run from the devil

Young boy Trying to rule the world I see Well, young boy I can give you everything Diamonds Everything you touch can be Golden But first you gotta listen to me kane keane. hms promethean.

[emprcsario]

the doe-hearted.

post mutiny backsies mutiny attempt (landfall) on the streets, like a lady open to anyone

“If you forego questioning where I got it, you’re more than welcome to share.”  Course what she’d actually prefer would be for everyone to question everything- even if it discomforts them. So long as it might better keep than safe. And that’s really what it comes down to; distrust.  It’s not something she’s familiar with, when she wants to trust everyone until they prove she can’t, and even then offer another chance. This, oh this she excuses as being more about the island than the people on it, more about the terrible acts and fleeing of such that got them here. 

“I think it’s rum, or turpentine. Who’s to know really.” Lifts her hand to lift the bottle, holds it out for whoever’s approached.  “As far as I know there aren’t any laws here, aren’t any peelers, so there are worse things than drinking in the streets. Call it a distraction from doing those worse things, if you like. Doing them or suffering them, what’s your poison?.”

“do i look like i care?” he shrugs as he steps forward; he eyes her cautiously though, not because of the alcohol, but because the sight of her like this is rather unusual. and maybe kane does not care about the origin of the bottle in miss dowling’s hand, but he is rather curious about what made her drink in the street; why she’s doing that instead of all the other things she always does—conspiring first comes to mind and he wants to laugh, cruelly so, because look where it got them. 

he accepts the offer, drinks from the bottle—it tasted both like something familiar and something entirely new; it does not taste good, but all the best liquor never does—as long as it gets the job done. kane has enough issues of his own he’d like to ignore for the time being and drinking’s the answer he’s been looking for. 

“if only your uncle could see you now. see us.” it’s no secret whose side kane is—the winning one. the lines have admittedly blurred in the last day but to his knowledge, it’s still more beneficial to stick with estrada. but here they are. “worse things? what are you thinking about, miss dowling?” he cocks an eyebrow, hands her the bottle back. “but things can’t be worse if everything’s shit. it’s just one fucking thing after another, can’t tell the difference anymore.” and it’s been like this all day today, thanks to this place bringing dead back to life. almost. “when i need a distraction, i go to a brothel. but you don’t strike me as the type who’d find that sort of thing amusing.” kane wonders if she cares enough to scold him for saying a thing like this to a lady—but the fact that he’s found her drinking in the street tells him there’s nothing to worry about. “or would you?”

[emprcsario]

@fatherfoxhound​ : "I ask you, can the ends ever justify such wretched means?"

“where is this coming from, father?” there’s a sneer delivered with the last word—kane could never say it with a straight face or, god forbid, affection—no matter the context. a seed of panic has been planted deep in his gut though, because what if his brother found another victim to speak to from the dead? what if this time, he told someone the truth? his ghost gets more daring with each second. 

the end justifies the means—one could easily consider it the words kane lives by. the end? him, miles ahead from everyone else because he deserves it. and whatever happens to those standing in his way? they deserved whatever they got, too. abel deserved it. and kane will repeat the words until they ring true again. “besides, you’re asking the wrong man. i’m the last to consider things like this. whatever means necessary, that’s the way i handle things.”

“what about you? you can’t tell me that selflessness gets you everywhere. you can’t tell me you’ve never acted a little cruel to get what you wanted.”

[jyneerso]

anne carson, stanzas, sexes, seductions /  ada limón, the noisiness of sleep / florence + the machine, moderation / emily brontë, wuthering heights / yves olade, when rome falls

[emprcsario]

the haruspex.

when / after landfall where / the lobby of the highwayman’s rest with / open to everyone! 

when he was young, when the only frame of reference he possessed was an overactive imagination, his mama’s bedtime stories, and roi’s tall tales of the sea, cyrus used to close his eyes and create imaginary cities–they almost always rose up on some forgotten coast, with long stretches of soft sand to directly contrast england’s rocky shores that required boots, that froze over when the winter came, always buildings made of old stone rose up into sky, playfully taunting him with their vague notion of history, of containing something for him to uncover for himself. the streets teemed with people, eager to share their tales with him, eager to show him the treasures they kept close to their chests–always, he could feel the breeze of the far off desert he could never see but knew sat beyond his line of sight, of the constant sea like a heartbeat. 

he woke up with an ache in his chest every time, the longing for the imagined that plagues every child–but it never stopped him from sprinting down the stairs, where he would collide with his mama’s legs, where she would ask him without fail where he went last night. 

he tries to think of what he would tell her now, but he just keeps producing thoughts that are only half formed, severed of any connective tissue that might give them sense, might make them something he could hope to articulate. almost, but not quite. old, maybe not in a strictly chronological way. eden, but the snake keeps turning into fruit and speaking in a language that can’t be understood. off-axis. 

so this, he thinks as he jots each one in a neatly ordered list in the corner of the parchment he’d managed to charm out of the hotel manager, as though they are important pieces of information to be referred to later on in his research instead of nonsense, is the the undiscovered country. hotels with attendants but without guests that can be seen, streets without people, stores and bars with solitary keepers and without patrons–and the sea, constant as the heart in his chest. 

he huffs out a breath and shakes his head, before he sets the pen down and starts pulling at the roll of bread he’d been offered when he entered, inexplicably warm even though it has been sitting untouched on a plate for at least an hour now. it’s the first time he’s looked up from his work in just as long, and he can feel color rush to his cheeks when he notices that he is no longer the hotel lobby’s solitary occupant–that there’s a strong chance someone may have been watching him sigh and scribble like a madman. 

“as far as i can tell,” he says, as he clears his throat and sets the roll back on the plate. “there isn’t a single map to be found anywhere on this entire island. you can find silk and beads and enough grog to put you to sleep, but cartography is apparently where the line gets drawn.” he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, shrugs his shoulders. “you haven’t seen one, have you? or talked to anyone who has any sense of where we are in fuckin’ space? i can’t make sense of any of it.”

he wanders everywhere, his heart—or whatever’s left of it—growing heavier with each step. his curse, because that’s what it has to be, seems to have reached its full potential in this place and instead of the ghost of his brother getting lost in the waters, it’s followed kane to the shore; keeps a close watch, whispers in his ear about how he’ll never get out of this alive. he should’ve known, that land ahead doesn’t mean goodbye. abel can be everywhere, if he wishes to be and oh, does he wish. not only has the dead man made himself known to his flesh and blood, he’s also taken to dropping hints to other people. everyone saying that you can never escape your past starts to make sense now. 

though kane wants nothing but a drink right now, he heads to the inn rather than the tavern. he hasn’t been inside yet and the curiosity gets the best of him—besides, what does he have to lose? he doesn’t trust this place but nothing can be worse than his dead brother’s constant taunts. kane’s convinced he’d seen the worst of it today already, anything else should feel like a breeze. 

it’s unlike him, to feel the need for familiar company to feel safe, but he sits with the boy anyway, for the very reason. truth be told—he isn’t even sure what his name is. kane never cared enough. 

but the second he opens his mouth, kane becomes oddly interested. the boy sounds like someone with a plan—or at the very least, someone who won’t stop until he has one. a curious mind is something worth having in one’s corner. 

“my best guess is that we’re already dead.” kane half-laughs because it’s only a half-joke, or mostly a joke—if it weren’t for the ghosts of his past, he’d never say something like this while remaining completely serious. “can’t be heaven. purgatory, then? hell?” he finishes with a laugh, though, to convince himself that it’s a totally foolish idea. “i talked to one person here and felt like i lost my goddamn mind. the sooner we get the fuck out of here, the better. i don’t care where.”

[emprcsario]

the stowaway.

“it feels like…” she breathes in sharply, twirling her glass under fingertips. lets her eyes slip closed one moment, two, before looking across at him. in its own way, this is a blessing: attention applied with any sort of gentle touch could well be her undoing right about now. a reminder of anything outside the scowl and venom she’s pulled around herself like a cloak, head down, to get through this evening, this long trek. but cruelty– cruelty, she can deal with. can lean into, carve some fresh resolve from like a pale dagger.

oldest trick in the book: fake it ‘till you make it. tell a lie enough that it becomes true, that it becomes survivable. she smiles, flashing her teeth. “it feels exhilarating. like discovering a hidden talent. latent, and all that. natural.”

she leans back, placing her hands flat on the table between them. “but before you worry another second about me, i’d spare yourself the energy. you’re going to need it, with what’s coming to you. everyone’s heard about me now, and those who haven’t, well– i’d say they’ve gotten the gist of it after this afternoon. what do you have, keane? fact is, you’re the least of the ghosts on my back. might want to brush up on your bargaining skills soon. or your groveling.”

he squints his eyes at her—their mouth says one thing but their eyes tell a different story. voice calls it exhilarating, but their eyes show him the truth. no talent has been discovered but a piece has been lost. or perhaps he’s just thinking of himself. perhaps their experiences can bleed together in his head—does it matter in this palce, anyway? it’s all the same, having someone fie at your hand. 

it’s the last one that doesn’t make it for him—natural. even kane, having done what he’s done (or maybe because of it) would never call a killing natural. necessary, perhaps. a sacrifice. collateral damage. none of it makes it natural. if it were, kane would not have to deal with being punished for it now. if you ignore the weight of it, the ghosts will come back to haunt you. maybe mathilda is going to need the ghosts—so kane says nothing. 

for once, he isn’t particularly thrilled when the conversation focuses on him. what’s coming to you—the threat almost sounds like a joke, after what’s happened today. not for long, though; the moment he thinks about it, it becomes more of an omen. to find the weapon his brother was killed by here and to hear someone speak of ghosts and getting what you deserve—kane doesn’t want to laugh anymore. 

“i’m not here to threaten you with exposure. jesus, we’re way past that.” truth it that he isn’t sure what he’s here for. some chaos, some pain that isn’t his. some ghosts that aren’t his. “don’t you worry about me. i’m all set.” and he isn’t—not yet, though he isn’t sure he will be at all. kane knows what he has to do, to make abel go away, or at least he thinks he does.

it’s been so long since he’s apologized to anyone. it’s a promise he made to himself a long time ago—to never be sorry for doing something that lets you survive. but fate refused to let herself be fooled, knows it wasn’t survival. kane can call it that all he wants but it was all greed and jealousy. he’s being forced to accept the truth now. 

“whatever’s coming to me, can’t be worse than what’s already happened. and if something decides to cut my life short—well, i won’t be around to care.” he speaks of his own death with all the nonchalance though he’s terrified of it. death has been following him from the start of this journey, only now revealing itself to him in the form of his brother. he hasn’t let himself fall apart because of it yet—but he’s close. “what do you think they’re going to do to you? you offed one of their own. seems to me that you’re going to have to sleep with one eye open from now on.”

[ofvoron]

fortune reversed / @emprcsario

[ithappensoffstage]

Let’s go home. I am home.

[emprcsario]

the ambassador.

✤ ✤ ✤

He’s never sure who to expect when he opens this door, anymore. A caulker, poet, fraterniser… Naturalist? He’d not seen her since dear Nyima’s passing. But passing was too sweet a word, wasn’t it? Passing implied an exchange between trusted hands, while she had been snatched- ripped from them. Such distress as that could hardly be bottled. He’d just so happened to be within line of fire when Emma had splintered. The wistful blip in him curdled to gall at what unsought company he was met with when he did open the door.

Dieu- Not you. Dread pooled into every cavity in him made vacant, as of late. Not now.

“Is that not what we’re doing?” He contemplated if the gratification of bloodying his nose would be worth any retaliation to ensue. The door was open barely two inches, and his heel was set on the inside to keep it that way. He would have slammed it then, had he been greeted with turned lips and fang. But the scene of unrehearsed inhibition before him was a snag.

“I am not coming back,” Pasha advised wearily, before the vulture wasted its time picking at carrion that still kicked. But it hovered. “Nothing you say can make you what you once were to me. Is that understood?” he tried again. Was that not what this was about, then? Inexorable eyes began searching him in the next moment, before flitting up and down the corridor. Before pinning Kane again. And then, strenuously, dragging his heel from one side of the door to the other, and nudging it wide.

“You have until I’m able to see the bottom of this bottle. I’d hate to stain the carpeting, should I feel so inclined to break it across your mug,” in one hand he flourished the wine, glass foregone, and pivoted to start back across the room. Hearing now in session, Pasha sloped into his rickety throne until it clacked onto three of its four unequal legs, fist propped into his stubbled jaw. Half-empty and fermented scepter in one hand, and curtained locks tousled by the unseeable circlet of thorns. The doldrum regent and his court of none. He narrowed his sleepless eyes.

“Speak.”

he’s almost forgotten the last words he’d spoken to pasha but the ambassador promptly reminds him. you’ll come back. and despite him saying that he won’t, kane realizes that he needs him to. this is what he’s here for. except the last time he wasn’t asking; he is now, better yet, he’s convinced he’ll have to beg. and for once he’s willing to. 

it’s strange—to feel guilt. it’s never been an issue for kane before, he probably wouldn’t be able to live with himself if it were. there’s too many things he’s done in his life that one should feel remorse for, he’s made so many people his victims, made so many people pay for his sins but he’d always choose to ignore the repercussions. he’d tell himself he’s doing the right thing—right for him—and forget everything else.

and then this place happened. abel’s spirit happened. he can hear him all the time now, ever since he’s touched the knife at the shop—he can hear him, he can see him, he can feel him. kane’s convinced he can see blood on his hands then he blinks and it isn’t there. there’s a shadow in the corner of his eye, follows his every step. there’s whispers in his ear, names of people he’s forsaken for his gain, so many of them and they don’t let him rest, doesn’t matter where he goes. kane hoped they’d quiet down once he steps back onto the ship but the voices followed him; even now, he sees his brother’s face, he sees his partner’s face, they whisper pasha’s name over and over and kane—he wants to scream.

“i’m sorry.” he says instead, and the word trembles just a little. the voices quiet down. all he can see is pasha’s expression—clearly annoyed by his presence, ready to throw back whatever kane says right back into his face. 

it’s another word he never uses the way it’s supposed to. but there isn’t any other way. to make all of this stop. he’ll apologize. and he’ll mean it. 

he stops pacing, turns to face the other man. he feels frozen; his own admission has taken him aback. this is the only way. “i’m sorry. for everything. for what i did to you. for the way i betrayed you.”  kane can’t believe his own words, not because they’re false but because for the first time in his life, his apology is actually an apology. you have to mean it. you mean it. “i’m sorry.”

[flowerytale]

William Shakespeare ― The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

[emprcsario]

for: @ofvoron​

it hasn’t been long since kane’s left the shop but he’s already made a decision about where he goes next. to whom he goes next. it’s not a plan, not even an idea but the growing pressure of his brother trailing so closely behind him has made him feel desperate. he has to do something to make abel go away. 

he goes back to the ship, which looks almost deserted with so many of its passengers back on land. kane’s gone out to explore—curiosity got the best of him—and now he regrets it. he heads straight for the cabin pasha’s staying in, knocks before he can think about it, before he even figures out what he’s going to say. this never happens, kane always comes prepared. he isn’t now—he doesn’t know how this is going to go, he’s not sure of what’s going to come out of this. the last time this level of spontaneity was required of him, it ended in a bloody tragedy. 

“can we talk?” the words spill out of his mouth the second there’s a crack in the door. before it can be closed right back, he adds, “please.” it’s a word he never uses. and if he does, he never means it. but he does now, as unbelievable as it may sound. “please.”

[emprcsario]

the shadow.

Brother, then, is it? The word is neither flesh, nor blood on him; the word is just the kind of wispy, whishy-washy notion these visions thrive on. ( he had called ephraim brother, once, or at least lived it out. a word ain’t only the husk and the hollow; it’s what you do when you’re inside it, when the sound closes overhead. even if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t matter, not here at the end. he was. they were. it was sibling blood-bind, scratched knees, nights spent in jail. it was battlefield vows, for all that there was no massacre around them, only ahead. lan had called ephraim brother, and one morning, he left. that’s the way it goes, in this world; or so men said. of men and their advice, lan knew about by now. they’re neither flesh, nor blood on them. )

The sailor breathes, slow and measured. He tries not to dwell on the rasp of it, in the coarse aftermath of the sight, the there-and-gone-again mockery of it. The presence of whatever was between Kane and his ghost wrung his windpipe like an oil-cloth. Black bile and curdled anger. An anger that had never really stilled, merely settled on all fours, tormented and waiting. He can run the game, by now. The beats and baits of it. What haunting is sorrowful, and which one is merely lonely. Kane’s branded grave was neither. Kane’s grave was open and calling his name.

It showed in how late it was to appear—how it waited for them to leave the Arctic circle, before it could even muster power, or soul, or whatever the fuck these skinless hands needed to squeeze through. It showed in how it pulled out the small bones in his neck, yanked halfway to fucking hell, because, of course. Of course there’s a brother.

That’s how these things work. He had thought the ring may be drawing them to him. Had told Iles Xu as much, somewhere in the confidences of bedroom and barter. Iles had doubted it. Well, the white-winged bastard might have some fucking point of it. Maybe the ring is just… facilitation. Maybe whatever’s dark enough in him to let him hear had been seeded there long ago.

He looks to the cards without seeing them. The deuce blurs, blends into the knight. Knaves and knives pulling at the joints. Lonan snorts up bitterness like it’s a bone lodged sideways. Iles, as always, is enthroned and enshrined on his thoughts; an entity not like a ghost, but like a hound-master. And the king of the hunt says: do not gabble it away. Do not tell him. The game, Lan, think of the long game. And the four-legged beast recoils. No, nothing so gentle. Nothing so statuary. It just says: fuck you. It’s about bloody time I told a soul.

❝I’ve gone through my share of mortal sins, Kane, and on any other day I’d even take you up on a tally. Can’t tell which one of us would draw it longer. But now? Christ. A dead brother, a traitor and a closed fist. Sounds like the oldest story they ever told. Steel through his head, then, was it? Or was it rock? Was it wood?❞

the sharp pain he can feel in between his ribs is both there and not—so he feels it or thinks he feels it. in his head, he visibly winces, clutches at his side, his breathing picks up; in reality, he doesn’t move, his jaw only tightens, maybe his eyes betray him as they jump from lan’s face, to the cards, to his hands, back to the other man. “what makes you think it was me?” kane says; his tone is flat, devoid of emotion, a contrast to what he feels on the inside right now. the phantom pain, the sudden panic. he’s not sure for how much longer he can keep this up for. 

if only it were so biblical. but it was pathetic—abel, like a madman with his hands both itching to choke him and to slash him open with the knife. kane, struggling to get away. he never did, neither did abel; the blood stained everything, it mixed together, their blood, as if they never came out of different mothers. it was the closest he ever felt to his brother, when his body sagged against him. 

“my brother was killed by my business partner a few years ago. and then he died in prison around the time we set sail.” the lie is practiced, not me, him; kane made sure that it would stick, made everyone with a shadow of a doubt either believe him or disappear (it didn’t work with mathilda — she’s on this goddamn ship, serving as another reminder; real people are worse than ghosts). kane grits his teeth, wonders how odd it would be if he just left now. he can’t though. whether it’s abel not letting him go or his own pride, kane can’t move. 

he toys with the collar of his shirt, absentmindedly trails the line again; it makes him angry, that his brother has this power over him, even from beyond the grave. this fucking place. he’s still not even sure what the fuck made lan say what he said. and surprisingly enough, he doesn’t want to find out.

“pay up. i have to go. i have things to do.” so he chooses to run away. it’s what he does best.

[emprcsario]

the stowaway.

( the siren’s sorrow / evening, landfall / OPEN )

in a lone corner booth, tucked away, katja stares into a whiskey pool. the edges of their fingernails drag up and down the glass—the only indication that they are still connected to a body. the person trapped in the amber reflection is not someone they recognize, but perhaps this is what happens when you kill an innocent. maybe this is your punishment, your cain’s mark: to become a stranger unto yourself. a weak, regretful, echo of who you once were. 

from somewhere across the room a loud thud breaks the settled tavern buzz. it’s probably someone setting down a box, or moving a chair, but in their ears a musket is firing a killing shot. katja flinches—fingers tightening over glass, jaw tensing. they exhale as emma’s cries and tristan’s howls wash over the musket sound; as their vision becomes filled with blood blooming over a working woman’s dress. then a feeling stronger than grief—the unnamed, unholy, love child of guilt and regret—threatens to overwhelm their eyes. so, they pinch the bridge of their nose, blocking out the rest of the world with closed and tightened eyes. 

 a shift in the air occurs, a new presence sensed, even with shut eyes. without looking up the thief says: “go away. booth is full.”

there isn’t a particular purpose to his visit to the tavern but he finds it the second his eyes fall onto mathilda. a grin stretches across his face—he’s been waiting to speak to them again. especially now. especially when they’re like a bomb waiting to blow, struggling to deal with their deeds. kane wants to stir it up, light a match, wave the flame dangerously close and run away before she explodes. he’s not sure what he’d be getting out of it, but the uncertainty isn’t going to stop him.

“well, it is now,” he sits opposite of them, alert but makes himself look comfortable. he takes a good look, tries to figure out all the best points he can grab them by when they inevitably start spewing venom at each other. it still amuses him—how they’ve kept quiet about one another for so long. but a conversation in private, that’s another thing. “so, how does it feel?” not you, but it. he felt calm right after. before panic set in, he felt peaceful, free; he felt like a winner. mathilda’s circumstances are drastically different, though and kane only wants to make it worse. 

[emprcsario]

the intrepid.

❝ Destroy you? Mr. Keane, please. Get a hold of yourself. ❞ There’s no impending snarl, no animal noise prodding at the blanket of his lips. There is nothing but the cold, proprietary sense of civilization: you are an embarrassment, little boy, and the real people are about. That calling upon better natures, upon rules and respect, has chilled him many times before—whenever it was used on him. Civilization always makes one feel…. lesser. As if you made a patent failure, a slip at being human. At being among them. It’s quite the act to drag up. For all that it is feint, for all that is, has likely always been, a farce and a foil. Marc knows that; can go to bed with it. But he can also use the reverse against people like Kane, who have been savages since the slicked out of their mother’s legs, who have never known the toll it takes to pretend any different.

His hold tightens on the man’s shirt, even as his voice steps away, distant, truncated.

❝ You are nothing but a moneylender. A two-penny kind of thing, whose use and utility, if any, have long exceeded their run. Even in London, Sir, and you and I both know London is hardly a stage to brag about, you’d be the grime sticking to my shoes. Here, though? Where we intend to turn the whole thing arse-up? Here you get to choose. And yet all you’ve been doing is the same small minded, spineless, rat-scum affairs. Rubbing hands and scurrying off. Everyone else is racing for a principle, or against one; there are women half your age gallivanting into the night to meet with devils, to meet with Gods. There are boys still sniffling for their mothers who are, at this moment, oiling their rifles. Whetting their knives. Wetting them, too; maybe soon. And you? Where are you, Mr. Keane? ❞

He gives him one push into the railing, one last bat of wood inside plexus. Then he wrings his hand clean of the shirt, wipes the back of it on his thighs. Back and forth, scrubs off the rodent exhaust on it. At the end, his other palm comes up to right his uniform. Wonders, idle, indifferent, how long he’ll have to wear it for. At least until they can resupply on their layover. At least until he can still make them believe that the real crew was lost on the ice, and their reasons for entering Hong Kong are nothing but harmless. The generosity of peril: wasn’t that what all this months have taught him? Survivors don’t need to keep up appearances, so long as the cavalry is raw.

To the empresario, now, he only gives a look of disdain.

❝ If danger is what makes your cock hard, you sure have a cowardly way of searching. I’d suggest you challenge another man to that task, and not the one that could dump you overboard without a suck off to thank for it. ❞

there’s a twitch in his cheek, but other than that kane keeps his face still. it’s always there, the self-assured smirk, like a mask or a shield, to hide the seed of shame the admiral has planted. he’ll dig through the soil once he’s alone, he’ll bury his bare hands deep in the dirt of him to uproot the feeling, to make sure there’s no remnants of it left, not even a memory of estrada’s words.

where are you? he’s here, trying to stay afloat. he’s here, unable to figure out how to do it. he’s in london, grinning when the officers take his brother away. he’s in london, with a knife in his hand and blood seeping from his throat. he’s in the slums, shaking his mother awake without any result. he’s here, wondering whose turn it’s going to be next. he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

he only winces when estrada can’t see — it’s the only way to treat your wounds. silently lets out the breath he’s been holding; straightens himself with his back to the admiral. slacks his jaw, blinks a few times, makes it ready for the cover. 

turns around just in time to see estrada wipe him off himself. the corner of kane’s mouth twitches, a second-long ghost of a bitter smile passes through his expression. his hands itch so he folds them behind his back. moves forward, steps around the man. “have a good night, captain,” he mutters, refusing to leave without the last word being his, even if it just the goodbye.

END.

[weltenwellen]

Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

[emprcsario]

the ambassador.

✤ when: 27th july, 1838 ✤ where: pasha’s residence, london ✤ closed to @emprcsario

“Черт возьми- The second your balls are empty, it’s back onto politics.”

The ambassador cocked his head across a flushed shoulder, fixing the man in his bed with an incredulous look as the latter made the ever-inevitable segue. He himself had managed to fish up a nightshirt from the discarded articles on the floor and pick his way as far as the half-spent decanter perched waiting on his desk, huffing mildly as he turned back to begin pouring out a fourth round of Chianti.

It was routine, surely- All this buttering-up before the bombshell. What endearing spontaneity there was to Kane’s visits was too often negated when the vying for a favour unveiled there was intention all along. Ah, Pasha hadn’t drudged up a career in reading between lines not to have picked up on a pattern by now. He wasn’t a fool.

Or maybe he was. Maybe it was even more foolish that in spite of the cognizance, he indulged him with the political lieu of pillowtalk every damn time. Not in any oblivion to a man’s want to rise up in the world, but his own heart’s want to accommodate it. To see him prosper. To reap the fruit of his labour, when it bloomed in love and gratitude.

Was it amoral of him? Selfish, possessive? Reprehensible, to be taking assets and bricks from the embassy to build something sturdy for himself? He’d have loved him other ways, if he thought it would be enough to keep him here. Maybe it would be. Another day - one day - he’d take the chance to turn him down.

But today was not that day. Pasha made him wait however - measured himself in what few ways he could - flipping open an engraved silver case for a cigarette, lighting it, taking a lengthy drag. The exhale came as half a sigh as he eyed the window, orange rays of evening painting the scriptures bared on his desk. He absently wondered whether it was one of them Kane would come up for, like a child jabbing the candy-shop window. His lips twitched at the imagery - a kneejerk fondness, as his head tilted in concession and he swirled his glass with a roll of the wrist.

“What now then, darling, hm?”

“you say that as if it were out of character,” he cants his head to the side, a lazy smirk on his lips, his eyes following pasha around the room. kane himself can’t be bothered to move; at least nothing more than sitting up in the bed, back against the pillows. but it’s hard to do business like this, with the other man so far away; his charms aren’t all verbal; with pasha, they very much rely on the proximity, the less space between their bodies the better, he’s learned. 

so he gets up; unlike the other, doesn’t care for clothe. when he’s close enough, he takes the wine glass out of pasha’s hand, despite there being one dedicated to him. he takes a sip, sets it aside, begins the game. lets his mouth stretch out just a bit wider, tries to make it resemble something along the lines of fondness (and perhaps he doesn’t have to try all that hard), hand reaches out, arm curls around the waist, as if just a few minutes were too long to be separated for. brings his face close; close enough to smell the smoke and the wine.

“i want to buy land.” he noses the patch of skin behind pasha’s ear, lets his mouth linger against the surface. “but i don’t have the assets right now. none i can move, at least.” pulls away, brings his hand to the other’s face, tilts pasha’s chin up with his fingers. kane’s smile warms up even more. “not exactly politics. my trade this time.” still, it’s money, a domain that belongs to both of them.

“it’s good land. north. asked around, could sell double in a year or two. we’ll split it then.” kane makes it sound like a promise, as if in a year or two, this would still be happening; as if next year pasha is still going to have a place in his business, in his bed, in his life. but unless he makes it sound like a genuine promise, he knows he won’t get anything. 

“think about it,” he says—he can’t push. needs to give it time. so instead he leans in close, kisses pasha, presses himself against him. “but we can’t take too long.” he adds after all, a breath of space between them.

[emprcsario]

the shadow.

He tries to breathe through it, blink through it; same as you would do for any insurgence of pain. Insurgence of willpower, more like—someone else’s against yours, punch for touch. But he can still feel the spirit’s fingers on his throat; the physicality of it, no phantom sickness, no phantom blues. As real as the damp, moldy touch of the cards and the doorjamb. The sailor leans forward, elbow on the bend of his knee, and lays the flush before the other.

❝ Oh, I share, alright. When it works in my favour. ❞ He puts down his own card, corks an eyebrow at Keane. Have at it. He knows, now, after some odd-two months of this, better than to interact with the manifestations. Better than to give them free rein on taking the fuckin’ piss. But still it’s a concerted effort not to grit out, shut up, not to growl, I don’t give one damn about your haunting plans. Whatever he did to you, it’s not my circus; not my bloody monkeys.

He’s gonna lose some money on this bit, he’s already making his blessed peace with that. Hardly any other way, when you’re focused on not hurling your guts out. The feeling of intrusion, that’s what really gets him after all this time; the feeling of something patient, unnatural, unwanted, cracking your skin open. With the deftness of a butter knife and the serrated edge of a bait.

And, sure enough, the ghosts trickle in his ear. 𝘈𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘈𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭. He twitches, palms down the cards, pins them to the ground. Feels his hand shaking over them. ❝ No reason. Humour me. Maybe I’ve got a thing for the recently departed. Stranger things have been known to do it for a lad, hm? ❞

he doesn’t want to talk about him. to kane, it feels like it’s been both a long and a short time since his death and while there was never a wound to heal (a metaphorical one, there was an actual wound, so severe it put kane out of commission for weeks and almost cost him his voice), it’s still something that brings an itch whenever the issue comes up. for abel was exactly that—an issue. one that kane thought he’s dealt with. but in the last two months, the thought of his brother has been plaguing him more than it ever had before.

he doesn’t want to talk about him and yet he laughs—then before he can think twice about it, he speaks up. “so you’re about to stroke your cock to the thought of my dead brother? charming.” he drops his cards in between them; wins the round but doesn’t really care for it. there’s a smirk on his lips to conceal the fact that he’s disappointed with himself—with his loose mouth. 

kane scratches a spot at the base of his throat, covered by his shirt at all times, other hand hovers over the cards, finger tracing the shapes. “didn’t look like me, though. you’ll have to use your imagination.” he chuckles, but it’s dry and humourless; the act has left him. goddamn abel.

“you owe me now.” kane clears his throat, nods at the cards. “can you even pay up?”

[emprcsario]

the doe-hearted.

She’d almost forgotten about it, their last interaction. Everything before the island seemed so distant anyhow, as though it happened years ago, in another lifetime, another world.  If she had the heart to truly remember, she still wouldn’t mention it, wouldn’t change a thing. Let their deal be kept. It has meaning or it doesn’t, but it’s not the same as it was. Marcus Estrada can have his good luck, and Kane can give it to him, but it’ll only be in the object. For she has different plans for the man. 

“They have their whims.” Skips a look to the corridor behind her, before turning. Leans back against the wall, so she’s able to see to both ends, able to see to Kane. “They can’t quite tell where I stand sometimes, can’t figure out that sometimes I don’t stand at all.” Hums a little laugh, for it’s a softer thought. Her lifetime of mischief and sneaking about has amounted to something useful again. The sleight of hand, the misdirect. She’d give a noose the slip. Chaos is a language many refuse to speak, imagine everyone constrained by rules the same as them. Even on this vessel now, there are mutineers imagining she will only play by the rules, so only looking for her within the boundaries of them, of what society has taught them. 

“The problem is, you can’t run away from something you’ve kept with you.”

“Most want to run away from themselves.” And whatever they’ve been through. Are still going through, more to the point. For who knows when it creeps up again, who knows when they’re not distracted by men thinking themselves the worst obstacle to peace.  “What would cause you to adjust? Tip a change in direction? It’s such an interesting question, don’t you think? When we can’t know what any of them have in store for us; Estrada, the sea, some other force. We can talk about it, it might bring something to mind.”

“you’re smart. keeping everyone on their toes like this.” don’t let anyone know your true intentions, that’s some words to live by. say one thing, do the other so you’re never predictable. so they can never tell what’s your next move. it’s always worked out in kane’s favor. that’s why his brother never expected all that’s happened between them. that’s why abel was so convinced that they were anywhere close to being equals. that they were equals. imagine that.

it’s almost funny, the way she says these things the second he starts thinking about abel. his throat tightens but he grins through it; his dead brother doesn’t deserve this attention—and yet, kane’s thoughts have been circling back to him and the way they parted; every day. 

kane never kept abel with him. but lately it feels like abel has decided to keep kane. 

so in the end, it’s not himself whom kane would be running from. it’s his brother, it’s his goddamn brother. “did you run away? out there? or have you brought whatever there was to bring back here?” he wonders. if he’s got his demons, perhaps she does, too. he wouldn’t mind knowing what those are. 

“oh, it’s simple on my side,” he shrugs. maybe this time he’ll make room for some honesty. partial, obviously. “a promise that i get to leave here without getting mauled by a monster. or swallowed by the dark—or whatever else this place has to offer.” he keeps his tone light; it’s especially important now, to keep his anxieties veiled. “estrada doesn’t have me completely convinced so if there were others who could—well, who knows what could happen.”

“but then it seems like i’m talking about staying alive to the wrong person.” after all, she went out there. only a fool would do it and expect, with full certainty, to come back alive. miss dowling got lucky. “doesn’t it?”