Lamprius follows the woman who is a slave to her impulses, because Lamprius would be a fool to fight them. The Witch truly believes that, at the end of it all, most people will do what they want to do, no matter what the world tells them. He understands that just because you build a dam, a river will not stop existing. He sees the Montagues and the Capulets as two truths that will struggle to exist, and the concept of eradicating them completely from the city is a fool’s errand. People will always want more for themselves, will seek to build a greater legacy for their children and their names, will pursue love, seek fame, want power. They will continue existing, continue to be the river that flows, and all Lamprius can do is build a dam. There’s a memory that lingers in his mind, of a time he, Hecate, Medea, stand in a mansion on the outskirts of the city - a decrepit building that’s been dying more years than it’s been living - a moment in time where a motion is proposed and Lamprius raises his hand to cast a vote in favor of La Purga. He believes in his vote then, like he still believes in it now. This woman is going to do what she wants to do and find that roof. He might as well follow her and observe because casting true judgement.
Besides… he knows this place has a roof. Ever since the night at the theater, lamprius doesn’t walk into any building in this city without knowing every way to get out. The stranger walks towards the back and he follows her - only to turn before he reaches the back of the room. There’s a hallway that sprouts off to the left, and he slips into it, making a sharp turn off course. Lamprius clears his throat so she knows he’s veering away, before stepping out of view. There’s a few unassuming doors in this thin strip of room, and the third one on the left opens up to a space no bigger than a closet. Inside, it has a ladder to the roof that goes up and up and up. It’s not quite the stairway Led Zeppelin sung about, but will do. Lamprius waits next to it patiently, till his new friend appears and then, ever the gentleman, he allows the other to go first.
Like mariners surfacing from a submarine they push onto the roof. Now in the cold night air, Lamprius takes a second to look up at the moon. He gestures, as if to say ‘there’s the object of your affections.’ He’s spent an evening speaking a language that is not his mother tongue, making war-time plans for a war that should have ended long ago. But now he he breathes in the night air and it sweeps him clean.
“If it’s inviting us in, I’m going to have to decline. Don’t mistake this for cowardice but… I love this city too much to leave it behind.”
Or even, watch it from above. It’s always been the way of the Witches, to look down on the chessboard, but Lamprius believes in setting himself at the center of the city. He looks to the other, gaze looking past the dark hair that falls into his eyes. He offers up a small smile. His hands, tempted to be the devil’s play things, go to his pockets.
“But if you step through, write a letter back to me won’t you?”
Not unlike the letters he shared with Bellamy… and further back, the one she shared with Everett. Like a strange habit Lamprius begins to walk the perimeter of the roof, to get a good understanding of it and measure it with his footsteps. Just because he knew existed, doesn’t mean he’s ever stepped foot up here before. There isn’t a piece of the city that Hecate, Medea and Circe didn’t know by heart. Lamprius tries to get a little bit closer to that understanding every day.
“Do you dream of leaving Verona?” He asks, curiously.
Free will has always been stuck in a never-ending battle against reason, and Regina is not exempt from being a battlefield in this war. After all, they have wills and impulses like everyone else, though theirs may be of a harsher variety. Regina may feel the desire for blood, to feel the sensation only acquired when their hand is wrapped gingerly around the grip of their gun. But reason reminds them that they must wait for permission from the Capulets to pull the trigger, for insubordination will only see them further removed from the things they wish for. Yet, morality plays no role in this conflict. It is the same, to Regina, as an everyday person knowing they cannot abandon their responsibilities to take a spontaneous vacation, knowing their livelihood will be in jeopardy if they do. There is no moral conflict there, only a logical one, and the same conflict occupies Regina when it comes to the darker urges few others know as intimately as they do. Morality has no home in Verona, anyway. War, with logic on its side, have nearly run it out of the city completely.
Regina walked through the room, staring ahead most of the time. They know they’ll find what they’re looking for eventually, and no one seems to notice, or at least seems not to care, about the search they’re about to conduct. It seems they don’t have to look long, however, before the man following behind her slips sharply through the edge of their peripheral, a soft sound escaping his throat as a wordless signal to them that he knows more about this building than they had previously suspected of him. Regina easily turns to follow him down the corridor and to the waiting ladder. They suppose it’s adequate, though they would have preferred a normal set of stairs. But Regina did not care much about how this building decided to design its access points, and climbed soundlessly.
Their swift feet made easy contact with the rungs, and soon transferred themselves to the roof moments later when they emerged into the night. Lucien followed soon after, and his gaze easily found the obvious glowing moon, which Regina’s eyes found with little prompting from his gesture. “Do you suppose that if you step in, you’ll be unable to return, then?” Regina mused, their gaze not yet leaving the surface of the moon’s white glow. That’s the thing about doors, they supposed — some doors that opened remained open in both directions, allowing people to come and go, some were closed in both directions, and some would only open from one side, trapping people with the decision they’ve made. Death was the latter of the three, and while Regina had never stepped through that door themself, they’d been the doorman for many others before, and had grown familiar with the sensation of the doorknob beneath their palm. “That is if there is any post, where it leads.”
Do you dream of leaving Verona? For many, it may be a loaded question. For Regina, it is certainly not. “I don’t see such things when I close my eyes, though I know you speak figuratively. I have no dreams of the sort, regardless. I do not know where else in this world I am better suited to than Verona.” A pause. Regina suspects people only ask questions like this when they apply to themselves, in turn. “Do you itch to escape these views?”
