the old greed;

my blood is alive with many voices, telling me i am made of longing.

[loveagemoondream]

“…my love’s a fire, an altar, an ember. I turn into smoke.”

— Adonis, from ‘Transformations of the Lover’, The Pages of Day and Night (trans. Samuel Hazo)

[derangedrhythms]

Margaret Atwood, Interlunar; from ‘A Sunday Drive’

[megairea]

In this light the blood is black. Tell me my name.

Sylvia Plath, from Poem for a Birthday, 1959 (via megairea)

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

–Mary Leader

[ofrallis]

A WOLF EATS WOLF. / @ofkovrov​

On his last visit, which had been his first, Alexander had been careful to trample upon the truth in his arrival; to keep the true nature of his presence crushed underfoot as he ventured into Boris’s prowling grounds with languorous steps and free-flowing lies. He had framed it as a coincidental collision; muttering mentions of Montague business and shrugging through claims of an order from above as he huddled into the snare of smoke alongside Boris, cigarette flowing back and forth between them as though afloat. Then he had straightened into firm departure, and by the way Boris’s eyes had hooked into his, as though looking to cement him in place, Alexander had known his deception had taken root.

Now, on his second visit, he was holding the shards aloft, patiently awaiting the moment when Boris’s keen gaze latched onto them and grasped the vision they formed. This time, Alexander did not announce his presence. He stood on the outskirts of the same bar that they had met in last time, where he knew that Boris conducted most of his business dealings, lingering far into Boris’s periphery, but not far enough to be unseen. He did not shuffle around or order a drink or strike up conversations to fill up the illusion he had fabricated. He merely watched and waited. And indeed, Boris did not disappoint. He never did.

Alexander could detect the exact moment when the blackness of Boris’s gaze grew muddled with dawning realization -- in the weighted glance that sharpened and flitted away the moment Alexander returned it. His gaze clung to the broad expanse of Boris’s back; appraising, enraptured as it traced the tautness that slowly bled into it -- the recognizable tension of a beast finally learning of the tug of of its leash; of the sentinel holding the other end in a beckoning, unwavering hand.

It was Alexander who took the step forward.

He came to stand beside Boris’s bar stool, shoulders lightly brushing as he stated, “So... now you know.” A pause. He glanced down at the cigarette he was holding, contemplatively rolling it between index and thumb. “But does it really change anything, Boris? You were watched this whole time, and would have continued to be. The only difference is that now you’re aware of it.” He shrugged, lit the cigarette, took a deep inhale; then he offered it to Boris.

[brutuskovrov]

The Montagues + A Guide To Troubled Birds, p. 1

@ofrallis, @czarnichego, @santodomingos, @ofcastora, @cleosokolova, @gertrudezhang, @dalygrace

[megairea]

“And that grin, the grin of the unfaithful, / […] that grin like a flower / which opens voluptuously amid poisons and darkness”

— Conrad Aiken, from Time in the Rock (LXXV).

[ofrallis]

OMI ;

In the TOSCA CAFE, during the afternoon of 2019 MAY 11TH at 2:40 P.M., OLIVIA shares a conversation over coffee with her enigmatic friend ANTONY. // @ofrallis​

If there was anyone in Verona Omi presumed to know best— but in a different way than she’d come to know its other inhabitants— that person would be Alexander Rallis. For it was the youngest, wayward Rallis brother who Omi would come to see the most of. It was Alexander who would take The Dark Lady by storm when all he possessed was his devilishly handsome smile and a family name— which simply wasn’t enough to make you somebody in this city. It was that very Alexander who would become the talk of their very own little town, a town within Verona existing in The Dark Lady— both for his good looks and ability to out drink anyone who dared to venture near the bar. Though upon getting to know him, and doing so when there were absolutely no stakes involved, nothing to gain or lose, as a spoiled, unconnected rich boy truly had nothing to offer Omi, a newly bestowed sparrow— she’d found him to be lost. Even sad, perhaps. And though she would not stand in his way, not willing to be an obstruction in the path of chaos, they managed to strike up a sort of friendship. 

There were few people who knew of Alexander before he’d taken the Montagues by storm, and before he’d truly become somebody, and she couldn’t help but take pride in this knowledge— though she’d had no real intention of doing anything with it. It helped that she’d bore witness to Alexander recreating himself, into someone worth mention, notice, and fear. The kind of person who was best left on your good side, and someone she dared not to cross. Besides, Alexander had never given her a reason for disdain, and she’d grown rather fond of his ramblings, and their late-night conversations. So much that they’d begun meeting outside of The Dark Lady; and today, at a coffee shop she’d grown rather fond of. “Have you been avoiding me, Alexander?” she asked with a melodramatic pout, pressing her chin into her folded hands. She knew better than anyone that Alexander had done his best to expunge the days of his past— but there was always Omi as a witness, and she rather enjoyed subjecting him to frequent taunts and teasing. Not only for her own enjoyment, but as if to remind him of how far he’d come. To remind him that it was okay to lighten up from time to time. “I hope you didn’t think you could get rid of me. Think you’d might miss me too much.”

There was no enemy whose eyes he could not meet, whose prowess he could not face, yet when it came to his past, Alexander could only ever turn away, gaze down-turned as his heels kicked up ash and dried flecks of blood, blurring the landscape beyond his retreating steps until the battlefield was left abandoned and unseen. The first time he had disavowed it was meant to be the last, yet as he walked out of the Dark Lady with long strides that he promised himself he would not retrace until he was born anew, Alexander hadn’t realized that he was leaving his history in another’s hands. And its keeper was none other than Yamamoto Omi, the Sparrow with blossoms along their lashes and petals between their lips.

It had roused his scorn, to come upon that knowledge as it seeped through the honey dripping from Omi’s twirling words when she had greeted him upon his return. The aimless years leading up to his initiation into the Montagues had, indeed, cultivated a companionship between them, yet Alexander had only been able to consider it within the harshly-cut boundaries of his new sphere of influence -- as a speck of disarray weaving itself cancer-like into the heart of the meticulous, untouchable construction of the life that he was now leading. After all, they were a Sparrow; weaned on secrets and built upon the gift of weaponizing them. And although there was no significant damage to be wrought in the wake of Omi’s longstanding familiarity with his sordid past, the fact that they possessed it alone scalded Alexander’s tongue with an acrid tinge of bitterness that had absolutely nothing to do with the politics of the matter.

Yet when stung by that venom, Omi had seemed to be only intent on washing his mouth clean of it with her brimming warmth and outpouring affection. They had held their shared history close as a memory to be cherished, not as a weapon to be honed, and it was upon realizing such that Alexander had opened himself up to it, reviving the rare friendship that he had once aimed to crush under every step that drove them apart. What resulted from it was a winding trail of shared secrets and heartfelt whispers beneath the all-seeing shroud of Verona’s night, along with countless encounters not unlike the one they were setting out to share this afternoon. It had begun with Omi sharing their new haunt, spamming their text thread with compliments on the location and their favorite selections from the menu; all but coercing Alexander into inviting her to a meet-up. With a smile on his face and a long-suffering message sent in response, he did -- and now here he was, sat across from them, lowering his coffee from his lips to meet their pout with a humorously pointed look.

“We both know I wouldn’t dare think such a thing, Omi. The memory of my one and only attempt, and what a grand failure it was, guarantees that -- especially since you love to bring it up every time we run out of things to talk about.” Hiking his brows, he took another sip of his coffee which was, surprisingly, just as exceptional as Omi’s enthusiastic messages had claimed it to be. Think you might miss me too much. “We won’t know until it happens, and since you'd be damned to allow it, I guess we’ll never know.” He shrugged, eyes glimmering. “But I haven’t been avoiding you, not intentionally. The past few months have been slightly hectic, that’s all.”

[geniuss-loci-deactivated2021052]

[ofrallis]

GENEVIEVE ;

The small square of space outside the ground floor fire escape had evolved into a safe haven - a kind of no man’s land - where both of them could exist free from their real world constraints. Genevieve and Alexander were as close to equals as they could ever be - unburdened by the darkness that crept in upon them with each moment - the thought slipped from her like cigarette vapour once she lights his, and then her own, smoke. She had mentioned to Henry that she would consider giving them up, as a gesture of solidarity, but now, more than ever, cigarettes were the one thing keeping her sane; allowing her moments of peace and contemplation, among other things.

“It was,” she reiterates in between a drag of her cigarette. Head tilts to one side, in acknowledgement of the confession that followed his question, unable to help the gentle lift of brows that conveyed her unbridled surprise. “Affection.” Genevieve echoes him, slow and careful, to be sure that she heard correctly. There was little that she was sure of anymore. After all, what benefit was there in being certain - in being sure - when everything could change with the wind, slipping through her fingers before she had a chance to appreciate having a grasp on it in the first place.

“You would be correct.” There is no reluctance as Genevieve confirms what he has deduced, no point in denial when a man as smart as the Montague adviser had put together the pieces on his own. “I did something that escaped his notice, until I told him.” Not yet, she thinks, unwilling to be truly open when the walls had ears - even now - “And he said it didn’t matter.” Pitch hues shift to her missing digit again, before reaching up to rub against her shoulder, to the wound that still healed beneath the cotton of her blouse. Mirthless laughter leaves her then, shaking her head to indulge the part of her that still did not quite believe it. “I suppose it’s my own fault, really.” 

It was strange to associate the notion of punishment with Genevieve Zhang, a woman who was, in every way, the pillar upon which Montague order resided. Without her firm, anchoring guidance to tug and pull against the push and shove of the Don’s volatile leadership, Alexander had no doubt that the Montague empire would have long since tilted into unstoppable collapse. However, even with her soundless temperance and quietly-seething power, she remained one immortal soul out of many to lock itself into Verona’s hellscape for private, unspoken reasons. No one, no matter the undying devotion they claimed or the strict path they seemed to follow, was fighting this war for a selfless cause -- and the red right hand of the Montagues was no different.

He wondered if such was the root of the sin she was claiming; if he would find her true, closely-kept devotions knotted up at the end of the phantom chain ensnaring her bandaged hand. These days, it was difficult to tell apart just reasonings from skewed compulsions when it came to the Don’s judgement. Alexander allowed the tinge of his perspective to stain the air between them as he breathed a gust of smoke, which carried a humorless chuckle in the wake of Genevieve’s mild exclamation. “You heard right.” He nodded, gazing upon the inflamed end of his cigarette. “The one who left her mark on me has left it on countless others, all in the name of love.” He gestured with his cigarette, waving his hand in an idle indication to go along with his dry remark, which was intended to be more mocking than it turned out to be. His hiked brows served that purpose a moment later as he raised the smoke to his lips. “We have no shortage of demented minds in this city.”

Although he was surprised to find his earlier puzzlement being granted clarity with such ease, Alexander accepted it with a noncommittal nod. The companionable silence between them gained a sharp, solemn edge in the wake of Genevieve’s words, yet he didn’t feel compelled to soften it, and instead merely indulged it. “Not much matters to him anymore, except his own sense of domination. He’ll chop the fingers off every hand in Verona before it’s satisfied.” He looked up at Genevieve, meeting her gaze with unspoken disapproval. He barely resisted the urge to frown; the notion of Genevieve of all people being subdued at the hands of Damiano Montague and his witless cruelty carrying a sliver of defeat that he instinctively moved to cut at the roots. “Whatever you did, I’m certain you had your reasons for it. It doesn’t take away from your loyalty to him, and he’s a fool for thinking it does. It’s precisely why he’s failing as a leader, and will continue to fail, even if he ends up seizing the Cathedral today.”

[derangedrhythms]

Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God; from ‘Dann bete du, wie es dich dieser Iehrt’, tr. Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy

[ofrallis]

PAOLA ;

His eyes glimmered with dark cunning; his smile revealed the lock without shining a light as to where to find the key. He extended the same vague guidance they’ve given her time and time again; if she were here to truly seek his wisdom, then Paola would be sorely disappointed. But she was not here to glean from him the Montagues’ traditions. Paola had come to quietly coax the truth of his loyalties out of him, to untangle the web he wove and unearth the hundred roots he kept buried deep into the dirt.

She would play the part of the lamb, baring its softness to the wolf to see the truth of his fangs. Hands clasped in her lap, she is the picture of a modest subordinate. A meek and unassuming initiate. For who thinks to look for a mere dandelion in a spring garden?

“It might be simpler to begin with my weaknesses,” Paola said good-humoredly, a trace of a laugh on each word — as if to say, look only at my failings, do not see my strengths; underestimate me, do not trouble yourself with my name. “I can’t say why Genevieve brought me to the Montagues. I never thought to ask.” With a start, Paola realized how true it was: she knew why she had joined, but she had no understanding of why she was wanted. When did she ever, after all?

“I’m not one for senseless violence.” It was a strange thing to admit to a Montague advisor, but she was unashamed as she confessed it. “I’ve spent my entire life staying out of sight, only using a knife if I needed to defend myself. If I was good at what I did — if I was smart — then I would never have to resort to drawing blood.”

“So, where does that leave me?” She meant every implication of the question. Though Paola had come in pursuit of Alexander’s secrets, she found herself completely sincere as she asked: “What value do I have to bring to the Montagues?”

MENTIONED: @gertrudezhang​

His expression was inscrutable as he listened to her, though it was not one of detachment or disinterest; but a serene sort of indulgence, like the still, breathing blackness that greeted one’s gaze as it drifted across a body of water under the veil of night. Whether it was a humble stream or a vainglorious sea, the mystery was one and the same. Something lurked beneath the surface, in the unattainable depths below, sensing one’s eyes and hovering directly before them -- and there was no way of knowing if it was listening to their sorrows, or luring them into the beckoning dark. As his eyes locked with Paola’s and his ears echoed with the gentle tenor of her laugh, Alexander sensed that the intangible language of his countenance might just be one that they both shared.

Yet on his part, it didn’t remain unknown for long; now easier to grasp through the ripple of intrigue that whispered along the expanse of his body, the professional lock of his shoulders and back loosening as he leaned into his seat. His fingers slipped free from their knot, one arm drifting down to rest against his side while the other stretched idly across the desk, index tapping a feather-light beat.

Her approach was worthy of note; Alexander could recall very few initiates who had elected to place their weaknesses beneath the unflinching blade of his judgement in the same brazen manner as Paola. She was either exceptionally confident, or bare of the arrogance fueling the sense of bravado with which most initiates armed themselves. As Paola continued on, it was quickly proven to be a matter of the latter, and Alexander tucked away that shard of insight, keen on preserving it. It revealed quite a lot about the sharp-eyed woman before him.

“You said you would begin with your weaknesses, which implies that you would finish with your strengths. So you must be aware of them to some extent, and I would say that is precisely why Genevieve brought you to the Montagues.” Accepting her pacifistic declaration with a nod, Alexander moved on to splay his palm with a mild smile, indicating to Paola that her words carried the answer to her own questions. “You said it yourself; you’re good at what you do, and you’re smart. You also strike me as someone who doesn’t let anything stand in their way; you don’t favor violence, yet here you are.”

“But where that leaves you... is up to you, Paola.” Although the solemn tinge to the words was a pretense designed to coax her comfort and trust, their honesty rang true all the same. Alexander never saw any value in blinding their new recruits to the bleakness of the war they were stepping into. It didn’t serve him, nor did it serve the power of their ranks. “I can’t assure you that you’ll never draw blood, or that you’ll never be forced into senseless violence. Both notions are integral to the war, so you won’t be able to outrun them for long. But whether or not you choose to do so, is ultimately your decision.” Until Verona makes it for you.

[ofrallis]

GRACE ;

date: may 15, 2019 location: il catedral di verona status: closed for @ofrallis

It was strange, being back in the Cathedral. When they had stormed it last month in search of Valentina, Grace had been more focused on causing trouble than on the feeling of being back amongst the Capulets, celebrating l’anniversario as if her absence the year prior had only been a mistake in scheduling. When she had entered it tonight, it had felt like a homecoming, a rightful return. It had been hers to leave, and so it was hers to take back again.

She knew the building like the back of her hand - knew the best routes in, knew the easiest ways to the office of the don, knew where the Capulets usually stood guard and where they left the shadowed corridors to their own devices. It was what made her the perfect asset for this mission, and she’d burned with a fierce pride when Alexander had singled her out to be at his side. Now that pride sat heavy in the pit of her stomach, tangled with the stutter in her chest at the thought of Rafaella, with the pain that stretches from her bandaged fingers to her very core.

She’d washed the blood from her neck mechanically, cleaned and dressed where the garrote had dug into her hands. Now, sitting amidst the ruined pews, lingering adrenaline licking through her veins and souring her stomach, she feels drained. She presses the heel of her palms into her eyes, wills the oncoming headache back for just a few more minutes. She wonders if she looks as ragged as she feels. Footsteps approach and she sits up, smile brittle as Alexander settles next to her. “Resounding success, hm?” She quips, sweeping her gaze across the bustle of Montague forces as they cleared the space. “Don Montague must be happy.”

The long-coveted heart of the Capulets lay in a shallow, pitiful puddle of its own blood, conquered and forsaken, spurting out frail gushes of scarlet in tearful, futile resistance -- like a grievous wound that knew no surrender. Deep within its pulsing chambers was where the Montagues were found; scattered around in humming activity, carrying out duties and cementing footholds until the Capulet heart was all but warped into a hive -- an echo chamber for the victory that sang in the Montagues’ veins with each hour that cemented their dominion as it passed.

Alexander took it all in with calm appraisal as he stood at the threshold, having just left the illustrious Diana in his shadow, where she cut a solemn, venom-drawn figure as she stood banished on the sidewalk, forced into reluctant departure by three poised shotguns. He wondered where she would go, and where he would come into inevitable collision with her as their hearts were, once again, tugged towards one another by the chain of debts that bound them.

Focus drawn back to his bustling surroundings, Alexander surveyed the proceedings with clinical assessment that would not normally be expected from a man who hungered for glory so ravenously. Despite his satisfaction at the peak from which the Montagues now loomed over Verona, he saw no value in limiting his vision to a mere battle when the broad landscape of the war took precedence. After all, it was difficult to predict the nature of whatever Capulet retaliation they would soon face; and more importantly, it was unclear in whose favor the scales would tip in terms of the conflict between Montague don and heir. There was much to be considered beyond the fickle victory they had seized today, and it would be reckless of him to neglect that.

His gaze fell on a lonesome figure hunched among the pews, and his rigid trail of thought wavered. Among their raucous, reveling ranks, it was difficult to imagine that any soldier would find it in themselves to bear any weight other than that of their triumph -- especially Grace Daly. Yet here she was, more burdened and worn down than Alexander had ever seen her. He couldn’t deny that he was taken aback by the sight, though he was careful to conceal it as he settled beside her. Resounding success, hm? “Certainly. Now we just need to maintain it.” The deprecating statement was in subtle reference to Don Montague’s volatile leadership, yet any true criticism it harbored was tucked beneath the dry edge to the words, behind the mischievous curve of the smirk he threw Grace’s way. “He is,” Alexander said with a nod. He looked around. “And everyone seems to be sharing his happiness.” Except you.

[auldcine]

OUT OF THE PAST (1947) dir. Jacques Tourneur

[tomassabello]

@ofrallis

[derangedrhythms]

The sea hides its dead. Because what lies below must stay below.

Alejandra Pizarnik, The Shadow Texts; from ‘The Green Table’, tr: Yvette Siegert (via derangedrhythms)

[ofrallis]

BORIS ;

date: march 29th. status: closed for @ofrallis location: the library of verona, mid-morning

Stepping once more into the the library feels like a real, genuine homecoming. A landing-strip meeting with Damiano aside, once he’s closed the massive doors behind him and is swathed entirely in silence, Boris knows without an ounce of doubt in him that this is where he should be. Where he should’ve been all along, really. 

He’s had a year to pity himself, if not longer than that: best to move on to bigger, brighter things, a new dawn, a new era, blah, blah, blah. Most importantly… A better Boris. The library is blissfully quiet as he crosses the floor and heads towards the stairs where he’ll find his office. The path is familiar, and muscle memory takes over easily enough. He feels no awkwardness in his gait, no sense of strangeness or distance from the place he’d spent so many hours in before. He climbs the stairs, reaches the end of the hallway, stares up at the grand painting, tucks his fingers behind the right corner and pulls. The doorway opens, he steps over the threshold, looks towards the door of his office, feels the key sitting in his pocket, singular and golden –

– and finds another wolf standing in front of his den. Joy of joys.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting all morning, Rallis,” Boris quips, brow arched, mouth lips immediately pressing into a thin line. “I’m sure there are better things for an Advisor to be doing.”

Being around Boris Kovrov was akin to encroaching upon his mother’s roses. In the noxious thrill of venturing into sacred, forbidden land that none dared to approach. In the heady trepidation of watching as his shadow was cut from looming punishment and cast beside him in lingering warning. In the nourishing fulfillment of laying his hands upon thorns and summoning ruin with an offering of his blood -- be it his own ruin, or another’s, or simply the destruction of something beautiful and beloved.

As he watched Boris approach, Alexander’s mouth hummed with the sensation of petals stuck between his teeth; a phantom itch that had clung to his tongue ever since the volatile night in America when he had first learned the taste. He licked his lips, teeth digging into pliant flesh as it stretched around a smile, crooked and menacing enough that it normally would not be considered an expression of greeting, yet Alexander knew that Boris would view it as such, regardless. Sharp as it was in the company of the gullible and the oblivious alike, pleasantry was rather dull when wielded between them, and so neither of them saw any need for it. It was perhaps Alexander’s favorite thing about the double-edged companionship he shared with Boris.

“Always so hung up on the titles... ” Alexander sighed, tilting his head and looking sideways at Boris. “Have you always been like this or did you pick up the habit when the infamous promotion was stolen from you? I’m sure I knew at one point but you see, you were absent for so long that it must have slipped my mind.” Alexander was one Montague out of many who seized every opportunity to taunt Boris with his past, yet unlike the others, he didn’t truly begrudge the man’s actions. He merely took great pleasure in goading him. He watched as Boris proceeded to unlock his office, then shrugged, looking away as his smile made its gleaming return. “But I suppose you could say that I enjoy standing in your shadow.” A reminder of the mark he had left upon the slice of empire Boris had worked to build in America. A declaration that it was in fact Boris who stood in his shadow, twisted around and upturned as a fateful card revealed in reverse.

[greektragdy]

— The Secret History (1992)

[tomassabello]

@ofrallis