. 

    “Come in,” she called, head canted to the side as she watched a soldier drag the Duval woman in. “Ah, our favored guest – enjoy your quality time with Lucrecia Falco?”

Often, people tell stories about wild things made tame, of wolves eating out of the palms of hands softened by domestication. It’s in the nature of man to believe he can bring his fellow creature out of the dark; to be another’s salvation is to secure your own. But no one ever talks about the tame things turned feral, girls raised on milk and honey and the syrup of sophistication who realized their teeth were suited for more.

Storytellers so love to spin tales of wild things broken and shaped into something with edges not quite sharp enough to kill, but few ever speak of marbled men and women whose smooth edges were made jagged.

So let me be the first. 

She’s lost something; that much is clear from the way she all but stumbles in, polite greeting and dignified posture be demanded. She’s lost something, and—which is worse—she doesn’t care to look for it. 

Her pride has splintered and colored her eyes bloodshot. This is how beautiful, dignified things shatter.

The once-emissary sinks into the chair across from the adviser with little ceremony and no response, honey-golden gaze lifted to look just above her head. Why, you might ask?

It’s simple, really. Looking a dog in the eye invites her to do her worst. 

[celesteduval-blog]

everettcraven:

Date: 9 January 

Time: 4:40pm 

Location: Colosseum 

Closed: @celesteduval

Sharp pain shot through every limb as Everett pushed himself from the ground. The persistent ringing echoing through his head with the relentless vengeance of a scorned lover made it difficult to reorient himself in the chaos of the crowd. Bodies crashed and collided on all sides, threatening to unbalance his already unsteady feet and push him back to the ground to join those who had succumbed to the devastating attack. 

Despite the stilted steps and frequent fumbles that inflicted every patron desperate to escape the disorder that had enveloped the Colosseum, Everett was able to move through the crowd with relative ease. Harsh hands, caked with dirt and drying blood, forced those caught up in the chaos from his path. Everett ignored the cries for help and shrieks of fear echoing through the crowd in a thunderous roar. Those who were dead were gone, those who were hurt were useless, and those who could not think beyond their own panic were incompetent. He refused to exhaust his own energy for an unavailing attempt at compassion.

Escaping the restrictive structure of the Colosseum provided a sudden reprieve. People scattered in all directions, desperate for help and escape. Critical eyes, reddened from the earlier invasion of dust and debris, scanned the blurring faces of strangers for any familiar features.  Recognition shot through him at the sudden appearance of the Capulet’s captive, spurring him forward with a determined pace. A tight grip settled on the soft flesh of Celeste’s bicep as Everett pulled her toward him, uncaring and absent of the caution he would normally take. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he spat, his words and tone uncharacteristic in their severity.

They’d made it. The fight was far from over, the danger far from dissipated, but they’d made it, the Capulet heiress and the Montague emissary, and Celeste had worked with far more damning odds than these. But even if the Colosseum had caved in on top of them, a possibility altogether plausible but engineered to be unlikely, she’d have found a way, for as tragic as it would’ve been for either of them to perish in the bombing, it would’ve been doubly so for the Duval woman to fail to outsmart a plan hatched from the minds of her own people. 

But the enemy hadn’t taken her wit from her, and if she had any breath left in her body, they never would.

Spotting a thinning of the crowd ahead of them, she pulled the other girl forward, swallowing the panic that had risen in her throat when the bomb first went off and her pride in one gulp. There was no consolation, no spoonful of sugar to make it go down any sweeter, but she was well-off, not coddled, and she found it easier to force her way through the mass of people once she’d let go of the dead weight holding her back.

But they’d never make it to the clearing, because Juliana Capulet was torn away from her just as she was torn away from the heiress, an iron grip caressing her upper arm like a bruise. Pain raced up to her shoulder in kind, a burning sort of ache, but she merely braced herself against the man’s chest and tried to barter for space between them, brown eyes wide with surprise and then recognition. 

“I’m trying to get out alive,” she coughed, eyes narrowed against the smoke. Far be it for the Craven man to believe that things weren’t as they appeared to be, but it was true. 

[celesteduval-blog]

lucreciafalco:

Of pain you can wish only one thing—that it will stop.

DATE: Thursday, January 12th TIME: 9:37 PM LOCATION: The Cathedral (sub-basement) STATUS: Closed to @celesteduval

Cigarette secured between the slender fingers of her right hand, she paced back and forth behind the table, her body restless with anticipation. While the echo of stilettos on tiled floor was normally music to her ears, this time it was deafening. As if each step took her closer and closer to the edge of a cliff far too high with a fall sure to kill.  Her chest was tight with an unfamiliar ache, one in the shape of a dark shadow, venomous and wicked to its core, intent on engulfing any small sliver of goodness found within her already obsidian-ridden soul. Many times the same qualities have been attributed to Lucrecia—poison coursing through her veins and corruption pouring from her lips—but she was positive whatever this was, whatever creature Rafaella had summoned when she asked for this, was far, far worse.

It’d been nearly a half hour since they’d brought her in and the girl was still unconscious. Lucrecia knew what needed to be done, but still, she hesitated. She was actually quite grateful for the silence, for the calm before the storm. She thanked the menthol for easing the tiny tremors taking over her hands and for calming the pit of nerves scrambling within her gut. She wasn’t completely sure if she was actually excited to do this—it would honestly be a first, perhaps something to check off one’s own twisted bucket list—or if she was full of absolute dread over what was about to happen. 

Either way she needed to focus on the task at hand; she had a job to do.

One last drag and she tossed the butt of the cigarette to her feet, stomping it out with the toe of her boot and headed toward the seat opposite Celeste. Her hands were secured to the table, palms forcibly flattened against the wood, fingertips resting mere centimeters from the sharp end of six-inch needles. Ten of them, to be exact—one for each of her digits—secured that close to guarantee any movement would be met with a sharp and very painful prick. 

A heavy sigh spilled through her rouge-stained lips as she settled into the seat, but she shoved down all the mind-numbing uncertainty and the feeling gnawing irritably at her gut, compartmentalizing them away deeply and leaned forward across the table to tap the girl on the shoulder. She didn’t budge. 

“Per l'amor di dio,” she cursed, scooping up the girl’s chin with ease before winding her hand back to slap her across the face. 

“Time to wake up.”

She’d learned what hell entailed from the front pew of a church, had heard the stories of flame and agony and light, blinding light, and so, too, had she learned how to get there, by paths so often taken they were paved in gold and others so rare they were hardly paths at all. She’d learned that the first shall be last and the last shall be first, and in doing so, had come to terms with the fact that she’d likely be last in the next life if she succeeded in the endeavors of this one.

Oh, but they were wrong.

It’s cold and dark and she’s falling; she’s been falling for God only knows how long, and the stories they told were wrong, and she’s not sure what terrifies her more—that she was lied to, or that hell isn’t an onslaught of misery, but an absence of pleasure, of all things that she loves. There is no light, no warmth, no certainty; her wings don’t work and when she screams, only the abyss lends her its ear. She is blind, helpless, lost, but wholly unrepentant; the last thing she thinks to say is that she’s sorry, because even now, it feels cowardly—late.

And then she hits the ground hard, the impact smarting against her cheek like an open palm.

She jolts up, wrists aching against the restraints her hands have been forced into, and draws in a breath like she’s forgotten how, and it’s sickening, really, the relief that creeps in like a fever. The Falco woman is far from a sight for sore eyes, but she’s far more than oblivion, and it’s enough. “What?”

[celesteduval-blog]

orpheusahulani:

He listened to her rummaging around in the kitchen, tapping out a staccato beat on the arm of his chair as he waited, half-bored, half-expectant, as though waiting for something interesting to happen. He heard her sighs, heard the telltale scratch of scrabbling hands, could see her out of the corner of his eye, trying to reach higher, higher… and not quite managing. Orpheus let the performance continue for a moment more and suddenly decided he couldn’t take it any longer, pushed himself out of the armchair and strode into the kitchen. Without saying a word, he reached over her into the cabinet she’d been aiming for, pulling out a tea-towel and throwing it onto the kitchen counter. Wordless, still, he reached for the tray of ice that she was clutching in her hands and emptied it into the unfolded cloth with a perfunctory sort of ease, the sort of gesture that pointed to him having done the same thing countless times before.

(He told himself that this intervention was to alleviate his boredom, to spare himself the frustration of watching her struggle, and perhaps that was at least half-true.)

“And what if I took offence, hm?” Suddenly he was back to his old self, the lustre in his eyes, half-teasing, half-deadly, restored to its habitual shine, and as he wrapped the ice in the towel he’d retrieved he met Celeste’s gaze head-on, smirk curling at his lips. “What would you do then?”

He made it look easy, reaching over her head with little concern for bumping into her and nabbing the towel her own delicate hand had fallen a few inches short of, but for a man of his stature, she supposed it was. She couldn’t tell if he’d taken it upon himself to help her because he pitied her or was merely bored, but she took a reluctant step out of his way nonetheless, some odd semblance of indignation and gratitude—warm and uncertain—pulsing through her veins. She was more than capable of doing it herself, and the girl who had grown up in a household where independence was the only acceptable means found herself slighted at the gesture.

But the woman who’d grown to look for light slipping in through the cracks, for kindness in places deemed cruel, was the one who spoke.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, if not a bit prematurely, as he hadn’t given her the ice just yet. In fact, when he spun around to face her, he seemed to pose a question—a riddle of sorts, even—that might’ve prolonged her wait even more. White teeth met her lip only briefly before recoiling, not-so-old wounds making their protests known, but she managed to smirk, or to do something close to it, at the least. “I’d leave you to stew in it,” she said decidedly, holding out her good hand for the ice. “It’s the only thing to do, really.”

[celesteduval-blog]

julianacapulet:

Brielle is winning. There’s simply no two ways about it.

Despite the fact that she had been sent there that day as something of a beacon of confidence for the Capulets, Juliana found herself eagerly awaiting the sweet sight of the woman crossing the finish line as though she were sat on the saddle herself about to make history like the announcer shouted in frantic repetition to hammer the fact into everyone’s minds. The reality that she was only on the edge of her own on the colosseum’s, back straight and neck strained to view as much as her eyes would allow her, did nothing to lessen the buzzing that had seeped into her very bones, an electric feeling suddenly shrouding the crowd that was far from prepared to witness such an upset but couldn’t take their eyes off of it regardless.

What an inspiration it would have been — a woman, disregarded out of favor to more powerful figures, no alignment, present out of a passion than any agenda or grandstanding — had fate given it the slightest sliver of a chance to come true.

“Hey! Che cosa-…” came the startled cry when her eyesight became obstructed by someone’s unrecognizable torso accompanied by an almost literal jumping out of her skin, and when a hand clamped down on her arm with a heaviness that even she could not mistake as an accident, Juliana’s paranoia from events not long since past kickstarted a heartbeat to one that could very well rival the horses in front of her.

The Duval woman. What the hell was she thinking, trying anything in public and with a guard around them? As it were, even with the frantic turns of Juliana’s head towards him, any sudden movements to retaliate with a crowd of this size could cause uncontrollable panic that would only serve to make matters worse, leaving the man struggling to follow suit when the Capulet found herself practically dragged away. 

Oh, dio. È questo. Questo è il fine. ( Mammina, si prega di tenere a me di sicuro ).

And then it happened. 

Her back turned, eyes firmly on her captor (that’s what she thought of the other now, believing this to be nothing but an abduction) that she didn’t even see the way that the age old walls cracked and crumbled, she could only really register the danger of the truth with the way that it absolutely deafened her. For a moment, Juliana could’ve sworn it was a massive earthquake that had the roof above them shift, sending down a rain of ash and ruins to the ground shaking beneath their feet, but stumbling over the urgency of the other had her faltering over her own, giving her the opportunity to turn back.

If this were Scripture, this would be the part where Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt, unheeding of the admonitions not to — the heiress suffered the same consequence, color draining from her face and features frozen in fear, mere seconds passing that when her hearing finally came to, she found herself wishing it hadn’t. 

God, the screams.

“Why… What have you done?!”

For a few achingly long moments, the Capulet heiress took the utter chaos in like a porcelain deer caught in roaring headlights. It was saddening—almost pathetically so—how shell-shocked the woman was in the face of an attack, and if Celeste had had adequate time to pity her, she might’ve (it was awfully easy to forget that, give or take a few months, they were the same age), but the throng of people fleeing the arena they’d only just escaped was rapidly thickening, and fearing they might have escaped the flames only to be trampled to death, the emissary pulled the woman forward once more with a vicious sort of determination.

“Why… What have you done?”

What had she done? The urge to scoff at the girl was nearly too much to overcome. How sheltered are you? She wanted to ask. How much faith do you have in me that you’d think me capable of pulling this off? More than she was showing, apparently, because coaxing one of the horses along probably would have been far easier.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She ground out, righting herself after a crazed stranger slammed into her shoulder and hauling the other woman out of the way of the stampede. “I bombed the Colosseum all on my own.” It was unlike her to be sarcastic, but Juliana’s naivety and the situation at hand made it hard to keep her feathers unruffled—even for a seasoned caged bird. But even at a moment like this, the Duval woman couldn’t help but think of the consequences of the heiress took her words to heart, and so she backtracked, “Are you hurt?” Dark eyes searched the length of the girl’s body for any streaks of red, and when she found none, she asked, “Do you know someplace we can go?” Her use of we in place of you was deliberate, left in the air between them to be recalled at a later time. The Capulets may not have known of the attack, but it wouldn’t have been foolish of them to designate some sort of rendezvous point.

[celesteduval-blog]

priamtaravella:

He nodded, acknowledging her opinion. In fact, as blasphemous as it was, he agreed with her. Logic prevented him from blindly relying on what the program said, knowing any number of accidents could happen during the race, not to mention anything that might have went on beforehand. Such a way of thinking meant the Chrome had just as much chance to win as the Montague horse, for all they knew. It was anyone’s game, and he believed more than most that a victor could come from the unlikeliest of places.

“Not today,” he said, taking a swig of his drink. To say he never made bets would be a lie, but to say he made them often would also be lying. “I think it’ll be more fun just to watch this year.” He also preferred to gamble on things besides which horse would win, but his business with others was nothing he cared to share with Celeste. His eyes followed her gaze and found the guard he originally suspected was close by. Not quite the manpower he thought the job called for, but no one would think to give sweet little Duval such an entourage. A pity, but it was what it was. He stared back at the arena, watching the people nearby interact with each other. “Are you enjoying the Palio so far?”

Her eyes fell briefly upon his drink before wandering up to his once more, a mere glance more than enough for her to spot a gleam in his armor and decipher whether or not it was a chink. Not a gambling man—not today, but perhaps a drinking one. It hardly mattered in the end, as his preoccupation—or lack thereof—with alcohol was of no use to her then and probably wouldn’t be in the future (everyone’s got a drinking problem in Verona, bar the priest, so it hardly counts as leverage except in extreme cases), but she’d always liked fitting the pieces of a person’s appearance together like a puzzle to form a slightly different picture than a reckless gaze might gather, and her present situation wouldn’t rob her of one of her favorite habits.

His question was a formality, likely asked simply because he wasn’t sure what else to say, and she answered it as such. “Very much. Are you?” As much as one could with the knowledge that, despite rather enjoying the races, she was there against her will. “Pardon, but you don’t seem the type to come here for fun.” Perhaps it was the way of people in their line of work, but Priam Taravella didn’t look particularly excitable. In fact, several among the Capulet ranks didn’t, leading her to believe that they’d come under orders. Nothing was quite as festive as a knife hanging over your head, she supposed.

[celesteduval-blog]

odessavernon:

Brown eyes dart from side to side, eagerly searching out for potential adversaries - both those who are familiar and the strange. It’s a worthless effort - and won’t reap reward. Not yet, at least. Somewhere in her mind, there’s a mockery of a plan, a grand idea that perhaps one day, she can help free Celeste. It’s idealism at it’s finest - and reality presses down on them in so many, too many, different ways. For whilst she might not be alone, breathing in the woman’s familiar scent reminds her that without Celeste, she is beginning to feel rather lonely. Her lone female friend, sentenced to a life of separation. 

“Capulets really don’t get much in the way of down time, do they?” The comment jars her jaw, eyes averted away from would-be suspects and settling once again upon the slight brunette, all at once both the same and different from what she remembers. “Maybe you’ll win big. Then you can pay for your own ransom.” It isn’t funny - but Odessa can’t stop herself laughing at her own comment, the lightest of giggles escaping, soft enough to avoid detection from any eavesdroppers. “Or maybe I should bet on another. Cover our bases.”

“I suppose not,” she says evenly, honeyed gaze settling on the way the older girl’s jaw seems to tighten. She’s seen it before in a certain hedonistic adviser, has come to regard it as a warning sign, but a caution label looks inexplicably foreign on the Vernon woman, like being wary of a rose that’s had its thorns cut. But for all that Celeste adores flowers, she’s only ever been an expert at admiring them and little more, so it’s utterly beyond her as to whether thorns are, in fact, capable of growing back. Looking at Odessa now, at the fleeting something that colors her eyes a shade darker than the Duval woman remembers them, she can’t help but hope they do—with a vengeance.

It would do the world well to see Odessa Vernon as what she could’ve been, as what she still could be.

The heaviness of their conversation dissipates a little when she laughs, and the emissary can’t help but join in, cheeks aching from weeks of sitting more or less idle. “What a wonderful idea. We could find Clark and have him throw in his lot, too.” She hasn’t spoken to the older man since before she was taken, and she can’t help but wonder how he’s been getting on, but she feels she already knows the answer—well enough, considering she was never truly around him enough to leave a void—so she doesn’t ask. “How have… things been?” It feels odd to refer to business as things, but the terms they speak in are cryptic in and of themselves, and anyone within earshot is certain to pick up on what they discuss.