Clouded Crystal

“He was troubled; this brain, so limpid in its blindness, had lost its transparency; there was a cloud in this crystal.” Ezra Diamond. Police Commissioner. Member of Coalition XIII, Law Enforcement Sector.

[lilliana-brighton-deactivated20]

To see the beacon on justice looking so lost caused the woman’s heart to ache. Ezra who put the needs of others before himself in order to keep the populace safe. Ezra who sat at the table of the Coalition putting forth a voice of descent at times when their group would seek to do unthinkable things. He forever remained someone whom the blonde admired. To see him in such a state would waver even the surest of minds, yet Lilliana refused to be swayed. Ezra would be alright. He had to be.

Her embrace was tight enough that should he wish to escape, they would easily separate, but Lily believed that the man needed this. Men in high position had a reputation that they must always keep. To ask for help or affection would tarnish the image of masculinity. The power that could be swayed towards emotion deemed nothing more than weakness to exploited, but Lilly saw it as strength. While it could harm a person, such emotions could motivate them to being better than a person could believe. Not standing alone meant that a person never needs to depend solely upon themselves. There would always be someone to assist. In a moment of weakness, they would not fall as long as there is someone else to stand with them or take their place.

“Please don’t mention it.” She smiled sweetly at him, taking a step back. Already the weariness that moments ago contorted Ezra’s expression altered slightly towards one of more ease.  Even if this were all that she could do, Lily prided herself for the small miracles. Ezra more than any deserved goodness to come his way.

He had lost so much. She did not bother to check her watch. Certainly she had other things to accomplish today; however, nothing could not wait for her attentions. The security team at Brighton far to used to seeing the woman wandering the halls at odd hours in order to accomplish all her daily tasks. Helping others was pressing business that could not be rescheduled. “Coffee sounds wonderful, thank you. I apologize that I have not called you. The holidays and start of the new year kept me far busier than I expected. We truly need to catch-up. Perhaps I can even steal you away for the less appealing aspects of the day.”

[ezradiamond-blog]

He thinks of all he must do: Damien Silver’s case sits atop his desk, taunting him. He could almost be glad of the man’s death—(though it’s a thought he doesn’t wish to admit)—if only he knew that the Coalition was not harboring a killer. If only he knew that he wouldn’t be next. If only he knew that his fellows wouldn’t decide, as others have seemed to, that his innocent wife would be an easy target, absolving them of all scrutiny.

He takes it too personally, now, when his cases run into dead ends. Like every unsolved murder, rape, and robbery is a referendum on his rapidly-declining worth as a human being. He can’t find his daughter, he can’t seem to put the pieces of this case together to catch Damien Silver’s killer. 

He doesn’t even know where to go next. He spins his wheels, he repeats the same things hoping to get a different result: he’s supposed to speak with Katherine Young tomorrow, he’s speaking with Jasmine Alvarez, a friend of Jacqueline Silver, in hopes of finding some piece of information to help him absolve her. 

Sometimes his co-workers fear him, or whisper behind his back. He’s grown too volatile, too harsh. He works them too hard on cases in which the Coalition does not involve itself, because he needs to see them done perfectly for his own piece of mind. In others, he purposefully directs them away from the truth, because it’s what has been demanded of him. He hadn’t meant to be Police Commissioner, hadn’t meant for his years of service to propel him to their unsustainable heights. If it helps him find his daughter, it will all be worth it. If she can’t be found, it just might kill him.

So this, in short, is a welcome diversion. He rubs his hand over his face one more time, like he could wipe away the dregs of panic still residing there. And then he steps away from the bathroom doorway, the site of his near-collapse, to lead Lilliana out of the building—and, hopefully, himself into a more pleasant state. Less precarious, less poised to fall apart at any moment.

“No need to apologize. I’m still dealing with a backlog of cases from the holidays—thefts, mostly. Home robberies. It happens every year, and yet every year we still seem to be caught flat-footed by it. I hope you’re sailing a smoother ship at Brighton. How is your research going?” 

[justicemadisonporter]

It was rare that Madison felt the need to leave an event in order to get some air. She thrived in the kind of events where men bragged and women played more subtle games. And it wasn’t that the evening was overwhelming - it was simply a meeting among men of power, and cigar smoke filled the room. She enjoyed the smell, normally. It reminded her of her father, and nights spent watching carefully by his side as he wined and dined. There were days that she missed him - but those days were few and far between. 

But tonight, the smoke felt stuffy - it seemed to stick to her skin like salt air. She felt contaminated, which was odd for her. It was rare that she didn’t feel herself - vibrant, malicious, and in control. She made an excuse to leave that was only barely noticed by her compatriots, slipping away from the group. Across the room, there were doors - she could feel a faint movement of air as she moved towards them. 

She nearly sighed when she opened them, the night air pressing against her face. She left the doors open, sure that  if someone was opposed, they wouldn’t question closing them again. She leaned against the railing of the balcony she found herself on, inhaling slowly. When Madison heard footsteps approaching, she didn’t turn. 

“It’s wonderful out.” She murmured, lightly tapping the cigar between her fingers against the railing. The ashes littered into the air below, fluttering into nothingness. She inhaled slowly, eyes closing momentarily, as though she were savoring the moment. After that time, she glanced to the side, fixing her new companion with a look. “Enjoying the evening?”

[ezradiamond-blog]

Ezra is tired, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the only sleep he remembers getting last night took place in the chair of his home office. That is not at all atypical. No, this exhaustion is bone-deep, soul-deep. It weights his every step, tugging him ever downwards like it’s a tether either to the grave or hell itself, something he must fight against with his every movement. It grows harder to lift his head, once so proud and sure of its righteousness. Harder, too, to meet anyone’s eyes.

Madison Porter knows all about Ezra’s exhaustion. Madison Porter, it seems, knows all there is to know about him. It never used to trouble him, being so transparent. There wasn’t anything to him, then, that he thought he needed to hide. The honesty that had been so carefully instilled in him has turned on him now, made him fall prey all-to-easily to the cruel manipulations of Madison and her monstrous ilk.

Ezra is tired, though, and when he steps onto the balcony to find some respite from the circling vultures who seem to talk out of both sides of their mouth, who play games that Ezra had never bothered to try and learn until it was too late, only to see Madison Porter herself, he is too tired to fight. Too tired to hiss, and spit, and remind her that he loathes her.

At this point, he’s pretty sure she already knows. And so: a truce, should she choose to accept it. Just for tonight.

“I think you already know the answer to that, but it’s nice of you to ask. But I’m, frankly, surprised to see you out here. I’d think you’d be in your element inside.”

[micah-gladwell]

Although Micah remains mindful of his company, he does not hold any intention of prying any further than what is permitted to him. In this, he maintains a gentle form of eye contact when the other man is speaking. An attempted encouragement that there is no pressure, no expectation past that of what is hopefully enjoying casual conversation.

The young priest tilts his head slightly to the side as he responds in an expected, soft manner.  “I’m glad to hear that.” His glance only shifts away when he hears the call - not that which was heard from the higher, unseen power, but of his breakfast order. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

While stepping forward to collect his order, Micah can’t help but ponder over the elder man’s response. Those three words, laced together, certainly hold a message of positivity at the forefront. Still, he knows very well that it is behind the syllables that the reality hides. Not all truths shine brightly through the spaces that lay in between every letter; some are, in fact, responsible for a darkness that seems to elongate such gaps. 

A moment after picking up the white paper bag that has been set on the counter, he finds that he is not clutching tightly onto it. There is dubiousness, but there is also relatively little fear.

He resolves to mitigate that doubt in the manner that he is most familiar with. “Ah, my apologies for my brief lack in manner. I’m Micah Gladwell, and the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Diamond.” As this is spoken, his free hand is extended for a shake, not just as a formality for introductory greetings, but a special accompaniment to his earlier reassurance.

[ezradiamond-blog]

The things that Ezra must do stretches ever onwards. He is always moving, always striving, he never sees an end: he must survive the Coalition, he must do his job well enough to avoid suspicion, he must find his daughter—and then what? Does he leave behind all his duties, hang up his badge and his birthright, to be the father and the husband he has not been able to be? Or does he continue? Does he fight monsters until the day he dies: the ones he calls his companions, now, and the ones who took his daughter from him, once he finds them?

He doesn’t know. All he knows is this: he has a court date this morning. He will sit on the stand and swear an oath of truth and he will lie. And he’s tired. Tired of all he must do. Tired of living with himself, day in and day out. Tired of fighting this war within himself.

Some fortunate coincidence, or some higher power, has seen fit to hand him a moment’s respite. He believes—or he tries to—that all men will get what they deserve: the wicked will be punished, and the good will have their reward. He tries to believe, then, that he deserves this small favor, this small oasis of kindness.

He could accept his coffee and be on his way, be early to the Courthouse and go over his rehearsed remarks, a script already handed to him by liars much better than he. Then onto the next thing, and the next, and the next, and the next—

Or he could stay here. He can enjoy this for a little while longer, pretend that he doesn’t feel his warring obligations ripping him apart at the seams as he stands and speaks to this young man, whom he hopes can’t see the cracks at him, isn’t so practiced at sniffing out sin to see right to the diseased and festering soul of him.

“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Gladwell. Father Gladwell? I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in church.”

[dianawindsor-blog]

We have become acquainted somewhat recently — an answer all too vague to give Diana the reprieve she sought, perhaps intentionally so. Acquainted could mean so many things — an exchange of smiles and curt nods as bodies slipped past each other at events such as these, or the sliding of her name across his desk, cloaked in a discrete manila envelope that held nearly a decade’s worth of evidence on Her Royal Highness’s darkest indulgences. He could’ve be oblivious; he could’ve be shielding her from the truth, holding his cards close to his chest until the time came to play them.

The third option was one she dismissed entirely — the notion that, perhaps, his tongue was tied in loyalty, that he’d fold his winning hand if it meant remaining faithful to the crown and its future Queen. Diana knew better than to fool herself into thinking Ezra Diamond’s iron morality felt it owed her any favours — she and her daughter were figureheads, yes, but still humans, able to be categorized into the black and white his watchful eyes saw in. Surely, they were no exception.

“I’m thrilled to hear it,” she beamed, that smile never faltering, never allowing him to catch a glimpse of the anxiety that brewed beneath. She could veil her nerves, the paranoia her daughter’s transgressions had instilled in her years ago, but there was little fault to be found in a gentle curiosity, wasn’t there? “Tell me, how did the two of you meet?” The question was innocent enough, a subtle inquisition into the company her newly blossoming daughter chose to keep. Only to an informed eye would her pries ring suspicious, and if Ezra knew more than his diplomacy thus far had revealed, she was already treading dangerous waters.

[ezradiamond-blog]

He remembers it clearly: the death of a King, the coronation of a Queen. Remembers the Coalition, too, members whispering in corners as they waited and waited for Madison to reveal who would be taken the King’s vacated seat. Ezra had been full of trepidation, then, worried that one day he would walk into the Madison’s home and find Queen Diana sat at the table at Madison’s right hand. 

Had wished, foolishly, that the House of Windsor would prove to be uncorruptible, once the cancer had taken its already ailing Head. Hoped that maybe, just maybe, Madison would have had to make due with someone further down the line of succession: a scheming Duke or Lord. 

And so, he remembers that too: meeting Adelaide, not as the Crown Princess, but as the thirteenth of their number. His worst fears had not come to pass, it had not been the Queen, but neither did his hopes. The Coalition had only to wait, and then it would have a monarch among its ranks again. Queen Diana was young, Queen Diana was healthy, but even that wouldn’t stop the Coalition if they grew impatient. With only one person standing between Adelaide and the throne, in his most despairing moments, Ezra feared for the Queen’s life.

“It must have been during this past year, I think, when we first spoke—” he remembers all, how smug Madison has been, how some of the others had sat up straighter in their seats for having royalty among them again, as Ezra looked from face to face and quietly despaired. He weaves a different story, but it pains him: everywhere he goes, he is backed into corners, forced to lie when he used to live his life in truth. At least he’s grown better practiced at telling a believable tale. “Some charity gala, I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I’ve forgotten what for. She showed an interest in my work.”

[lilliana-brighton-deactivated20]

Watching emotions flit across the man’s face, Lilliana could do nothing until he confided in her. Here was the ever virtuous hero reduced to ruin by whatever cruelties further tormented him. He had lost a daughter. Any lesser man would crumble from that alone, but Ezra rose from the ashes of a life torn asunder seeking justice for all rather than revenge for himself. Of all her cohorts, Ezra would always have her unquestioning admiration. He was the reason that the streets remained safe. A nobler position could never be.

Our business. She really should have known that only the powers that be could cause such utter sorrow to wreak havoc upon the soul. Yet what choice did any of them really have? The foundation was to protect the world. A single life should be sacrificed knowing that it would benefit many, but only if one could be certain that the outcome would be favorable for the many. The philosophy of the greater good weighed heavily upon the shoulders of the blonde. Were they truly doing good if that good had to blossom from some undesirable beginnings? Lily refused to allow her mind to entertain such nonsense. Of course the Coalition was doing good in the world. The balance needed to be kept, but their organization would tilt it towards the positive outcomes rather than force the world into despair.

As strange as it would appear to any person passing by, Lily moved to embrace Ezra. Her parents instilled the importance of affection from a young age. Often the very idea of knowing someone cared proved enough to remind a person of who they are and what they are worth. Everyone was important in their own way. Everyone deserved to be loved and reminded that they were loved. With the stress of his home and work, Lilliana could only imagine the heartache of being the strong one in his family.

“You know I am always here, should you need me. Sometimes talking helps.” She looked around, more of an unspoken plea for him to allow her to ease his burden but not here. The slightest word about whatever transpired would put both of them in jeopardy. Eyes were everywhere, and not all were friendly.

[ezradiamond-blog]

Remember what you’re fighting for. He fights for his daughter, and he sees her in every face, in every corner turned. He sees her when he looks at the daughter he does have, raised alongside a ghost of a sister and her parents’ fear. When he looks at his wife, and sees all the cracks in her that mirror the ones in him. He sees her in every family on the street, every girl of a certain age walking alone or with friends: is that her, is that her, is that her?

To find her, he’s stepped into darkness. And, though he hadn’t wanted to, he had pulled his wife with him, tainting them both. And now, though he had never previously realized his own blindness, he sees.

He sees cruelty. He sees corruption. He sees monsters that he is helpless to fight. This world closes in around him and he can’t find his way back to the man he was before. The only way out is through. But people like Lilliana are a tether, and a necessary one, to that man, and to the world as he once thought it was. She is good, and she is kind, when all others are not. Being reminded of that keeps him from hopelessness: there is still good in the world.

A father should be a protector, a police officer should be a protector. Ezra is not a protector, not when his daughter was stolen from him and day after day he allows criminals to escape through ever-widening cracks. Ezra is not who he was, not the man he’d always thought he’d grow up to be. The sudden loss of his identity is cataclysmic: who is he, if not that? He knows he will not like the answer.

Her arms wrap around him. And though he never would have asked for them, he feels momentarily comforted. She is a fount of kindness, and being deemed a worthy recipient of it makes Ezra feel, in that moment, like all has not been lost. 

“Thank you, Lilliana. You’re a true friend.” He pulls away with a smile that’s ragged around the edges, but still more genuine than most expressions that seem to cross his face on a daily basis: too practiced, too stoic, too untrue. “Are you busy? Let me buy you a coffee. I think I need something to help me face the rest of the day.”

[devilalchemy]

COALITION XIII. To the majority, membership amidst the clandestine hallowed ranks of the sordid alliance was a privilege. For some, a birthright bound in blood inherited as their names and fortunes were. For others, an opportunity to fast-track their path to wealth and near limitless power.

Yet not all amongst them saw their chair at the table as a gift.

In fact, of all those who had earned their title as a necessity rather than a benefaction, the single representative that saw the Coalition’s bloodied, ruthless drive as a curse was a man who had once vowed to expose the very corruption he now played a part in. Mr. Ezra Diamond. The small-time officer who had caught a host of Luciano’s men red-handed nearly two decades now and had never shaken the Venturis’ long-lasting antagonism. 

The society in which Coalition XIII ruled supreme from their shadows could not abide the survival of a man like Ezra Diamond. Too much sanctimonious righteousness, and not enough cynicism to realize the world he thought he was preserving was never as pure or as good as he’d believed. 

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Luciano’s silent arrival at court followed soundlessly after the trail of rancour and self-loathing in the air. To hear Diamond break, over and over, as he complied with the Coalition’s most savage deeds wasn’t enough. No, in order to satiate the true sadism that ate into his heart like rot and turned it dripping black with monstrous delight, he would bear witness, in the flesh, to Diamond’s slow, merciless unravelling on the stand. I swear by the name of God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and such a glorious oath false to its fetid core. 

At Diamond’s swift exit, Luciano rose. Closed fist, he rapped sharply against the door of the mens’ bathroom, and waited. Another rattle, though his patience could have outlasted ice caps melting, until Ezra emerged. Haggard and drawn, with the look in his eyes of one who had sold his soul tangling with devils, Luciano could’ve almost pitied him. 

But upon his face, the tense purse of his lips told it all: the blood-stained smirk of a wolf eyeing prey too weak to run, and to weak to be worth the kill, concealed behind pursed lips.

“You look like you’ve seen much better days, my friend.” 

[ezradiamond-blog]

And just when he is at his lowest, Luciano Venturi appears. Like his own personal crossroads demon, arising at every turn to remind him where exactly he’s sold his soul. 

He knows. He has little to remind himself of his daughter, the one that he’d lost: she’d been with them with hardly any time for a photograph. She lives on in the empty spaces she’s left behind: the clothes and toys and crib they had bought to pamper their first child with, that all sat sacred and unused, because they couldn’t bear to give them to Natasha; the casket and the grave that they had refused, because their Shannon wasn’t dead. The empty place inside his heart, a bleeding wound still, that he wonders if, just maybe, has been killing him all this time.

Ezra’s memories of his own daughter are diluted with time, like a photograph creased and careworn with repeated handling, of a little girl sound asleep in his wife’s tired arms, of the too-brief moments Ezra had been able to hold her in his. He wishes that time wouldn’t take those from him, that they wouldn’t seem more indistinct and dreamlike with every passing year, like one robbery wasn’t enough and he will be stripped of what little he does have of his daughter, year after year. 

But he hold them all aloft—empty nursery, empty heart, faded memories—when he comes face-to-face with monsters, and they call him their friend.

Like a talisman to ward off evil, the perfect innocence of his loft baby girl is a beacon to dispel demons. To protect Ezra from being encroached upon by what taints them. To guide him through the maze and out to the other side, where he thinks, for he must, that he might find happiness. 

And not for himself, at least not primarily. No, more for the daughter he had failed in her first hours of life, making himself unworthy of the title of father; for the wife he had failed, leaving her when she had fallen asleep, making him unworthy of the title of husband. He views his actions through the lens of necessity, and yet it fails to comfort him completely. Water soaks through his collar, reminding him of rock-bottom, and Luciano Venturi stands in front of him, mocking him for the soul that Ezra knows he doesn’t have.

“I have,” he says, though his tone is more weary than biting. “Days without you in them.”

[lilliana-brighton-deactivated20]

The only thing that ever truly hampered the march of progress was bureaucracy. Although her team had practically begged the woman on numerous occasions to be allowed to represent the companies best interests on occasions exactly like this one, Lilliana refused to not be personally involved with the hearings about the expansion of her builds and company. She took great pains to lovingly supervise every detail. A few moments of her time cost nothing when thinking of the achievements a hard won victory would accomplish. The hearing for the expansion of testing facilities near medical universities would prove a boon for both Brighton and the students. She would be able to allow them to utilize the facility for their research while enriching the curriculum with lab access to the latest innovations. With such a project, she would be able to excite those entering the field and perhaps benefit from those who would wish to become part of her organization.

Seeing someone rush in front of her towards the men’s toilets, caused the blonde to worry. Whoever the person was looked ghastly. All color had drained from their person and the mad dash towards the loo made the woman to think that the person was in ill health. Approaching the door, she rapped gently upon the door. “Are you alright?” She heard rushing water, but no other response from the person. She jiggled the handle a bit, not planning on actually entering the room. It would be unseemly for her to do such a thing, but whomever was on the other side might need help. She could not simply leave him. She cursed her rotten luck, finding that the door was firmly locked. 

Taking a step back, Lily felt the knob begin to move on its own. Whoever was in there at least had the facilities to exit the room. She was simply thankful that she needn’t fetch maintenance to unlock the door. Gasping, she looked into the blood shot eyes of Ezra Diamond wondering what in the world would cause him to be in such a state. “Goodness gracious! What in the world happened to you?”

[ezradiamond-blog]

Lilliana Brighton.

Obviously, if he could, he’d choose to go unseen in this state. He’d choose not to be in this state. But, if he must be, he’d rather have been able to make his ingracious exit from the courthouse with what remained of his dignity intact, to hold the shreds of his self-control together just long enough to release them in private, to weather the tempest in absolute solitude. 

To never let anyone know. There are too many pieces of himself already that are distributed far and wide, when every utterance of his lost daughter’s name is a pang to his already battered heart. There is already too much that he has done to disappoint his wife and remaining child, to fail them. This he’ll hold secret, so he’ll only fail himself.

In a churning sea made of the gaping mouths of  monsters, Lilliana is an island. He looks at her and sees no guile, no deceit. He looks at her and sees himself as he should be, as he once was. He wishes her far away from the corrupting influence of the Coalition, and yet he wants her near, because the light she casts is one thing that makes the intolerable bearable. He doesn’t know if she knows it, but he does: they need to stick together. 

And yet, he wonders: how can she be so charming, so ebullient, so unconcerned, so blind? 

He falls apart in private, for the acts that he has borne witness to in his years with the Coalition, for the acts that he has played his own part in. Is her mask that much better than his, that he cannot see the cracks? Or does she not share his conviction? Is she more like them than he imagines? No. She can’t be, for he needs her not to be.

He looks into her face, and her concern seems bright and pure. Before the Coalition, he had been unpracticed at lying. Now, it still does not come naturally. He wishes for an easy lie, but it escapes him, so he can only pause for a moment too long before speaking the truth, carefully couched: “My business in Court this morning. Our business. It—troubles me.” 

[shesalittleobsessed]

[ezradiamond-blog]

MAIA:

Maia rarely found herself in the wrong place and on the occasions that she had, the viperess had always ensured that the end result was fruitful. As she swiped her signature shade of Chanel across her plump lips, Maia was assured within herself that she had happened upon the courtroom by accident, or perhaps it was curiosity. Regardless, there was a feeling, as though destruction had been foretold, like the preface of any book or the interval of a play.

The floor glittered, the remnants of a rainy day imprinted onto the soles of those entering the law abiding building - or that was what it claimed to be. Every aspect of the world was full of corruption, her own faith in organisations outside her own lacking. She rarely trusted, and believed in even less.

Like movie magic, she saw a figure retreating into the toilets and her lips instantly upturned. She hated Ezra Diamond, the same way her family did. Her father’s enemies were her owns, he said shoot and she said, which man? Maia only concealed her ire for the man for the sake Luciano, instead putting forth the image of a spoiled heiress, opposed to a ruthless killer - although both were aspects of herself. Her words were soft, yet her gaze remained hateful. She knocked against the door, strong and determined.

It took a few moments, her impatient foot tap and a few curious looks from passersby before the man finally opened the door.  

“On the contrary, I was hoping to bump into you. I spotted your dignity in the bin and thought you might need to give it a polish. Or did you intend to throw it away completely with the rest of the rubbish?” The sentence spoken only in her mind, did not pass to her lips. Instead, her features remained neutral ( only by her own will to not give away her card hand ). “My apologies, Officer Diamond. I thought you were someone else, and hoped to catch them before I left.”

He would not have apologized, had he known in advance who was on the other side of the door. 

The Venturi scion is a monster, for monsters tend to beget monsters. And she, instead of casting it off, has risen joyfully to claim her birthright. She is not a child, not a lamb led astray. At some point, such excuses lose their value, and all that’s left is responsibility: she has made her choice, she has not cast off the hideousness of her parentage but embraced it with open arms. She is no longer innocent, if she ever was. She cannot be saved.

Ezra loathes her as he loathes her parents. 

Like a shark circling blood in the water, like his own personal crossroads demon, a Venturi appears to witness him at his lowest, to mock his struggle. And why shouldn’t they? There is no struggle to their lifestyle, only absolute surrender to all that is base and foul. If Ezra is defined by his struggle, a righteous man forced into ill in order to correct the greatest of all wrongs, then the Venturis are defined by their absence of it, their absolute moral blankness.

His composure hangs by a single fraying thread. There is a weight pressed into his chest, there is a sucking wound in the cavity. His heart beats out of time, his lungs are spasming instead of smooth in the way the expand and contract. He has only staved off the attack, not subdued its rising tide. It will come for him—and it’s all he can do to make sure she will not be present when it does. 

That no one will. The weakest throes of a man who has succumbed so wholly to weakness. He is all that he abhors: made of compromises and moral inconstancy, when he had been so steadfast and absolute before. 

Utterly disgusted, with her and with himself, his face betrays his disdain, still much too honest by far for the world in which he lives. “Of course,” he says, smoothly enough, though he’s sure that this isn’t an accident at all, but the determined swoop of a carrion. “So sorry to disappoint. And what business do you have here today, Ms. Venturi?” (The Commissioner asks for a criminal’s confession.)

[ezradiamond-blog]

He gasps like he’s drowning. In a way, he is. The water is like ice on his face, but it cuts through the building panic. It jerks him back to the present, far away from that dark place that calls to him: seizing lungs and closed throat, pounding and irregular heart—those moments when Ezra feels close to death.

Perjury. Of the crimes that Ezra has committed since pledging himself to the Coalition, it’s only one among many. It never gets easier: he swears, he affirms, he promises—he looks the law in the eyes—and he lies. It’s killing him, he swears it is. 

Mere moments after he stepped off the stand he felt it: a cresting wave, a deadly tide, it carried him helplessly along. His exit from the courtroom was brisk enough to be noticeable, but not moreso than such a public breakdown would have been. He locked himself behind a bathroom door, stalls thankfully empty, to clutch white-knuckled at the sides of a porcelain sink and struggle to breathe, to try and push down the demons that rose and gripped at him—the result of some math that Ezra could never understand, never predict. Sometimes it was just one lie too many, one step too far, and they came for him.

The door rattled behind him, and he looked himself in the mirror: tie askew and collar damp, eyes red-rimmed with bags underneath. The only thing he could do to put himself to rights was straighten his tie and blot at his damp face with a paper towel. Take a deep breath and hope no one he knew was there to bear witness to his disgrace.

It rattled again, and he put on as convincing a face as he could—(woefully inadequate)— opened the door. “My apologies, I didn’t realize it was locked.”

[micah-gladwell]

Son. The word is one that is quite familiar to Micah. He’s heard it a countless number of times, spoken by the parents who raised him in the coziness of their love. There was even a certain point in his life wherein the term was laced with the burdens of loss and subsequent sorrow. Then, a sense of guilt underlay each time the single syllable was uttered aloud. Nowadays, this sensation is still largely present, but mollified to some degree by the mentors who dedicated such time in steadily guiding him through his path of unsteady faithfulness.

The thought of his instructors - both informal and not - brings him to the reminder of how unusual it must be for one to encounter an ordained individual of his age. Although the man who stands beside him cannot possibly have seen more than twice the number of years he has, there’s no simpler manner of expressing the circumstances: Micah is young.

At the reference of “priest,” most would probably expect an individual whose hair was growing to be as white as the albs the church provided. His head shows absolutely no signs of such a transformation. When he tilts it down and shakes it in a lighthearted manner, his boyish aspects are highlighted further.

“In spite of how few they may be,” he begins while producing a tattered billfold from one of his coat pockets, “I’m always very willing to share my possessions.” 

Micah slips out a single note, worn from years of circulation yet still preserving a degree of neatness, and proceeds to hand it to the individual behind the cash register. After the currency is out of his possession, he mouths a barely audible, ‘bless you,’ and then takes steps backwards to where he had been standing prior.

During most other times, he would feel inclined to stay quiet. He would until called upon. Today, however, he feels a sort of enlivenment. Perhaps from the excitement of his boldness thus far, he speaks again. “How are you doing on this fine morning, sir?”

[ezradiamond-blog]

Once over the initial surprise, Ezra finds himself warmed by the gesture. It hadn’t used to so uncommon to him, kindness from strangers. But the world has only grown darker for Ezra: every year, the shadows press in closer around him, and he struggles ever more to find the light in them, to find the light in himself. 

Surrounded by monsters and the wicked plots they conduct, it’s sometimes hard for Ezra to see beyond them. But he must. He must remember the good and the innocent, for those are the souls he’s sworn to protect. Without that, he’s already lost. (Sometimes, he wonders if he has. If he’s already been dealt the fatal blow, but he’s just been too stupid to know it, that he’s been bleeding out all this time.)

It’s too heavy a thought for before coffee. And much too heavy for this moment, which Ezra cannot fathom any ulterior motive in. There’s a certain guileness to the youthful lines of his face, and Ezra does not think that’s simply a bias coming from the collar around his throat: he’s never felt the same way when looking at the hated Archbishop of Canterbury. He tries not to lose himself to cynicism, though he finds the thought lurking at the back of his mind, knocking at a door he resolutely will not open: give it time. 

He squashes the thought. Corruption is not inevitable. Evil is not inevitable. Some are steadfast, some are good, some will never stray. He has only just met this man, and yet in him he silently places some measure of responsibility: he must stand up against darkness, he must remain just as he is in this moment, full of light and kindness, for Ezra is unsure if he can do it himself. In fact, he knows he cannot. He is so diminished already.

“I am well,” he says, moving away from the counter to wait for his coffee, though it comes with a small niggling feeling of guilt—you shouldn’t lie to a priest, he’s fairly sure—but it’s quickly smoothed over. Ezra is not his parishoner, and he’s not lurking behind some anonymous screen. Surely priests, too, must want to be off the job sometimes? To want a respite from knowing and bearing everyone’s sins? “And moved by your kindness. Ezra Diamond, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

[wasdiana33]

Visit Original Link

[ezradiamond-blog]

I get up in the morning Put my dreams away I get up, I get up, I get up again

[dianawindsor-blog]

“I’ve learned nothing over the years if not to trust your watchful eye,” she smiled in return. “There’s no other set of hands I’d ever put our great city in.” His immaculate record spoke for itself, as did that of the family who’d so loyally protected and served for generations — like her own, perhaps, but laced with a different kind of nobility, the kind that was earned, not bestowed. The Diamonds, like their namesake, were both precious and strong, timeless and unwavering — a proud asset Diana would not allow to go unrecognized.

Service like his kept her citizens safe, kept herself safe, from the depravity of the world outside the palace’s walls — for that, her gratitude was immeasurable. But there was only so much a protector could do, only so far his hand could extend; he, for all his efforts, could keep the dealers behind bars, but he could not keep Adelaide from her demons. He could expend every resource at his well-connected fingertips to put a killer behind bars, but it wouldn’t bring back the life lost. He, too, was only human, doing his part for the greater good. She cold only hope the pressures of serving a nation didn’t plague him the way they did her.

“Personal matters are often some of the most important,” she protested — ironic, considering how many years had passed since she’d allowed her own heart a moment to itself. “Whatever it is you’ve put on hold for us tonight, I’m sure my daughter would be honoured to know her event has merited your time. I was thrilled to discover your name on her list of invitees — tell me, are the two of you well acquainted?” An association with a man so composed, so respected, would surely do her daughter good, but her prying was not only for the benefit of Adelaide’s maturity. No, her tied tongue prayed that the Princess’s name had only crossed Ezra’s ears, and never his desk, that a well-paid informant had never delivered news of the future Queen’s bulk purchases of every illicit substance within the country’s borders.

[ezradiamond-blog]

She is everything a Monarch should be: as gracious and as kind as her daughter is selfish and wicked. How could a bloodline be so corrupted? (Ezra’s sure, if his own father could see him now, he might wonder the same.) Ezra feels humbled in her presence, and yet curiously at home—she is her country, and Ezra is in her service. Her regard makes his shoulders square themselves and straighten under the weight he perpetually carries: momentarily, he feels more equipped to handle that albatross, because the Queen seems to think him capable of it.

Her next question, however, takes him aback. In truth, Ezra is not made for a life in the shadows. He lacks in subtlety, the games that his compatriots play seem to always leave him two steps behind. He was raised to value honesty, forthrightness, and a life lived without secrets—for secrets were shame, and Ezra’s parents had raised him to lead a life without need for shame—all things that are anathema to the life that he now leads.

He must tread carefully, for he does not want her looking too closely at the connection between himself and her daughter. He will not be responsible for bringing the Queen upon the Coalition—at least, not until he’s gotten what he’s wanted from them. After that? Nothing is certain.

“We have become acquainted somewhat recently,” he says, and he figures it’s an innocent enough comment, coinciding with Adelaide seeming to appear more often in an official capacity, standing at her mother’s side. “I would not say I know her well, but I am glad to have made her acquaintance.” 

There. He seems to exhale, a potential hurdle hopefully surmounted before it could trip him up. Another lie in a growing cascade of them, but this one doesn’t feel quite as loathsome as the others because, in some way, it’s a service done to the Queen: to continue to let her see the best of her daughter, instead of what Ezra sees.

[micah-gladwell]

It was nearly two weeks into the new year, and the chaos of the holiday season still lingered throughout the city’s chilly air. These days, most individuals either took steps or were taking them in an effort to return to whatever routines had been swept aside in light of the celebrations that had long since concluded. Micah was certainly no stranger to this seasonal shift, having had his own fair share of stress while adjusting alongside the liturgical calendar. Nonetheless, a deep sense of gratitude was still embodied within his ambiguous outlook for the future.

A gust of warmth gently greeted him as he pushed open the door to a quiet cafe settled at one street corner. He wasted no time in making his way to the very back where the cashier stood. After placing a quick and simple request, he stepped to the side in order to allow the individual behind him to take a turn at ordering. Although the young priest remained quiet, he used the peripheral of his view to maintain some level of awareness of the patron now beside him. As the black and white clock on the other side of the room ticked away, he was suddenly met with the growth of some inclination to act spontaneously. There’s no improper time to offer a good deed, he assured himself, as he inched closer to the customer.

“Pardon me,” Micah began in a soft tone, sincerity reflecting brightly in his eyes, “I don’t mean to impose, and please forgive the forwardness of this. Would you mind if I paid for your order?”

[ezradiamond-blog]

Though the struggle between good and evil consumes him, you will never see Ezra Diamond in church.

He blames his parents, if there’s any blame to be found. They raised him to worship the law, worship justice, and he does. Good and evil, right and wrong, existing for their own sake, looming as large as warring Gods in young Ezra’s imagination, without anchor to any other being, history, or story. And justice has been so uplifted in Ezra’s mind that it has taken on godlike qualities of its own: all-seeing and all-knowing.

He believes, for he must, that the scales will always rebalance themselves. That no evil deed will go unpunished. And though he does good for no reward, that good actions will be rewarded.

He believes it, he knows it, he fears it—for he knows how he has strayed.

All he wants is coffee. He has a court date this morning, and he needs it before he sits on the stand, Madison Porter smug and hated in his peripheral vision, and lies. He sees the priest out of the corner of his eye and, though he has never sat in confession, feels a tickle of unease. Guilt. He doesn’t believe that the universe sends signs to warn him away from his actions: if he believed that, he’d find them around every corner. He’d find them in himself, when his thoughts spiral and his chest constricts and he swears that he’s having a heart attack, that he’s going to die.

Compared to that, a priest in a coffee shop should be nothing.

He’s surprised, too, when he finishes his order, resolutely focused on the cashier, that he speaks. He looks at him directly for the first time and is struck by his youth more than anything. But, after a moment, he manages a smile. “I venture to guess that, with my salary, I should be paying for your order rather than the other way around, son.” (Father. Shit.) “But, if you insist, I won’t say no.”

[wnq-anonymous]

Courage isn’t having the strength to go on - it is going on when you don’t have strength.

Napoléon Bonaparte   (via wordsnquotes)

[dianawindsor-blog]

To leave the evening’s guest list in her daughter’s hands was, admittedly, a gamble. She knew not which of the ghosts of Adelaide’s past would resurface, though she hoped and prayed to any deity that may have been listening that her daughter’s supposed reform was more than the too-good-to-be-true illusion it came across as. The faces she’d seen sauntering by in passing, thus far, had been a mixed bag — dignitaries close to the family, those whose allegiance Adelaide was smart enough to know to foster, and some, society’s elite and influential, to build new bridges with.

The face that joined her now, greeting her with a bow of his head, was one she’d have hand-picked herself.

Ezra Diamond had given nothing less than his soul to the country, in ways Diana herself never could. She was a symbol, wishing well upon her people and pulling what few strings were still in a monarch’s reach; he was a crusader, putting himself on the front lines, taking the safety of her — nay their — citizens into his weathered hands, not out of obligation, but out of desire. The world had taken and taken from him, the story of the Commissioner’s daughter not at all unfamiliar to the Queen who held him in such high regard, and yet he still gave. There was no man she’d have been prouder to place London’s lives with.

“Mr. Diamond,” she smiled, with a gracious nod of her own. “If my daughter is willing to excuse anyone’s lateness, I have no doubt it’d be yours.” Truthfully, she knew little of the will that lived within her daughter’s bones, but imposing her own upon Adelaide while the girl wasn’t present to remark otherwise seemed a fine way to curate her. “I do hope that making room in your schedule for us tonight hasn’t forced you to pull yourself from any more pressing matters.”

[ezradiamond-blog]

He remembers watching her coronation, one much younger police officer standing guard along the procession route to Westminster Abbey. He had been one among many, then, and he hadn’t known what would become of him: had not known that he would rise high enough to find himself in the Queen’s company; had not known that he would fall far enough to feel shame when he stood in front of her and she looked upon him with seeming pride. 

He has one foot in one world, another in another. Half of him still stands in the morgue, looking at a lifeless face that could have been his daughter. That same half still stands in a hospital room, over two-decades ago, when his world had come crashing down around him. 

The other half is present, but feels thin and wavering. He’s never all of himself, all in one place. He owes the Queen more than that, but he cannot make himself feel complete, even in the presence of the sovereign he so deeply respects.

“London is safe tonight, ma’am,” he says with a respectful nod of his head. Able, only by practice, to keep the irony out of his voice: Ezra knows that, if London is safe tonight, it is because the biggest threats to it are inside the ballroom. “It was a personal matter I was attending to, I regret to say.” He means for his voice to sound casual, it is not his place to unburden himself upon a royal, but there’s a tightness to his speech when he alludes to his decades-long quest that he has never been able to exorcise. “I do try my best to be punctual. I’ll give my regrets to the Princess, when I thank her for the invitation.”

It would be the polite thing to do, but Ezra has no intention of doing anything of the sort. If he crosses paths with the Princess, it will be a pity, but the Queen does not have to know that, if she doesn’t already know how monstrous her spawn is.

[silveredwidow-blog]

The sight of Ezra Diamond was one that put her at ease– almost. The man was very much a beacon of light in an otherwise dark and distrusting world. In him, she saw the truth. She saw justice. She saw a man who saw her for what she truly was, not for what he suspected her to be, or perhaps even what he wanted her to be. Ezra was honest. 

And an honest man was a man of his word. 

The kind who had sat with her in the privacy of the night, listening to her as she recounted her statements of the night of Damien’s murder. He was the only person whose understanding nod had offered her comfort, the only person who seemed to get it. 

Maybe it was because he was a father. Maybe it was something else entirely, she didn’t know. She didn’t care to know. One day, Damien’s killer would be put to justice, and she would have Ezra to thank. Until the day she died, she would owe him for the justice he doled out. And a favor from Jacqueline Silver was nothing to take lightly these days. 

She returned his smile, glad for how it didn’t feel forced. For how she could drop some of her previous facade. “Oh damn it all, do I really look so unkempt?” she teased, patting at her perfectly coiffed hair.

A drink sounded good, though the thought of it did shame her some. It brought about the tinkling sound of a toddler’s voice, asking why it was that some mornings when he climbed into Jacqueline’s bed, a bottle would come loose from between the silk sheets, empty as it then rolled along the wooden trim. 

“A drink would be lovely, I think,” she said, trusting as ever, the caution that was newly reserved for others was abandoned around the man. A weakness, one could argue. “Care to lead the way?”

[ezradiamond-blog]

A cop is best served by not making promises he cannot keep. It is a lesson that Ezra has taught many trainees, over the years. One, too, that he has been forced to remember himself.

But sometimes it seems impossible, to look into the eyes of a grieving widow, to see her son peeking out shyly from behind her knees, and not say: “I will find the person who did this, there will be justice, I will set this right.”

To an outsider, Ezra Diamond may seem inscrutable. He’s latched onto this case over the dozens of others he sees pass over his desk every day. There are other grieving families: other widows, other children half-orphaned, all equally screaming out for closure. And yet, he’s focused all of his effort, all of the manic energy he has to spare from his quest for his daughter, on Jacqueline Silver.

In his heart of hearts, he knows that it is partially guilt which drives him. She does not know that Ezra had spent years of his life sat across a table from her husband, making decisions that dealt in life and death, shrouded in secrecy and no small measure of Ezra’s shame. She doesn’t know that Ezra had judged him: not a friend and not an ally, but certainly not among the worst of their ilk.

He knows more than he says: to her, and to his investigating officers assigned to the case. He alone knows the group of eleven suspects that should be watched most closely. He looks around the room and sees them all now, and it is not difficult to picture any of them with their hands locked around a compatriot’s throat.

Not hard at all, either, to picture himself in Damien’s place. It’s fear that drives him, too. A selfish, writhing fear.

“Not at all,” he replies smoothly. “Though I expect that you know that. You look lovely tonight.”

When the sky always feels as though it’s falling down around him, when accusing fingers seem to point at him from all corners, whispering to him of his misdeeds, there’s some small comfort to be found in politeness, in ritual, in tradition—in playing White Knight for the evening, so he might be able to sleep a measure more soundly tonight. He offers his arm to Jacqueline, aware of the statement he’s making as he leads her across the room in a way he would not have been years ago, before he had assumed his post: I am the Police Commissioner of London, he silently declares, and I believe that Jacqueline Silver is innocent.

He stops in front of the bar, and gestures for her to proceed. “After you. How have been lately?”