Qui bien aime tard oublie.

{ Who watches the watchers? }

[outofoldbooks]

“ Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. ” 

Washed up old soldier, once scrappy hellion. Enjoys gardening. Smokes too much. Insatiable curiosity for the paranormal. Teacher. Musician. Dad.

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— side to @theprimordium​  

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[lostsovl]

She has overstayed.

In between the wine and the nectar, the gauche spectacle of high society corralled into a life and death theatre, tragedy sprinkled for a taste of something, and that vermin's figure scurrying back into the shadows, playing God with impunity– she is sickened. Lestat collecting his revived lover from the stage, Mort returned, a crime in the alley out back, belly warm and face washed, repowdered, and yet. Her boredom dulls her, sharpens her into thorns and edges. Grown tired of waiting, watching the door. Have the clocks moved at all? The grief of others not enough to rouse anything within her, tedium instead of compassion, unable to muster sentiment for any of those who had lost something out here, in this haunted corner of her birth city.

Disappointed in herself for having foolishly lingered around this circus for so long, hoping her darling would at last show, Valerie begins to prepare her leave. She is in no mood to queue with the rest of them, so she watches the crowd slowly thin through the doors, up the stairs, bundled up in lavish hats and coats while she quietly finishes her glass of pinot noir.

It is as she is considering whether to head back to the apartment or take a hotel room for the night that she is interrupted by the very man she had given up waiting for, who arrives in no small wave of commotion, commanding the room with gaze and entitlement alone. Valerie watches him approach as an incendiary cocktail of emotions burns through her breast, an almost welcome feeling in a night filled with nothing but drab pleasantries.

"Arthur." His name escapes her lips, shock registering first. It's unlike him to make such a public scene, arresting the attention of what was left of the crowd and weary staff, his clothes soaked in large, blotchy patches, face still misted with rain. The bouquet he presents is made all the more fragrant from the spray, voluptuous blooms in a dazzling arrangement. An apology. Why, it was always going to be an apology.

"Pick yourself up." The vampire's voice is low and gelid, having taken one good look at his lamentable presentation and failed to find it sufficiently moving or entertaining. She takes no pleasure in denying him what she believes was a genuine, heartfelt request, throwing himself at her feet for one last dance, but as the evening had progressed she had only been reminded of how frequently she is shifted down his list of priorities and put on hold. A trophy returned to shelf, brought back out whenever. As unbearable as it is to look him in the eye and refuse herself the very desire that had brought her to this godforsaken venue in the first place, Valerie stands firm in her decision, right hand resting on the jut of her hip, towering ominously over her man.

"You have made your choice, and the event is now over." She lifts her left hand to gesture vaguely at their surroundings, the music now silenced but for the occasional hum of a drunken guest, still loitering about the sidelines.

"Furthermore, I have exhausted my patience. I was on my way out."

[outofoldbooks]

His name lashes from her lips like a whip, received as one would take a cutting strike across the face— the type to leave a mark, so much so that he can almost taste crimson between his teeth. His blood burns with corresponding invigoration, because he knows that the treatment is deserved: dog that he is, arrived hours after dark just to beg at the dinner table. Though Arthur can tell at once he's caused a stir, both with the manner of his entrance as well as this singular display of theatric pageantry. Having been sapped of all enthusiasm over the course of the conference, he kneels before his lover now energised and simmering with an electric thrill only She can hook from him.

Even her disparagement excites him.

Her tone has dipped into venom, a sting he has known before sinking deep into the tender flesh of his conscience— honeysweet guilt, tinged with the bitters of public humiliation. The loitering, less-than-sober remnants of this venue's guest list he has hitherto ignored have since turned their eyes on him, blending curiosity with burgeoning investment in this newly risen drama. Indeed their gaze rises with him when he brings himself to a stand once more, nestling the bouquet into the crook of his arm— upright so that those blood red and velvet flowers all but cradle his face. Beside these warming petals his juniper eyes shine like jewels cut from stone, consumed by inward resolve.

Having but felt the back of her glove, he would now fight all the more fiercely for the chance to kiss it. Were such a course to lead only to his woman taking a further vicious bite of him, it would already be worth the grief a thousand times over and so again. She stands unwavering, unmoved— he stands stalwart, stubborn. As he is duly shown the sorry state of this diminished party, the cogs in his brain begin to turn with relentless momentum. He sees at once this grand room for what it could yet be, but upon this vision he must act quickly.

"I beg to differ— the band is still here." A more rambunctious chord of youth surges within him, a daring that lights a fire in his belly, recalling at once a lifetime spent amid saline airs and surging seas. Dread for the coming century cast off like a burdensome cloak, he finds himself renewed with the conviction that he can yet bend the world to suit his lover's taste.

"One hundred francs each! For a final set." He has abruptly turned to face the band, a sea of well groomed, youthful faces perking up at the pledged sum. Glances are shared in collective confusion first, gradually transmuting into tentative consideration. Arthur can tell at once that these gentlemen have already been well paid for their art tonight, to be even momentarily caught in the throes of hesitation; debating it seemed between the promise of profit and beckoning fatigue.

However, a particularly boyish violinist with a pockmarked face framed by a mop of black hair chooses that very moment to pipe up with an impish grin.

"Two hundred!"

Arthur points at him sharply.

"You drive a hard bargain but I am either way in your debt."

The lad's fellow musicians grin and rib their comrade-in-arms, no doubt considering his company at the tables on a later occasion. Impudence matched with impudence, Arthur shifts the bouquet to his other shoulder and turns to Valerie armed with a twinkling smile. In the far corner of the room, a moustache-bearing man of military bearing has emerged from a side door and stopped abruptly at the sight of this couple's exchange occurring in the middle of an otherwise cleared lounge.

"You cannot end this evening so unsatisfied, my darling. Let me at least make the occasion a memorable one."

As though to indicate the pledge at hand, he begins to sway smoothly in place— commanded by an unheard rhythm that nevertheless called to him. Whatever dance she may wish to rule him with in answer of his recalcitrance, his anticipation devours him.

[outofoldbooks]

sealtian.

Paris, France. October 1899. Past midnight.

Though a warm breeze has blown in from the west, augmenting pressure in the already heavy and cloud-curtained atmosphere overhead, nonetheless Arthur still finds this a less stifling environment than the wearisome charade quarantined inside the building behind them. Upon the opulent threshold of Luxembourg Palace he fusses over the set of his evening jacket, having to accommodate a burst of blushing flowers tucked under his left arm: a gift procured for his sweetheart, protected from the elements by the enclosing fold of his cloak. He is careful with his package even as he fastidiously adjusts his appearance, ashen voice clipped as he otherwise vents his final flings of irritation.

"Never thought he would cease that tiresome monologue. Unbelievable how late the evening has run."

Beside him, Mycroft Holmes hums with neutral agreement and otherwise observes him with a sentiment Arthur could only describe as zoological fascination. Hardly surprising, their energies could hardly be more polarised in nature— himself, buzzing like an overturned beehive. Holmes, placid as a mountain-cradled lake. If he could bottle this man's patience and sup from it as one would a tonic to soothe one's nerves, he would have done so years ago.

Prompted to stir further expression from his otherwise content friend, he straightens and glances his way again. Neck somewhat craned and head tilted, as one must when directing speech to a man that could in daylight near block his view of the sun.

"You're certain you won't attend?"

The answer is serene, delivered with neither pause nor hesitation.

"Quite certain. The hour is late, and today's periodicals await my attention."

Arthur ponders upon the firmness of that decision for but a moment, a thoughtful noise turning in his throat briefly. He would have thought there to be more interest in this particular opportunity for leisure, though would admit that beyond the identity of the host it fell somewhat outside of Holmes' usual fare.

"Mm. Fair enough I suppose." He expresses with an almost perplexed raise of his thick eyebrows, comfortable enough to allow for the implication to show that he doesn't agree. More than anything, what he wanted right now was a stiff drink and his darling's welcoming bosom.

"Then a good evening, and we shall reconvene on the morrow." He doffs his top hat while retreating out upon the gravel forecourt, the palace's gushing fountain offering quite the magnificent backdrop to his departure.

"The report on today's conference—" Arthur suddenly recalls, half-turning to face Holmes with a gloved finger gently raised; his distraction is rewarded by a prompt response that all but completes both his sentence and train of thought for him.

"—shall ready by 5 o'clock, tomorrow afternoon."

Gratified for the knowledge that he can therefore obliterate himself tonight without further thought or consequence, Arthur allows a roguish half-grin to leap forth into his expression. Truly, what would he do without this man.

~*~

Rain breaks on his way to the venue, an aggrieved rumble ripping through the billowing clouds above the city before they at last yield to tender deluge. Avoiding puddles where he can and otherwise sidestepping ribbons of water lining the gutters of Paris, Arthur continues to guard his precious cargo while forging through the gathering storm. Rather than waste another minute waiting in line for a cab or carriage from the Palace, he would take his chances on foot— sure of his own constitution, his own course and ultimate destination. For these rain-spattered streets are mapped in his head like lines traced on a lover's palm: known to his heart, coursing his veins with intimacy.

Thus upon the next turn taken rises a towering, ornately furnished building several storeys high— once a grand hotel, now an exclusive club that promised to encase in amber this city's frenetic and pulse-pounding irreverence. Their lettered invitations had called this place Eden. Climbing sheltered stairs lain with red velvet two at a time however, Arthur begins to feel more in his soul as though he is surely descending within the jaws of some kind of Hell. The dread notes of recent grief mix with an effervescent zing of forbidden rite in a heady cocktail of laissez faire mysticism. Death and life have surely, but recently, made their sordid bed here.

A most invigorating premise with which to underpin a venue for evening leisure, he considers with passive observation.

Hounds hunt hares upon the walls of the entrance hall, while uniformed boys circle him and bark with protests he can hardly hear— there is a Lady within that has called upon him, and her voice alone can but command his advance. He must have ushered something of the storm in with him, for they fall away one by one beneath the heat of his gaze until there is a sole child left to take his hat, coat and gloves without so much as a word given. Smoothing back the wet thatch strands of his fringe until they fall into a languid fold upon his crown, he gathers the sumptuous bouquet of autumnal blooms in his hands and progresses to the central lounge.

And just like that, Heaven and Hell alike lose all meaning before his goddess of eternal night; her hourglass figure poured into a dress that wraps about her hips with hypnotic tension, a glimpse of collarbone shimmering white as marble, crowned with a profile sharp enough to cut any boy through bone. His beloved Valerie, jewel of all France, yet without a man on her arm to treat her with heights of worship such that they would be ripped from scripture for their sacrilege.

Ignoring the nervous glances of the club's band from the wall-fixed stage, who seemed to otherwise be in the process of packing up their instruments, Arthur collapses dramatically to one knee before his woman in awestruck supplication. In offering does he thus present his bouquet, fixed and fit for a Queen, flowering with blushing lisianthus, wine red hydrangeas and crimson roses reared to velvet perfection. A spill of oak and magnolia leaves complements the blooms, while sprigs of berries speak of their season's inimitable bounty.

Though the gift stands without a doubt at the very pinnacle of handcrafted luxury, it seems queerly paired with a gentleman half-drenched by rain and currently soaking the fine carpet with his knelt trouser leg. Nevertheless his verdant eyes twinkle with promise, an evergreen infatuation that shines forth from this otherwise humorously damp and dishevelled presentation. This is her man. A wet creature washed in from the storm-tossed sea, quick on his feet and quicker with his tongue. Armed with naught but his charm and an inclination for dramatic gesture by way of demonstrating his eternal, fixed and unwavering devotion.

"I sincerely hope, my dear, that it is not too late to request a dance?"

[lostsovl]

There is a measure of violence in the answer of prayers long abandoned. To hear that Arthur had held onto her human memory all through those treacherous years, to hear the gift of his love unbroken, renewed – it tears through her with devastating sharpness. The wound left in the wake of ripping out one's hope at once reopens and seeps. Valerie feels faint. Her ribs push against the restraint of firmly laced garments, her mouth opens but no air rushes in, and her eyes smart with another bout of tears. She wears her grief like a noose, for even in the wake of her beloved's earnest confession she cannot yet conceive of a world where he would stomach what she had done.

Arthur's hands anchor her to the earth. His warmth lulls her, soothes her long enough for breath to return; she decides that they needn't pry open every door in one evening, and he can hear of her darker times of undiscerning hunger some other day. Some other day. Her eyes return to his, tender and raw, and she clutches his wrists to pull him near, nearer, to bring him under her cloak and embrace the whole of his lithe frame with a fervour so intense she momentarily fears snapping his weary bones.

"Do not tell me you will wait. Do not wait. The lives we may yet live do not concern me now. I want to be macerated in you, to have the privilege of being sickened by your presence. I want to hear everything: your stories, your qualms, your hopes. I want to know everything, to glut in all that is you, and all that we were meant to be and never could, and Arthur, Arthur--" The vampire turns her face amidst their hold, pressing it to his wind-grazed cheek, emotion trembling in her low, cadaverous voice. "Forgive me. You know nothing yet, or very little, but my darling, I would have done it all again for another chance to see you again. I would have torched the world."

After some time, when the moment comes to a natural ebb, she composes herself. She readjusts the hood that had slipped from her crown, wipes the wetness from her eyes on the embroidered edge of her sleeve. She contemplates the flowing river beneath them, the side of the bridge they have yet to conclude crossing, and folds all his sentiment into her breast. It matters not that she feels utterly grotesque and undeserving of his love, his home. She will take it, and guard it with teeth anyway.

"Come, my darling, I fear for you in this cold. Let's walk again." She had an infinite number of questions to ask still, and was certain he felt the same.

[outofoldbooks]

In not even the briefest instant does he dare blink, for he cannot trust the world to be so merciful as to let him keep this moonlit goddess of night wreathed in the silken ties of his company. What right has he? What right would any man or creature, but above all he? He who had provided only absence in her hour of need, deafness to her suffering and blindness to the trials her incandescent soul had been condemned beneath? He stands here upon this forlorn bridge a pitiful man, the dregs of former grace and glory washed up on some forgotten shoreline. Nevertheless the whispers shared across Chilham's lake surface yet dance upon their lips, the scintillation of a dozen chandeliers in this gaze but shared between them— a faraway dream writ in the press of his palms to her pallid cheeks, in how their foreheads are tenderly brought to touch.

In silence do they root themselves, cradled in the comfort of this shared oblivion they thus pledge to share. Every memory accorded its place, every revelation proffered in time. And every place in which she hurt, he will in turn lend the salve of his devotion; evergreen and young, undimmed by the passing of their age. Passion that did not shy from the depths of darker tides, but rather reveled in the unknown fathoms that awaited them. With the reverence of a diviner in the forbidden rites he is subsumed within her dark embrace, sliding his own hands down the marmoreal column of her nape before slipping one down about her waist and draw them closer still until they are made flush.

"Then we shall not wait. We shall not wait a moment longer, my love" Arthur urges, near breathless with emotion as he speaks to her in renewed promise. Their noses brush against one another in petal-softened nudges as they hold each other fast, as though they would at last merge but for the barriers of flesh that parted them. His lips part upon the sentiment that pours forth from this divine woman, unraveled by these spoken truths that rule him in turn. What great and glorious fortune that he might draw breath to know this exultation, what rapture to have fate spun to their favour in this refulgent fabric of star-crossed miracle.

"Let us venture so. And speak of everything... Torches and all." She will be utterly sick with him, he will make certain. And perhaps one day, he shall learn of the scoured earth she has since left in her wake. Oh the Devil he would become just to meet her in this Hell, join hands with her as he does now to lead her away from this liminal place. He rubs the dampness from his tear ducts with a smear of grimy fingers put to his face, the pad of his thumb and forefinger taking the lion's share of the work before he heaves a firming, foundational breath. The night is yet a younger creature, and their journey on this road has time yet to reach conclusion.

"Such might be a boon for my lodgings, which wither beneath winter's breath though its first gasp has yet to come." Arthur remarks with blackened humour as he leads her down the rickety slope of this waterlogged bridge, rotten wood creaking beneath the press of their combined weight until they safely descend to the mournful graveyard of disused docks upon the otherwise. Here the stench of the river swells to a zenith, almost oppressive for the sludge washed upon the bank's shallow shoreline— reprieve slowly, steadily granted as they draw further away from the riverside, onto a winding dirt path scattered with chipped pebbles that demarcates the embankment from the vast open common extending south of them.

Something closer to fresh air, at last; and a tint of fresh grass and foliage to this surrounding malaise of scents as a matching reprieve. Unthinkable, that he should be leading his Lady through such abysmal elements— but they had pledged each to know all that comprised one another, and from her silver gaze he would no longer hide. A coward's lot would no longer be his, and henceforth he would prove himself worthy of this mantle given in her continued love.

"Do you feel this chill, my dear? What elements now offend you, nourish you? I must know however it is that I can make you more comfortable."

[eddapoetic]

The light 'clack' of Arthur abandoning his glass back down onto the wooden counter rings a little more pronounced within the momentary, pointed silence; the act alone enough to tell the older spirit there is some merit to his riddles, if he had not already garnered as much. There's something about the lad which makes him seem younger when he's weary, when he turns away from him with unseen guilt weight upon those shoulders - the visage tempting him to set aside the bottle that he holds in turn and place a hand against the other's right.

Alas, in practice the trickster commits only to the former half along that train of thought, lips thinning once his hands are freed ( scotch relieved of him with yet another 'clunk' ), returning to the turnt back of the Englishman with a half-wide, outwards motion of both arms and a short inhale as though he means to speak, before he is resigned to drop both the extenuating appendages into a sigh.

"--Aye. That it may be." He gives, just rather candidly for once. It does still leave the situation to be settled, however.

"It means-- 'congratulations', I'd reckon." Havar offers with a darting glance and note of dubious consolidation, placing his hands drummingly along the edge of the cabinet, then shortly lifting one of them again only to gesture as he carries on. "Of course you could just kill him. Wash your hands of it, wish him good fortune - under which circumstance it may behoove you to act sooner rather than later--"

[theprimordium]

—Having witnessed the very moment in which their conversation had sunken into hushed tones exchanged in the far corner of the room, Mycroft continued to watch them with a careworn and studious tension. Though Mr Kirkland had invited him to share in this evening's discussion concerning his apparently singular predicament, he had been all but left on the wayside thus far as the two... gentlemen had swiftly drawn together in a dialogue adhering to what was plainly a long-familiar rhythm.

Even amid the lingering apprehension for what is to be determined of his unique circumstance, he cannot help but notice the equally individual manner with which Mr Kirkland was responding to this man not yet familiar to him. A searching gaze, staggered silence and the weighted hang of that thatch-like crown— disappointment, in himself more than anyone. The marks left behind from youth: shame before someone he holds close in esteem.

Mentor. Guardian? The flick of his gaze to the ward's injury brief, reflexive. Distraction. Guilt? Too fast, not for this instance. It is a reminder, for them both.

He halts himself in the course of building their combined story in the realm of his imagination, a compulsion to construct using what he can observe that threatens to keep him from the tangible developments occurring in his immediate reality. He must speak up, he must ensure that his voice is heard in this newly emerged arena. However small it may sound in comparison.

"Ah, excuse me?"

He can feel regret sink like a weight within his stomach when two sets of eyes promptly turn to set upon his seated position. Such pointed attention put his way feels as disagreeable now as it ever has been, however necessary it must be for him to field if he is to wade forth into the muddied field of this discourse.

"Apologies but, I was wondering if I might ask for clarification upon an expression used just moments ago?" A sprout of relief begins to bud within him at the manner in which Mr Kirkland turns from the cabinet to face him once more, stance modified to sincere attention. "A man's 'living soul'— what would one mean by that in this instance?"

[outofoldbooks]

Arthur had been on the verge of rebuke on account of his mentor's suggestion— and the accusing glance he throws Havar all but states as much. At once he feels the distance drawn between their inherent natures as two divergent species of spirit, sprung from man and nature in turn. To even countenance such an act was anathema to his comprehension, not to mention the unprecedented waste in human ability it would be.

No. No it was the very threat of what would even comprise the course of his death that haunted him so, it was why he had called Havar here for guidance in the first place. Hoping that his rather unique position as a former guide to the dead might offer some... illumination on the subject, in some fashion. Though now, he was beginning to fear his elder was as lost as he on the particulars of such a condition as the one they now face.

It is at that moment that he starts with attention for Mycroft's enquiry, a measure of guilt chafing the back of his throat as he appreciates the degree to which he had neglected to include him as intended thus far into their discussion. He must at least attempt amends, and he can start with answering his question truthfully.

"Ah, well." Arthur pushes himself from the cabinet with his good hand, casting a quick look to Havar as means of inviting his input (where and as appropriate) before returning his line of vision to the seated gentleman before him. "It is a term exchangeable with many, if I must be frank. In this instance it refers to the spiritual essence that comprises your individual identity— that which is brought into being through birth, and departs the body upon death."

[eddapoetic]

"Should, could, would--" The corvid repeats and rattles off the facimilies, pondering about the Englishman's diminished side (to which his hazel gaze flicks briefly) in a leisurly amble, prior to turning on his heel to lean against the edge of the nearest piece of furniture available. Which would be the drinks cabinet, from the counter of which Havar snatches the exposed bottle of scotch by its neck, only to study the liquid contents harboured within. "Line blurrs a bit on the matter, I reckon, in my experience. Certainly isn't advisable, but as for the realm of possibility--"

Without looking up, he offers a vague, considering noise, followed by an even more ambiguous gesture - using the bottle in his hand to motion towards the other when his gaze at long last do see fit to meet him. Unwittingly, indeed.

"To achive such a feat is one thing - to reverse it, quite another." He points, searching in his old ward's features stained so evidently with frustrate. Or is it desperation? "Aye, I could tell you something of it. But it might not be what you want to hear, bitil."

[outofoldbooks]

Arthur pauses as he lowers his glass again, furrowing his brow with hurt affront and directing the weight of his reproach to the older spirit now leant against his liquor cabinet. No words pass through his tightened lips however, and his sharpened gaze rather seems to turn inward— so too the verdant line of his vision, which drifts back to the diminished remains of his own beverage.

To combat the accusation levied upon him in the form of riddle would be to court a further one of short-sighted denial, especially given his own preceding admission. Would that the naked truth could grieve him less for its raking condemnation.

He shuts his eyes and turns his head away with an expelled sigh of frustration, setting aside both his glass and the extent of his culpability in this turn of events (first in a pattern of recent memory) to focus instead upon talk of its resolution. Or morosely, the lack of such a ready means to fix what he has in his wanton infatuation and need irretrievably broken.

"You mean to tell me that the method of severance you know of would be more severe in its consequence than that of leaving it be." He wilts beneath the name given to him, its fond caress falling heavy upon a head that hangs with the guilt of a more mature crime. He shakes his thatch-matted crown, dropping it into the palm of his good hand while his voice lowers to a whisper that can be but shared between them alone in this room.

"I do not know what this means for him."

[wendydoodles]

I will fall for this kind of trope every time so here I am…. can I just…have a spin off with these two :)

[eddapoetic]

"Aye, that'll be the day, ey?"

"Mind, if I had a penny for every time I heard that, I'd have-- well, handful of pennies, I 'spose." Havar's brows shoot up only to fall again, shrugging absently and a little musingly at his own figurative as he starts to meander through the study, trailing on a winding path closer 'twards his evidently trouble ward, the boy took to his drink to calm his nerves with. Wracked, he is. Aye, it's true its quite the situation he has got himself in - having heard even an abbreviated account of it, that much he can't deny. But there may yet be some consolation he can offer.

"Ease your mind, lad. You're not the first to do it," the trickster offers, having arrived at Arthur's side and leaning a little further into sight, his arms still knitted at his back, "--Though, I wouldn't have expected it of You."

[outofoldbooks]

The exaggeration with which Arthur subsequently rolls his eyes could be called nearly comedic by any witness or audience, if he weren't entirely serious concerning the subject matter on this occasion. Unbelievable, he could not be fielding this man's regular supply of nonsense at this time. With careening impatience the younger spirit finds himself once more questioning why he had called for his elder, only to return with vehemence to the deserving gravity of this most particular situation.

He must persevere. He will secure a forthcoming solution.

"You single me out despite the fact none of us should be capable of such a feat." Arthur chastises ruefully as he takes another swig of his drink, attempting to pretend that Havar isn't there— hovering about his left flank with naught but a truncated elbow and a pinned sleeve to keep him company. He squints through the noxious burn of scotch tearing through his throat, his next words guttural with emphasis.

"I full well know my hand in this. Tell me what I must do to reverse what it is I have unwittingly done."

If he was beginning to sound desperate, he hoped it was to Havar's ears alone.

[yuhengwanye]

Actual favourite character trope: repressed, courteous, soft-spoken member of strict, rule-focused culture is considered the perfect epitome of that culture by outsiders, and a full-throttle mad bastard by insiders.

[lostsovl]

;drink his blood, throw him in the river.

@outofoldbooks + @eddapoetic

October 1888, London

"I can't be everywhere at once." Valerie laments, leaning back on a creaky dining chair with a cigarette between her lips and a small matchbox between her fingers. She draws a stick and strikes it, immediately snapping it in half without a single useful spark. Her rage ticks. She tosses the match on the table, amongst the debris of their investigation and leftovers of a very late lunch. They gather at a flat she had been temporarily renting on Fieldgate Street. Not a residence, per se, more of a place to conduct business from: a modest one-bedroom without any live-in staff. Nondescript, in a building of bachelors and old scholars, somewhere where certain papers would be safe and conversations would go unheard.

Its location, however, was of most importance.

As the night fell and darkness with it, the three must decide where to concentrate their efforts: take to the streets? Or follow their suspect to the party he was expected to show face in? And if they'd been wrong about him all along?

"If we split up, it might not be sufficient to stop him without..." She waves her hand mid-air in a derogatory reference to the current police patrol. She'd already spent the past hour and a half criticising the rotting state of the city and lack of proper social infrastructures. "...excessive furore." Valerie attempts to light a second match, then a third, until, frustrated by her inability to succeed at such a simple task, she crumples the entire box in the palm of her hand, effectively snapping every single one of the remaining matches. "Foutre."

[outofoldbooks]

For all the tightly-wound agitation that had been consuming his grime-flecked workman's figure, Arthur now rose from his own chair with a readiness to be of service that could only be described as one bordering on alacrity. Men of high-standing would perhaps attribute the swiftness of this response to a recent tenure of military service— in truth the campaigns of Sevastopol and those across the frontier of the Orient were now in the reach of decades behind him, the fingers of his left hand thrumming with nerves only recently returned to his regenerated form.

Reforged digits he now puts to work snapping with a sonorous clap reminiscent of flint striking steel, producing a small, continuously generating flame from his own fingertip— blazing softly as though extended from the wick of a candle.

"Bryne."

As much as his mode of speech has otherwise made the shift from the Queen's English to that of the working men of Whitechapel, the lyrical murmur of old continental Saxon returns to him with ever unbroken fluency. Within seconds he is cupping the air beneath Valerie's unlit cigarette with calloused fingertips curled delicately with flame in tribute.

What greater service could there be than that towards a woman's happiness? Such swiftness in action should be the reserve of unchecked adoration.

"Peelers won't be of use round 'ere. Already cocked things up well enough."

He agrees moodily as he subsequently extinguishes the flame with an outward flick of his fingers, drawing himself up and sliding his hands back into the pockets of his coarse woolen trousers as he ambles towards the room's small square window, where he then takes upon a street-viewing position with a pronounced knee-tilted slouch. More than a month tending odd jobs in the East End and only now, too late, had rumours begun to coalesce into a trail more than the vanishing mist that had otherwise managed to perplex all prior attempts at investigation.

"It's him. Wouldn't be here if I weren't sure." Arthur rubbed at the dusky scruff of stubble about his jawline with a spontaneous spur of contemplative frustration, before pausing and looking back over his shoulder to address the rest of the room. "I can take the place of 'is driver— eyes would have to be on him, though. At the party."

[eddapoetic]

"Aye, 'tis a fine mess that you've got yourself into." Mouth briefly pursed, his sights flick briefly, consideringly upwards, head tipping to a nod as so to emphathise the affirmatory commentary. The avian has stood mostly idly save for playing a little on his heels, hands loosely clasped behind his back whilst he had listen to the urgent situational account of his companion - now quietly marvelling that for once, as so happened every one in a colourful moon, the trouble at hand wasn't any of his own making.

"I'd say I'd be sorely tempt to be impressed if didn't reckon you're about to ask a hand in fixing up with it--"

[outofoldbooks]

"If you might perchance treat this matter with the severity of which it is most certainly deserving, I would find myself gratified."

Arthur halfway turned from his drinks cabinet, a short glass of scotch grasped in his pallid right hand while he regarded his longtime companion with a thin, if desperate, patience. He found himself wishing sincerely that it was a pour of brandy instead, cursing the pestilence that was ravaging the vineyards of France among the count of his troubles of late. Though indeed, far from the most pressing of them— that honour lay to that which had prompted him to summon the very individual currently sharing the room with him.

"A man's living soul may very well be at stake for reasons I cannot clearly comprehend, yet somehow remain singularly responsible for."

[varldsormr]

Cold yet burning is the force which drives his heavy heel into advance, and in his parting of the tide his gaze lay fixed along the arm of one who felled the oaken Eòghan - one whose string draws quick upon the only target with the will still left to challenge him, though the war has all been lost. But the serpent heeds no care to turn his tail, nor to move clear of the accursed bowman's range. He, who has plagued the highlands with his greed and his ambition. He whose voice rings with a laughter as the lifeblood of his friend seeps to the earth.

The Englishman.

He hears the whistle of flight before he feels it. Sees the glint of its point cleave through the wind above the battle, poised to pierce just as it'd pierced the fallen figure of the Scotsman and would no doubt see to have the giant share his others' fate, to join Eòghan and his countrymen in death as they had joined their arms in life, though he fears they both must weather disappointment on this day--

Boring through threaded muscle and saltwater blood, he stifles a hiss as the heat of the arrow sears unhampered through his flesh, striking its chord the same instance that his boot steps hard against trampled soil. With a sudden jolt the shaft embeds within his shoulder with enough impact to jerk his torso briefly back, the involuntary spasm prompting the crude hammered iron to clatter from the serpent's grasp onto the ground, only there to be abandoned, lost in the fray and left behind as though forgotten in his unrelenting march across the field. No matter.

Nothing else matters but to traverse the stretch between them. He has a distance to yet to cross, but he will make it. With a burning in his breath and ice within his heart, he will make it.

Through gritted teeth he picks up pace, the pain dulling swiftly to an ache as the needle-sting puncture fail to make him slow in his encroach - nor does the next to seat itself in marrow. It is persistence tested in a steady hail of arrows which sees him laden by the time he reaches the base of the hill from which he's struck upon, each projectile neither missing its mark nor striking true enough to halt him. He does not know whether the bowman's aim is foul or merely toying, and neither does he care, for either stroke of hubris suits his purpose;

'He should have run' is the thought which fades behind the thrumming in his mind, swallowed as the giant raptly mounts the ridge beyond the trenches and rises once more tall enough to cast his gaze to ground, to fell full brunt of his attention upon the bearing of this ancient presence like his own save in the dressing of a boy - and yet to morbid, muted recognition, Jormungand is glad that he had not. Glad that he had fought. Cognizant it would have made no difference.

As the battle lay behind him his stride digs stone and shards of metal underfoot, hounding every step the other yet may hope to make in expeditious retreat, relentless in pursuit as bare aware he is of a slew of eyes begin to turn towards him. His own seek nothing but his quarry, the world blurred out and hazy all around them; black, cold shards of ice stare down the angled length of the Englishman's taut drawn bow and arrogant resolve, each clung onto to the end as if either one could offer him salvation. Perhaps they have before. But not this time.

"You."

The arrow-riddled muscle of his right arm flare with acid as his fist clamps tight and knuckles pale, his left throwing out towards the diminutive boy's nape the moment he is close enough to reach, digging with the gravel of a snarl in his throat into whatever he can take, leather, cloth or skin--

[outofoldbooks]

A titan. Such is what he faces upon this field of battle, birthed from a source so vast and ancient in his mind's eye that the boy cannot help but stagger in place— as though finding himself stood suddenly upon the edge of a precipice. Wherefore had Eòghan called this creature, born not of vast lakes and stone cliffs but of something deep, dark and roiling with primal fury.

Arthur feels the panic begin to rise in his throat, multi-pronged and sourced as it debilitates and delays his time for action. Split between spiritual duty and the impulse for survival he wavers, a breath drawn sharply into his lungs as he draws another shaft to his bowstring; his irises sharpen with pinpoint accuracy where his fingers begin to falter, doubt for his course setting into his conscience.

He fears to strike fatal, he fears to be struck down himself in turn. Bound in a trap of his own making he is condemned to inaction, but for the press of oncoming death. He thinks of his footmen, his knights— still fighting in his name, still falling beneath the banner of his crown. Strike true. Arthur exhales coolly and lets fly the next arrow, watching as the point buried itself deep into the titan's flank without consequence.

His panic grows. Without thinking, another arrow, another stretch of hand-spun linen: to the creature's stomach this time, with naught to show for the effort but an advanced sureness in trajectory. He has not slowed them. He has, to his rapidly spiraling fear, only encouraged them.

The boy archer has only but nocked his next feathered shaft before the giant descends upon him, a single world boomed into the world around him, deafening the sounds of battle beneath the venom in this vast spirit's countenance.

It strikes him with frigid, unforgiving familiarity: there was no quarter for him at such a distance. Such had always been his fate upon the battlefield. Eòghan. François. Dan. Once the gap between was closed, what remained for him was naught but the felling stroke of a blade. Here, his fate would be decided in want of stature.

He attempts veer away from the reach of the creature's reaching arm, but finds himself hoisted with violence from the grounding comfort of the earth, arrow slipping from his grasp as he instinctively attempts to fight the grip upon his nape. A split-second passes in which he contemplates using his bow as a blunt instrument, before he shrewdly abandons the idea.

Dropping that weapon to the ground in turn and favoring instead a small blade drawn from a buckled sheath upon his belt, Arthur thrust the sharpened dagger desperately through the spirit's forearm in an attempt to break their hold upon them. Holding the blade fast in their flesh through the press of both his hands upon its hilt, he sputtered with spiraling urgency.

"N-no!" The desperation in his vehement refute was palpable, leather-wrapped feet kicking the air in futile search for purchase as he hung from the spirit's grasp like a rabbit caught in the hunt. Eyes of forest green lock onto their abyssal counterparts in that moment, blown wide in encroaching terror: terror, it would seem, on behalf of the assailing party above all else.

"They will kill you—!!"

Such are words that are spoken into fruition. As like a tide swelling beneath the call of ashen-curtained skies, his stalwart footmen, his valiant knights— victors riding the frenzied high of a blood-soaked battlefield turned to their favor, seeing the vessel to their illustrious pride threatened, gather with massing force and descend themselves upon the creature in a thundering storm of swords and fury.

[eddapoetic]

[ unknown number text: ] its like you dont trust me bitil [ unknown number text: ] 2nd to royal mail how the mighty fall ey [ unknown number text: ] frivolity debauchery a rose by any other name 🌹 [ unknown number text: ] got a bottle o smthn special & i kno just 🦉to share it w/ 🤙

[outofoldbooks]

[ 👑 text:] As far as I could throw you. [ 👑 text:] Which, granted, I have yet to attempt— meaning that perhaps I should hold my tongue. [ 👑 text:] You make a compelling argument, which devastates me.

( A pause. )

[ 👑 text:] Where would you be indulging, exactly?

[eddapoetic]

[ unknown number text: ] knew youd understand lad <333 [ unknown number text: ] letters eh? need a messenger? 👀 [ unknown number text: ] ae nvm all that [ unknown number text: ] com mout w me aye

[outofoldbooks]

[ 👑 text:] No. [ 👑 text:] Though I may have to call you out of retirement should Royal Mail continue misattributing my tracking numbers. [ 👑 text:] Where you off to then? A hatched scheme, perchance? Or a night of frivolity?

[eddapoetic]

[ unknown number text: ] tragédie😔 [ unknown number text: ] tu es cruel avec moi, petit roi

[outofoldbooks]

( An exaggerated sigh. )

[ 👑 text:] You are clearly starved of attention in a manner that might threaten the fabric of your very existence, necessitating the following intervention. [ 👑 text:] I am writing letters. At my desk, at home. [ 👑 text:] I could therefore be busier, in theory.

[outofoldbooks]

[ 👑 text:] English, please.

[eddapoetic]

[ 🐓 text: ] ¿Estás ocupado, pequeñito?

[outofoldbooks]

[ This number has been blocked. ]

[eddapoetic]

@outofoldbooks // arthur & havar - liquid gold & hard won tribute

[ 🐓 text: ] 👀 [ 🐓 text: ] oy [ 🐓 text: ] vey [ 🐓 text: ] wyd

[outofoldbooks]

[ 👑 text:] English, please.