He wakes up unable to scream. There is a searing pain in his chest that lingers for five seconds before fading. Heartache. The word comes flooding into his brain with a string of meaningless memories. He remembers soft brown hair and bright eyes filled with zeal. He remembers with a surprising clarity the smell of coffee. He remembers books. And he remembers a name -- or does he imagine it? But there is no opportunity for him to consider these thoughts because then a boy with dark eyes comes into the light. Actually, it appears that there are five others with him: a scrawnier boy who looks utterly disinterested, a blonde girl who looks incredibly breathless, a more confident but less amiable looking woman who clutches the younger girl's wrist, a man in a navy-coloured polo shirt stained with blood, and a man with an apron in his hands. Most look down on him, but he does not feel small. He does not feel the fear a logical person would feel. Instead, he smiles.
"And here I thought all the necromancers had died out ages ago," he exhales with no furrow in his brow. It takes him roughly twenty-two seconds before he settles on the blonde girl. He turns to her and the smile twitches and then it is a frown. "They've really got you, huh." The others frown with him, perplexed at the ambiguity of his words. Good.The blonde girl nods mutely, but she lacks the quivering fear he would have associated such a sweet face with. She is not innocent. She cannot be, if she had endured more than one raising. And she had a frightening calm look about her, so that could only mean that she had raised many before him.
"Enough," the boy with the dark eyes snaps. "It appears death has not been too cruel to you, Shadowhunter."
He sighs dramatically.
"I have a name."
"If I cared for it, I would use it," the other male snarls and that is when he sees it. He flinches and the boy straightens, suddenly at attention. And then the boy is the one smiling. "You see him in me, don't you?"
Shifting his gaze to the necromancer once more, the blond finds himself feeling lightheaded.
"It seems that death was not too cruel to me either, Michael Wayland."
-
"What are you going to do now, little bird?"
Evelina responds to the redhead by gracing her with a slender finger. Her companion huffs in slight artificial indignation, and throws her hair over her shoulder. There is a beat of blissful silence before Drina clicks her tongue for the seventeenth time in the last fifteen minutes. The younger immortal shoots her a glare, grimacing. Her icy gaze is met with an innocent blink. At that, Evelina rolls her summer sky eyes. "Hush," she mouths as she eyes the building across the street from them. Its bricks are the colors of crimson and ash. A ghostly image of a Tibetan house painted in the same colors spirals into her mind's view. There was a fire -- no. No, that's not right. There was no fire. There was no fire. Pressing her lips together, she continues to follow their other accomplice with her gaze. Drina hums in an attempt to sate her boredom. Eva scowls and continues to pay attention to Tessa. "We don't move until Tessa gives us the signal."
"How boring," comments the other woman. Evelina does not bother to speak, and licks her lips as Tessa's source walks out of the building. The man jams his calloused hands into his pockets, but she is able to see the blood that is smeared upon them. They are the same crimson of the building. Eva nearly smiles. Vampires. The man -- Tod -- smiles with ease at the sight of the brunette Tessa and embraces her. The huntress elbows the redhead next to her and they both divert their attention to their conversation.
-
He woke up unable to scream, but he wakes up the following night doing just that. They make him sleep on the floor next to the necromancer's bed. Her name is Chloe -- a nice name for a relatively nice girl. One would never guess she was a Downworlder. She tells him she didn't even know what Downworlders were until Jonathan -- no, no, his name is Sebastian -- had taken her. He asks her how long and she shrugs and he sees some Shadowhunter in her, too. She reminds him of someone, too, but he can't remember much of anything from before he died. Chloe wakes up at his screaming and doesn't bother him about the nightmare. Instead, she waits with him until about five in the morning before they both go back to bed.
Then, they drag her out of the room at six and he can't sleep because of her screams from the cellar. Her name is Chloe but she brings to his mind another name entirely. Spencer. The obvious person to associate the name with is his son, Jonathan Spencer. And yet --
"Michael?" The door has creaked open and the necromancer slips in. Her shoulders are slightly hunched and she looks a thousand years old. Still, she offers him a smile. He generously returns it.
"Yes, Chloe?" He is sitting at the chair by a bookcase with intricate carvings he had been admiring for an hour at least. It is apparent now that they reside in a warmer prison than most, but a prison nonetheless. The owner of the house, Maxence, is a French ball of sunshine in the strangest of ways. He brings meals to the two with a kindness Michael can actually believe. That, and he conjured Michael rather comfortable clothes. 'Manifest, really', the friendly not-vampire murmured as Michael stared at the sweatpants (were those what they were called?) in wonder. The Shadowhunter was momentarily thrown off by the telepathy but soon learned that the Pravus -- the bored boy from his being raised -- was worse and abused that ability any chance he got.
"Do you still not remember?" Her voice wavers, and it is not in fear but rather a level of exhaustion Michael never reached even back when he had been training with Robert. (He pushes the thought of his parabatai away roughly.) In response to Michael's quizzical expression, the blonde purses her lips. There is a pang of guilt but before he can apologize, she continues. "We're friends." Three breathes later, Michael smiles.
"Yeah, I know --"
"No," Chloe says with a surprising firmness. "No, we're friends. Have been for longer than I ... than I raised you -- you really don't remember?" His gaze falls to her hands. They are trembling and covered in dirt. Quickly, he looks to her face again. Shaking his head, he furrows his brow, mentally urging her to go on. "You came to me sometimes. To talk. About ... Spencer Reid. I mean, among other things." She's got the nervous energy his wife has ... or rather, had. (He's still getting used to the fact that it has now been twenty years since his death.) He holds a hand up and nearly frowns at seeing the faded runes before meeting Chloe's gaze once more. She stops talking. "What?"
"Who's Spencer Reid?"
Chloe's face falls.
-
"So you see, I've had my eyes on the girl's friends for quite some time," Tomas says candidly. "I assure you that although they've gotten the authorities involved, they pose no threat. And even if the idiots believe the poor children," he pauses and grins, "a bit of compulsion can take care of it all." Tessa nods and surveys him silently. He wears a light blue shirt with a few wrinkles and black dress shoes. He looks nice, and knows it; his jacket thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Winter is only just melting away into spring, but apparently vampires don't freeze. And although Tessa is just as or if not more than powerful than such creatures, she apparently can freeze. She hugs herself. It was not the day to wear a light pink raincoat. Not the day at all. She can hear Drina's snickering. Tomas senses her discomfort and moves to drape his jacket around her shoulders. She smiles thinly in appreciation.
"How long is 'quite some time', Tomas?" A wisp of her chestnut hair dances in the wind. She eyes it for a moment before looking back to him. He shrugs and hums noncommittally. Tessa does not sigh. Instead, she moves on. "How did you know Drina sold the thief's former fiance out?" She asks this second question more cautiously, knowing both the thief and Drina are watching. Tomas Tod does not shrug this time. He smirks and tilts his head, squinting his eyes. Tessa follows his gaze and frowns. She returns her gaze to the man, who waves up at Drina and Evelina. He smiles at her, and it is lacking in warmth.
"What, did you bring them both to eliminate me?" He snaps. She shakes her head slowly. Calmly. She does, however, avert her gaze. Tomas' jaw ticks but Theresa waits patiently for his answer. "She'd made a deal with my son. I bore witness to it all. Really, it was a boring exchange. As far as I know, the kid hasn't been able to escape." He licks his lips and looks up to the sky. "Drina was only looking out for herself," he adds and suddenly takes Tessa's hand. She pulls away from him and glares. Unfazed, the man brushes a hand across her cheek when he leans in and whispers. "If you're as smart as the heroines of your treasured books, Miss Gray, I suggest you do the same." Tessa inhales, unused to such proximity.
"Tomas."
"Yes, Miss Gray?" The older immortal leans back, smirking.
"If you truly believe in the bullshit advice you just gave me, you wouldn't be here."
They don't tear their gazes from one another for a long moment. Then Tomas closes his eyes and exhales.
"You're right. Have a good evening, ladies." He waves again before vanishing in all his supernatural speed.
Tessa's lips part as she begins to speak, before she laughs at the huntress' voice in her mind. It shakes with an almost amusing rage.
Damn, bloody -- shit, not bloody -- vampires. Eva sighs loudly and Tessa's smile brightens. So much for that fucking signal.
1. State your name: Razalude, but it's just Raz. The rest of it is painfully long.
2. State the name that your parents almost named you: Raza, Orion
3. Which of your relatives do you get along with the most? Kamini or my mother. No doubt.
5. Did anything embarrassing happen this week? Uh.
6. Do you miss your ex? I don't have one.
7. White chocolate or dark chocolate? Dark chocolate.
8. Do people praise you for your looks? Often.
9. What is your favourite colour of clothing to wear? Orange.
10. How do you wear your makeup? I don't wear makeup?
11.What are some of your nicknames? Raz. Demon Boy.
12. How many bedrooms are in your house? Like ... 10+
13. How many bathrooms? 7.
14. Do you have a job? Sort of.
15. Do you have a car? No, just an amazing xintahn.
16. Do you work out every week? I try to work out every day.
18. Have you ever kissed someone you never saw again? Nope.
19. Have you ever sung in front of a crowd? Anyways.
20. What kind of bathing suit do you wear? Trunks, I guess.
21. Do you like your eyes? Sure?
22. Do you think you are pretty? I like to pretend I do.
23. Who was the last person you talked to in person? My sister.
24. How much money is in your account? Do any royals even keep track of this, though?
25. Are you single? Hah! Haven't been for a while.
26. Do you want kids? Yes.
27. Tell me what your backpack looks like: It's black. And ratty. Haven't used it since I last went to a high school on Earth.
28. What celebrity do you think is hot? Emma Stone and Emma Watson. Also Lucy Liu. I also have a soft spot for Ewan McGregor.
29. Last movie you saw in theatres: Mika dragged me out to see that new Spiderman movie? It was alright.
30. Are you dating the same person you dated last year? 'Dating' is a relative term. (I'm still married)
31. Has someone you were dating ever cheated on you? Nope.
32. Have you ever cheated? Hah.
33: Have you kissed someone whose name starts with a ‘J’?
Oh, yeah. It was alright. :)
34: What do you like to do in your spare time? Read, explore.
Busting the door wide open with her heel, a tall and slender brunette rushed into the foyer of the rather expensive house Drina Magdalena had recently manifested on the outskirts of Grove City, Pennsylvania. Ah, how entirely characteristic of Drina to stop by a city known for its premium outlet mall. Had this meeting been arranged under different circumstances, perhaps Theresa would have considered going shopping with the woman. (Alas, such an outing would be really unlikely now that Drina had made it plain that she was no ally of Tessa Gray.) Moments upon entering the decorative house, the shapeshifter sauntered through the halls in search of the redhead. She had made her way across the kitchen and into an empty but of course spacious dining room when the deafening sound of a gunshot resounded through the whole of the building. With a singular, perfect chestnut brow raised, Tessa made her way up a spiraling staircase, her fingers waltzing on its banister.
It appeared someone else shared in her new dislike of the immortal bitch.
In the silence that followed the gunshot, Tessa traveled up toward the source of the violence. Although, a second after she set foot on the carpeted second floor, a hushed conversation within her earshot sprung forth. From the end of the hall was a feminine voice unlike Drina's. Despite being veiled by the cream doors that doubtlessly led to a master bedroom, the voice held a rigidity Tessa was much too familiar with. For within the smooth voice that Tessa would be accurate to guess sent ripples down men's spines was a masked distrust and inherent fear of the world and its inhabitants. Such was the fear Tessa clung onto, even before the death of William her beloved. It was a fear known only to some of Earth's (or Hell's) children: the fear of an orphan.
"How dare you." The letters did not bounce off the woman's mouth pleasantly as one would expect it to. Tessa closed her eyes as she stood by the bedroom doors, observing in her imagination how they whirled about the airy bedroom, only to fall flat upon the floorboards. In spite of this woman's voice being distinctly set apart from Drina's, Theresa was inclined to believe that there was a ghost of Drina's uniquely European accent hidden in the stranger's nearly perfect Miami tone. A smile played at her lips as she remarked on how she was not the only mistress of change.
The laugh that abandoned Drina's throat in the following moment was weak. There was the sound of sheets crinkling and the aggravated huffs of a woman attempting to sit up. Her eyes remaining closed, Tessa envisioned the crimson blood that was identical to the rouge of Drina's lush lips. Was she shot in the shoulder? The stomach, maybe? Either way, it was unwise to laugh in the face of an already violent adversary. Of course, Drina was not partial to behaving in the conduct of a wise woman. She was, however, self-serving. Tessa had learned long ago of Drina's desperation to cling onto the youthful, careless life she lived. She also learned of Drina's enormous pride. Just how difficult was it to swallow such an inner demon as that when one was threatened so blatantly?
"How dare I what," she spat.
Pressing her ear against the wooden door, Tessa's light, smoky eyes widened. Whoever Drina's enemy was clearly held just as little patience as Drina herself. She cocked her gun once more. Her captive inhaled sharply. "Eva," she murmured. Tessa stepped an inch away from the doors. Eva. The name was familiar, yet sparked no direct memory of any past acquaintance or drunken anecdote Drina has shared with her. "Eva, you don't understand, I was --"
"You would do yourself a service by keeping quiet," this Eva spoke with a sudden solemnity that made Tessa's stomach clench. It was the solemnity that one possesses after making a permanent decision. A decision like taking a life away. So quickly Eva's choice had been made, thus it would not be an incorrect estimate that Eva was not a stranger to murder or violence in the least. She could very well be one of Death's many advocates. "Obviously, you have no desire to admit to yet another one of your despicable acts."
"What are you going to do, little bird?" A lilting melody seeped out from the injured immortal. Eva was silent, perhaps having stilled. "Shoot me? You know I'll only heal." Drina was going too far, even Tessa was aware of this. Pursing her lips, she turned the brass knob. Both women whipped their heads in the realization that they were not alone. Thirty-four seconds passed.
"Would you mind if I shared in this fun? I, too, require answers from her," Tessa said with a smile as she gestured toward the pathetic redhead who was clutching her abdomen. Drina snarled in response. Standing at the foot of the queen sized, silk-clad mattress was a raven-haired female who had squared her shoulders at Tessa's interruption. Freckled nose wrinkling, the orphan grinned.
"No," she spoke softly. "I don't think I would mind at all."
-
The bus screeched to a stop all due to a distracted driver who smelled vaguely of cigars and marijuana. There were but two passengers, and the old man with a gray beard that set off the cocoa shade of his complexion lifted his green grocery bags. The hooded passenger at the vehicle's rear watched as he clapped a hand on the driver's shoulder. The old man stepped off the bus and began to walk. Slowly, the bus drove past him and then his figure was swallowed in snowy darkness.
"Hey you," the driver called out to the remaining passenger gruffly. "That was my last stop. Thinking about getting off any time soon?" Under his breath, he muttered something about his 'crazy wife'. Amber eyes narrowed underneath the stained navy hood. Jamming their hands into jean pockets that were slightly too small for their taste, they ambled to the front of the bus.
"I'll get off now," the stranger spoke. The driver met her gaze and exhaled through his large nostrils. Scowling, he stopped at the next intersection. "Thanks," they murmured before exiting. The man ignored her and drove on.
Jo Harvelle stood at the street corner, her hood falling away at the winter breeze. She did not shiver as she surveyed the bus disappearing into the distance. Then, she wheeled around and headed to the address scrawled on her bruised palm. Underneath the dim streetlamps she walked past, the wheat color of her hair was illuminated along with the matted blood that hung to each strand. Eleven minutes after leaving the bus stop, she arrived at her destination. Unused to so much movement, she slumped against a cold brick wall next to a staircase, which likely served as the fire exit, attached to the apartment building where her friend resided. She heaved a sigh, and her eyelids fluttered as the sigh furled up into the winter air. A minute passed before she started up the stairs, her feet fumbling through the snow.
There had not been so much snow when she escaped. The necromancer did warn her of the coming snowfall. But it had been so chaotic that Joanna did not think before grabbing a handful of clothes lay out on the bed. She changed in the all too extensive closet, careful not to make a sound. The girl had also told her exactly who lived in the house. In her opinion, there were far too many vampires in the strange and unsettling club that gathered at the house she woke in. She offered Jo a coat, but she refused. The last thing the girl did hand her was a rolled up piece of paper full of money, names and other such details. She would have made a good hunter. If not for the whole necromancer thing.
They hid her until it was well after supper (which apparently resulted in several unconscious victims). Chloe -- the girl -- pushed the window open and coached Jo as she climbed down the oak tree covered in icicles. 'Please tell my friends I'm okay,' she begged her harshly. Jo had strained to hear her before the window closed and she landed in a blanket of snow. The supernatural freaks all seemed to be inside and noticed nothing so far. So without looking back, Joanna Harvelle raced off to the nearest bus stop. She heard the scream as she and eleven other passengers boarded the vehicle. Though after she took her seat and looked out at the brilliant violet in the night sky, she could have sworn it was her imagination.
Picking up an empty flowerpot at the small balcony of one of the apartments, she broke through a window framed with frozen Christmas lights. She did not wince at how the shards of glass sprinkled uncomfortably against her pale, numb flesh. Twenty-five seconds later, a light was turned on in what appeared to be a kitchen, and a tall young man stumbled toward the balcony. Immediately, he recognized the intruder and lowered his gun.
"Jo," the boy said, the tattered name expelling itself from his mouth as he stared at the unfortunate looking woman with both disbelief and horror.
This was certainly unlike any kidnapping-themed film she had ever seen. Not that Taken was one of her favourite movies or anything. Though admittedly, Chloe had no favourite genres when it came to film. Anyways, it came as perhaps two thirds of a shock when she was led to a well-furnished, comfortable, and spacey room. She had thought it a joke but the French man without a French accent had looked at her funny when she asked him where she would really be staying. Oh well.
The first night was uneventful aside from being scrutinized by a room full of men. (Good thing she had become accustomed to being examined like a lab rat. Lyle House was turning out to be useful, after all!) Of course, there was one lady she bumped into afterward called Katherine. But she was just as unpleasant as the rest. They all believed her to be pathetic, except for Sebastian. Sebastian assured them with fervor that Chloe was indeed aware of her supernatural strengths, but had left them sorely untapped. Chloe decided not to question him on how he knew so much about her. Clearly, she was now living with stranger creatures than mere werewolves or witches. Her curiosity revolved mostly around the 'Pravus', who looked only a year or so older than her. He was brooding and at best, stoic so far. But his eyes had glowed a bright violet at the sight of Chloe, and he hid a smile with a dark brown sleeve. He was dangerous; Chloe was sure of it. She would just have to wait and see just how dangerous the boy was.
In truth, the scariest part of the night was in her desperate attempt to get some sleep. In accordance to her beloved movies, any plan to escape would have to be devised after figuring out how to navigate the large house. The bed she had been given was huge. In fact, it was even bigger than her old one in her father's house -- and the sheets were far too thick. Already an insomniac, Chloe guessed that she would receive little rest. She struggled to find a comfortable position promptly before giving up, having lasted ten minutes and failing miserably. She settled upon contemplating on why she was taken, and whether or not she could trust anybody in the house. So there she lay, staring up at the white ceiling illuminated by the twilight. Unfortunately, her thoughts would soon be interrupted.
From down the hall, she could hear a low male voice. As she listened, Chloe deduced that the man was making a phonecall. A minute into his call, he addressed a Miss Gray. A moment passed before Chloe decided to take note of this, finding a notepad in a drawer next to her. After struggling in a search for a pen, she made note of the names of her captors, then wrote the additional name from the mystery man's phonecall. Sebastian Verlac, The Pravus - Vladimir?, Katherine, Maxence, Silas, Tomas, Miss Gray. Chloe narrowed her eyes as she surveyed her list. They were still in Virginia; that much was evident. Sebastian had driven her not half an hour from the park. She hoped that was a distance close enough for her friends to track her by scent. Last she checked, Derek was still struggling with that ability. But Tyler, she knew would be able to track her for fifteen minutes at least. As she slid the notepad underneath the mattress of the bed (she could not risk the others searching through her room later), Chloe pleaded silently to the universe for her friends to find her, and not to worry too much. She slid back underneath the thick bedsheets and closed her eyes.
She did not sleep any longer than forty minutes before she was shook awake.
-
Not one minute after she hung up, Theresa Gray was pulling out drawer after drawer, desperation filling her lungs. Notebooks strewn haphazardly across the carpeted floor, her neat study was morphing into a valley of papers. At the sight of the folded paper she required, Tessa sighed heavily and knelt as she picked it up. Unfolding it with the utmost care, she inhaled sharply. In pencil and small handwriting was a phone number. It had been nearly eighteen years since she last spoke to the person the number belonged to. Eighteen years was not long enough, it was a sorry short amount of time. Pressing her lips together, Tessa picked her phone up once more and dialed.
It took seven tries, but at last the immortal answered.
"Yes, yes, hello? This better not be --" The gentle, sultry voice of Drina Magdalena was cut off immediately.
"It's probably not who you were expecting," Tessa breathed. There was a short silence. Drina cleared her throat and there was a rustling sound in the background as Tessa waited for the other woman to speak.
"Thankfully it's not." Drina laughed, and it was as harmonious a sound as ever. Tessa stood and began to gather her notebooks. "But something tells me I should not be as grateful as I am now that you have called, Miss Gray." The slender brunette blinked, stilling at Drina's words. She knew. She could hear it in the even breathing of the redhead on the other line. Was it Sebastian himself who had told her? One of her old warlock lovers, perhaps. (Drina had so many of those.) Tessa set her jaw, moving out of the room. There was no time for fixing the study now.
"Where are you now, Drina?"
Hesitation flooded her ear, and Tessa exhaled through her nostrils. Exiting her apartment, she practically lept down a flight of stairs before repeating her inquiry. "Where are you now, Drina?" It was raining when she walked out onto the street, her heels clicking against the sidewalk. The roads, as was customary in New York, were overwhelmed by stacks of vehicles. Tessa herself owned no such vehicle -- she tried her best to walk to as many places as she could. But she doubted that Drina was in walking distance.
"I'm in the tragically boring state of Pennsylvania," came the redhead's voice once more. Tessa's gaze hardened as she dodged a careless teenage boy skateboarding past her. "Why do you ask?" At that, the shapeshifter rolled her eyes, which were the colour of a storm rolling in at dusk. A moment afterward, though, something uncomfortable settled in her stomach. Tessa halted, and nearly yelped as someone bumped into her, their coffee spilling on her sleeve. Making a face, she stepped into a nearby alleyway.
"I'm meeting you there," Tessa stated coldly, stopping next to a dumpster. "Don't even think about leaving state." Then, before Drina could protest, she hung up. Holding out her arm to examine the damage done to her coat, Tessa frowned. It was of no consequence, but the next person she needed to see would make a fuss. Closing her eyes, she concentrated and blocked out the rowdiness of New York. Five minutes later, an elegant looking woman dressed in an assortment of furs stepped out of a chilly, dank alley. An intricately designed hat sat atop her head, and underneath it were emerald eyes that gleamed. She strode across the street to a glaringly tall apartment, and knocked on its front crimson doors. The doors opened, and the apartment owner drew in a sharp breath.
"Hello," the woman said, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. "Stop looking so surprised and let me in, Bane."
He had never seen Jeile so grave. And to his horror, Razalude was intimidated by the brunette. Finding himself unable to glance at him any longer, he looked past his cousin instead. There were sapphires the size of fingernails peeking out from the gold arches of the ceiling and walls about them. Tapestries depicting the tale of the Zerothuhias were hung carefully next to ornate vases. When he was not yet an only child (a time Razalude seemed to bury in the past alongside his friendship with Jeile), he and his twin sister would race down these halls. Their fingers would dance lightly upon the tapestries as they tore across the tiles, bangles clashing against each other. To be scolded afterward was rare, but it would occur from time to time. Usually, the reprimanding would be delivered by Magellan's stern father. Razalude and his sister thought nothing of his words and babbling about how if they were in line for the throne -- 'as they should be, of course' -- such mischief would not be tolerated in the slightest. Then again, Razalude would not comprehend his grandfather's resentment of the Eucalystia household until years later. On that note, he scowled inwardly and brought himself to look upon the green-eyed Eucalystia before him.
Razalude brought a hand to the right side of his neck, cupping the skin and frowning as he contemplated his response. During times like these, it was incredibly difficult to keep the rage within him. Was it hereditary; this beast that threatened to devastate not only Raz's but the sanity of all who kept him company? Magellan, after all, was tame at the side of his wife but Raz knew the back of his father's hand all too well. Not that he blamed his father for disciplining him. He became increasingly difficult to deal with once he became an only child. It was as if that in losing two daughters, Magellan had acquired triple the amount of irritable sons. Raz was nothing but a disappointment. Yet, he never blamed his failures on Jeile. He liked to pretend otherwise, and he was damned if he did not do the lie justice. (Though, who could ever do lies any justice?) In truth, Razalude held no hatred for his cousin. If he did, Jeile was not the cousin to hate. He might be bothersome in some ways, but Jeile had few real faults. Raz was certain that one of these real faults was how quickly Jeile made judgement on both himself and others.
So it was that the greatest offense in his cousin's words was in his belief that Razalude would sooner see Jeile die than ... well, anything. Indeed, it was unsurprising that he would think so lowly of himself if placing himself in his cousin's lens. Still. "Wait," he said as Jeile finished with more force than intended. There was a momentary pause before he spoke once more, stepping forward as he did so. "I," he started, suddenly apprehensive about sharing the truth which was so carefully guarded by himself and his family. "I would not rather see you come to any sort of end." He stared directly at the prince, and bowed his head slightly. There was more -- so much more to be said, but he was unsure of continuing. Jeile had finally convinced him of the lie Razalude had slaved over. They were not friends in any light. They held no significant memories together. They were not friends. They were not even family.
And yet.
Yet, there it was. The all too unexpected tug in Razalude's chest that drew him closer to Jeile both figuratively and literally. As children, whenever Jeile came to visit, Razalude would lean against him any chance he got. Elizabeth would laugh and comment on how Jeile seemed to possess a magnetizing property that sent Razalude flying toward him every time he came over. It had been ages since those days and it was almost punishing and certainly embarrassing how Razalude still felt that pull toward the older male. "Jeile," he began again, determined to share even a fragment more of honesty, which was apparently what Jeile desired most from him. "I just thought," he said gently, "that I was of little consequence to you. For the longest time, really." He drew in a breath, only to expel it with a sudden awkward laugh.
"I really did not know or even consider that you would care to remember our friendship." Each syllable spouted out of his mouth in a nervous staccato melody, its rhythm foreign to the desert prince. Fastening the smooth maroon strings at his collar, he pushed himself to go on. "If anybody had an 'entire history' of friendship with you, I would have thought it would be Lei." Now there was a name rarely spoken of by Raz; as it belonged to a man he carried no conversation with regardless of recent events. Lei Hershkia was heartless and proud in Razalude's eyes, and he cared not whether his low opinion of the blond was biased or otherwise. "I mean," exhaled Razalude, looking down at his almost cinnamon hands, "I don't hate you -- hating you was a lie." His voice faded considerably toward the end, and as his fear threatened to choke him, the boy shuffled back an inch.
"But I don't know how to stop lying to you -- or myself. Anybody, really."
He laughed again, and it was empty and feeble. Two words clung to his throat, unable to escape the desert prince's thinned lips.
"Wow," she breathes, her eyebrows nearly touching her crooked hairline. "Twelve kids." The man before her shifts his defined jaw, looking painfully anxious. Her gaze falls upon his parted lips, and she sighs inwardly. "That's ... unexpected." Arthur clasps her hands in his, his thumbs soothing her fingertips. "I mean," the woman continues with a nervous waver in her tone, "I was fine with being your third -- was it third? -- wife, but twelve children! Honestly, Arthur." He closes his eyes and nods in understanding, not bothering to correct her by admitting to her being his potential fourth wife. Arthur's eyelashes are a faded sunny orange, unlike the mass of darker, auburn locks sitting on his head.
"I know," he says with a grimace. "Look, if you're not up to meeting them --" Arthur is cut off by the strangled noise his girlfriend makes. It is his turn to lift his brow, though it is out of inquiry rather than surprise.
"I would love to meet them."
i.
Mabelline was the easiest to raise, whether she was sixteen and hormonal or nine and at her brattiest. Always willing to watch over her younger brother and sisters, there were many mornings where Arthur would wake up to the aroma of a well-prepared breakfast. He would stumble down the stairs into the kitchen and find a seven year old Mabelline wiping an infant Freya's mouth while reprimanding Norris for teasing the year old Nadine. Then, she would notice her father and she would set aside her motherly role as she rushed to embrace his waist. Arthur knew Mabelline deserved to have a mother of her own, but his wife soon made it clear that she was not interested in him. In fact, it was during Freya's first birthday when Mabelline herself discovered her mother 'playing house' with the caterer's daughter in the broom closet. A week later, Rachel O'Hara flew off to Iowa with her new girlfriend. Mabelline spoke little of the situation, seeming to notice how terribly sad it would make her father when she brought it up. So as Arthur attempted to get over his wife's departure, Mabelline played with and comforted her younger siblings. As far as she knew, motherhood was her burden now.
ii.
Rambunctious and mischievous, Norris would not be the first troublemaker of the family. He was particularly keen on irritating his younger sister Nadine. However, the moment Mabelline scolded him he would draw back into a quiet, angelic facade. Norris looked most like his mother, though in time his blond hair would darken considerably into a chestnut brown. (Later, he would dye it black.) Norris Owen held no regard for his mother Rachel. If Mabelline tiptoed about their father when it came to the subject, Norris did well at pretending the subject never existed. But at nine or ten years old, Norris witnessed a horrific tragedy involving his older sister. It was then that he assumed his responsibility as older brother. By then, his father Arthur had remarried. Her name was Mallory King, and she was a famous novelist. Quickly, she was forced to add 'fretting mother' to her resume. To Norris, Mallory could never live up to his sister's mothering skills. She may have produced Mel and Schubert from her previous marriage but she was not cut out for life in the O'Hara household. And as he would soon find to be a usual occurrence, Norris was right: Mallory King died in a car crash two weeks before Mabelline turned fourteen. She had been on her way to meet an old flame, whom she had been bedding for six months. From then on, Norris credited his cynical and often cruel remarks to Mallory King, author of the bestselling True Love's Death series.
iii.
By the age of six, Nadine had vowed to herself that she would one day participate in the Olympics. Busying herself with swimming, track, and most importantly soccer, the third O'Hara child often forgot the insanity in her home. Blonde, slender, and gifted with an infectious laugh, Nadine and Mabelline were nearly identical. Yet, it was Freya who Nadine confided in most. The two were inseparable, and as children they wore matching clothes as if they were twins. As for her older brother, despite Norris' infinite tricks, Nadine never worried for a second that her brother would hesitate to protect her. So, when she discovered that she was with child at seventeen years old, it was Freya and Norris who appeared at her boyfriend's doorstep. Beside herself with fear and guilt, Nadine refused to tell Arthur or her other siblings. Justin, her boyfriend, reassured her that he intended to be there for their child. For Nadine. This was a little reassuring to the blonde. A little. Though much later, when the truth finally exploded into Arthur's lap, he took a long walk in the forest nearby. Upon returning, he punched Justin (who had a black eye for weeks) and promised his daughter that he would leave the decision to keep the baby in her hands. A devastated teenager now with very small chances of getting a scholarship for soccer, Nadine spent half an hour contemplating her choices before concluding that she would keep her baby. Nine months later, Nadine, Justin, and the O'Haras welcomed a beautiful boy into the world. His name was Terrence.
iv.
Frail and having exited the womb way too early, Freya was not expected to live long. If by some miracle she did, the doctors warned Rachel and Arthur that she would never be nearly as athletic or energetic as their previous children. Freya, as it was in her nature, would prove them wrong. Though she did not find herself the captain of even half the number of teams Nadine was on, Freya piled martial arts trophy on martial arts trophy with the occasional medal on the top shelf of her beloved bookcase. If Mabelline was the mother, Norris the family cynic, and Nadine the scandalous sports queen, Freya was the quiet yet ambitious bookworm. On her tenth birthday, she decided that she would open a bookstore where the employees could roller-blade around as they navigated through aisles and aisles of novels and reference books. Arthur thought her plans adorable, and Norris laughed loudly. But at nineteen years of age, she had already earned many a dollar thanks to her bookstore/coffee shop. Freya's 'Ramblings' establishment became the spot in town, not to mention the second home of the O'Hara family itself. Mabelline would drop in at random hours, gushing about her latest college boyfriend while Justin and Terrence would burst in near closing hour so they could walk Nadine home from a long day of helping to manage the place. (A year or so later, it would just be Uncle Norris and Terrence.) It appeared as if Freya had created a warm place for friends and family, and for her treasured books. But unfortunately for Freya, a doctor's visit one March evening would shatter her perfect, bookish world.
v.
Honestly, Mel was quite the wildcard. Arthur never knew what to do with the kid -- one day he'd be running all over the house and the next, he would not leave his room except for when a maid dragged him out for meals. After the death of his mom Mallory, Melbourne O'Hara's behaviour only worsened. Merely a kindergarten student, he would provoke other children and come home bruised or cut. One occasion Arthur would sooner forget was when he got a phonecall informing him that his son had bitten a poor girl and proceeded to cut a bit of her ponytail off. Things did not improve when Arthur remarried once more, this time to a humble bartender named Cassidy Austen. Mel tormented his new brother Cedric, and often bullied the twins Benjamin and Beatrice. As a teenager, Mel was promiscuous and partied hard. He never slept with any girl in his own bed, preferring to keep away from the O'Hara mansion. At home, he kept mostly to himself. The only siblings he found to be worthwhile company were Schubert and Mabelline. Arthur became genuinely concerned for his son, and after Mel nearly got himself arrested, the patriarch sent the raven-haired playboy off to rehab for a year. When he came back, Mel was sullen. For all intensive purposes, he seemed better. Healthier. But there were secrets veiled in his eyes. Mabelline interrogated him, desperate for Mel's happiness. He only shut her out, which prompted Schubert to keep completely silent on the matter. Everything seemed swell with Mel for three more months until suddenly, he disappeared the day after Mabelline's wedding. Mel has not been seen since. The only person he keeps in contact with is Schubert.
vi.
Speaking of Schubert, he could easily prove himself to be among the most eccentric of the O'Hara children. An aspiring zoologist, his room was always crowded with animals. Be it a python, three parakeets, a tank full of tropical fish, two puppies, or three kittens, Schubert was usually preoccupied with what his sister Beatrice called 'his creepy critter babies.' Mel may have dealt with their mother's death by acting out with violent outbursts, but Schubert folded in on himself and refused to socialize with many of his peers, settling for his pets instead. At first, Arthur and Cassidy believed it to be a phase. But by the time Schubert got his twentieth pet, it was apparent to everybody in the house that Schubert was serious about his animals. Though extremely introverted, Schubert was not shy. He liked talking to his brothers and sisters well enough, even if Mel thought Bea was a bitch or Cedric was 'disgustingly vampiric or something.' Moreover, he had a knack for cooking. Once Mabelline got married, Schubert became the house chef (much to the chagrin of the actual chef). Arthur no longer worries about his son's interests, but he does worry about his lovelife. Schubert, however, could care less. As of this moment, his priorities are his family and his mini zoo. A recent text from one of his mother's siblings has resulted in his ongoing investigation on Mallory King and his brother Melbourne King O'Hara.
vii.
Being Cassidy Austen's firstborn but Arthur O'Hara's seventh born has never been simple for Cedric. Prior to Cassidy's succumbing to postpartum hemorrhaging after pushing Lionel O'Hara into the world, Cedric was fawned over and adored by his sweet mother. Even the twins said so, which signified something. Though Cedric initially believed that since both their mothers had died in tragic circumstances, he was proven wrong due to Mel's incessant bullying him. In truth, he found it relieving when Mel was sent to rehab in Minnesota. Cedric could wear his scarves and 'girly' clothing in freedom. It was nice. The natural blond was snacking on a chocolate bar as he sat knitting another scarf when Schubert knocked on his door one summer's evening. "Mel's back," he mumbled before racing off, a tiny pug trailing after him. Five seconds passed before the news truly sunk in. Cedric never felt so unhappy or fearful in his life. Yet when Mel bumped into him the next morning on the way down for breakfast, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a miracle. Cedric had one bully off his list, with ten more to go. School was agonizing for Cedric, but his grades were off the charts. Doing his middle name justice, he landed a scholarship for Oxford University and got the letter three days before his younger brother's accident.
viii.
His smile is like the sun, Arthur decided as he laid eyes on the firstborn twin in his arms. This thought would stay with him as Benjamin grew up. Like his sister Nadine, he was a brilliant athlete and like his brother Cedric, Benjamin was a gifted student. Serving as the peacemaker amidst the wars between his other siblings, Ben was a relief to his parents. A friendly face and heavily involved in extracurricular activities, the boy could likely make a wonderful future for himself -- any future he wanted was possible, in his reach. Although his mother's death crushed him as a kid, the tragedy spurred Benjamin into academic success. He seemed to determined to make her proud, wherever she had ended up (afterlife or otherwise). Passionate about a multitude of disciplines, Benjamin was irritating to some of his siblings and a joy to others. For his twin sister Beatrice, he was a mixture. Nobody found him quite so annoying when the accident occurred, though. A disastrous car crash involving his best friend Lukas Hershkia resulted in Benjamin lying in a hospital bed, comatose, for five and a half months. Having just awoken, Benjamin has found himself being suffocated by the concerned love of his family. Nevertheless, it would be a lie to say that his family wasn't the only thing keeping him restless.
viiii.
If Benjamin was the sun, Beatrice was the moon in every right. For years, Beatrice was seen as the negative to Benjamin's positive. Even to Norris' disappointment, she was critical of everything and everyone. Arthur found Beatrice the most difficult daughter to raise, but he never found her to be the burden she would later believe herself to be. In middle school, she was set on being as unique and tomboyish as ever, but soon mellowed out once she started high school. Now unafraid of and frankly obsessed with pencil skirts and floral sundresses, Beatrice has surprised even her twin brother with her sudden change in fashion. Of course, she remains as athletic as ever, and has been contemplating on joining the cheerleading team or not. After all, her mother had been on a cheerleading team that won nationals several times. In terms of her love life, Beatrice has only ever had one crush. (He happens to be her brother's best friend Lukas, who is madly in love with a childhood friend.) Not that Beatrice is searching for love. Wishing just to find out what she's going to do with her life, boys are the last thing on her mind. Perhaps her true passions will come forth as she spends more time with her not-comatose-anymore twin, photographing as many places they go to as she can. Documenting one's adventures can be a sentimental move, but could prove useful in the near future.
x.
When he was younger, Lionel blamed himself for his mother's death. Nadine and Freya, the sisters who doted on him the most, would often reassure him otherwise. Still, Lionel was plagued with nightmares up until the age of eight. Even now, he dreams of the warm smile of his mother Cassidy. It is a smile he has only ever known from her photographs. In spite of being the spoiled youngest son of the wealthy Arthur O'Hara, Lionel has been nothing but innocent -- so far. The musically inclined and softspoken Lionel is a balm for his father, in comparison to the older and at times crazier Melbourne. Lionel is never brushed aside by Arthur, although Mel once liked to insist that Arthur despises him for killing his wife. That being said, Lionel is a very suggestible child. He is the spitting image of Cassidy, and bears the most resemblance to Benjamin in that regard. Short for his age, Lionel is teased at school but says nothing of it. However on his tenth birthday, Beatrice picked him up from school only to end up defending her younger brother from two boys who were threatening to beat him up. His sister's intervention upset him so much Lionel begged to go to middle school across town. As usual, he got his wish but does not appear any happier than before.
xi.
Twenty-six years ago, Arthur would never have guessed he would have fathered eight children, much less adopt four more children. Born Tamara Stevens, his third adopted child was the daughter of an old college friend who had lost custody of her only child due to drug abuse. With no other relatives to take the baby in and being distrustful of the 'system', Arthur decided to keep Tamara. As if his family weren't already strange, Tamara was a year older than his grandson Terrence. Even though rumors like to say so, Arthur does not regret his decision of raising Tamara in the slightest. Already, she has become loved by most of his children and is showing brilliance as well. The future burns bright for this O'Hara.
xii.
Sariko was the shock of New Year's several months ago. Rachel Blume -- yes, that Rachel Blume -- had somehow convinced her ex-husband that adopting her girlfriend's sister's child was a wise choice. (The whole story was a roller-coaster.) Mabelline was positively indignant when she heard about her mother neglecting her children once more by dropping by when everyone was out. But she was silenced at the sight of Sariko, her father's new daughter. Soon, most of the older siblings took turns in caring for their sister. At first, they thought Tamara would become jealous. But the older child did not mind the attention they gave the adorable baby. She would play with Sariko as often as she could, but if someone told her to leave the baby be, Tamara would simply run off and play with Lionel instead. Though adopting both Sariko and Tamara was an accomplishment in his eyes, Arthur is certain that Sariko is to be the last of his children.
In the end, it was the glare that shocked him. Abashed, the corner of Raz's velvet mouth twitched as he fought a grimace. The ocean in the desert prince's eyes seemed to darken with a coming tempest. Trudging after his cousin, Razalude's bronze knuckles whitened as he exited the room. "What in the hell was that," he called out to Astelle's heir. What he had intended to be an inquiry had fallen flat into a very plain sentence. Indignant, he planted himself a few inches from his door, eyes piercing like blades at Jeile's back. It was beyond unbelievable; how quickly Jeile's humour turned ill. And for what bloody reason? His amusing himself with his servants? His friends? "Of course I allow them to speak to me like that," he continued, "they're --"
Speech halting, the realization struck him. Of course. Jeile was jealous. Though, who would predict he was able to get jealous of a handful of servants? Of Razalude Zerothuhia's servants, too. How laughable. Oh, and Vered would laugh at her master. Shani would call him foolish. But both had remained in his room (much to his gratitude). Raz brought his gaze up toward the high arched ceiling of the hall. "Jeile," he started again, refusing to look at his brunette cousin. Mindlessly, he folded the sleeves of his gilded coat, which failed in hiding an incredible amount of his supple skin. A minute passed. Then, after battling his instinct to appear totally unmoved by the older prince's bitter aura, the younger marched up toward him.
"Please, I would like for you to stay."
It was a pathetic plea, which Razalude hoped seemed uncharacteristic to the other male. Besides, it was highly improbable that Jeile concerned himself with the wishes of his cousin. At least, in this moment it was highly improbable. An apparently upset Jeile was difficult to persuade into talking, much less re-entering a room he had left haughtily. Who knew the crown prince was so sensitive? Well, aside from the entire court. Being a curious boy as he was, the desert prince had eavesdropped on many a conversation revolving around his infamous cousin. Several nobles perceived the flirtatious, flower-loving, and fairy's-friend Jeile to be a weak link in a chain of wise kings. However, Razalude himself did not find it so disgusting as some that Jeile was a man of feeling. Truthfully, those deemed 'oversensitive' were wiser in some cases to Raz. They were perceptive and passionate; traits he found brilliant and magnetizing. Emotions, he believed, were full of a blatant force that one could wield to their advantages ... if one knew how, that is. Admittedly, Razalude was no expert on the matter. But neither was Jeile. In time, he would learn. Experience was a cruel teacher, but a teacher nonetheless.
As he stood contemplating on how to better convince his cousin to discuss their situation (or rather, their relationship), Razalude's tongue glided across his bottom lip. Elizabeth often scolded him for doing such whenever he was uncomfortable -- which was embarrassingly on a daily basis. 'Your lips will go drier than our drought,' he could hear her say to him now. Razalude would laugh for a brief moment and shrug. 'Perhaps if I had someone to save my mouth from this drought,' he answered more than once. Raz glanced at Jeile again, teeth prickling at his mouth.
"If you wish it, I will ask my fr -- servants -- to leave," he suggested, with a haste improvisation on his phrasing. He knew the others would become upset. Yet, they would see each other again the next day. For many days to come, really. Meanwhile, Jeile was simply a visitor. Razalude had to prioritize. They would understand. They were his friends.
He looked at the floor as Jeile struggled with speech. Honestly, it was nearly cute how the older male lacked in eloquence only around his brother and cousin. Nearly, that is. Starting to answer Jeile's question, Raz was interrupted as Jeile moved into his room. How dare he shove past him! Nostrils flaring, Razalude steadied himself as Jeile crossed into his territory. In his sudden anger, the boy barely took note of Ilan squaring his shoulders and Vered's sudden excited smile. "Am I not allowed company?" The words fired out of his mouth; they were arrows aimed for his cousin. Though, as the words exited his moist lips, Razalude realized how provocative his situation must seem. And how his threatening retort would support such an idea. Mortified, Razalude watched as Jeile's cheeks bloomed as red as a rose. He brought a hand to his forehead, and sighed in both resignation and irritation.
There was a short-lived silence as Razalude dealt with his annoyance. The servants exchanged glances with one another. It appeared that Shani was the only one at peace with their visitor. Her gaze pierced at the prince, chin held high while the others lowered their heads at an attempt to disappear. Then, Razalude spoke again.
"It is none of your concern." He moved to shove Jeile out of his chambers -- or at least, try to. Woken from some sort of reverie, Vered hummed in disapproval at Raz's reaction. The desert prince turned to her, raising his eyebrows. What? His eyes demanded silently.
"It's only a game," someone mumbled. It was not Vered; it was Idan. Razalude furrowed his brow, willing the rest to stay quiet.
"Idan is correct, it is only a game. I am sure His Highness has no qualm with a game. Can he not play?" Vered gestured with her hand, her marriage bracelets clanging against each other. She shifted so that she sat upright. Razalude threw his head back in exasperation.
"He cannot play," he said, and detested himself for the childish song hidden in his voice. Shani shifted her gaze from Jeile at last to meet Raz's.
"Raz," she said softly.
At this, the three servants shifted orbit to face Shani. She truly was their sun. Razalude's nails dug into his own palm, and he exerted another sigh. This time, it was one of defeat. He turned to Jeile.
"We were only playing a card game," he explained. "So you can see that I was, in fact, busy." Quickly, he glanced back at the others. Shani narrowed her eyes, urging the sixteen year-old to go on. "But," he wrinkled his nose, "would it be alright if you played with us?" A moment had not yet passed before he added, "It's a game I once beat you at time and time again." This was fact; it had been years but Razalude had taken great pride in winning over Jeile at the Zerothuhian game. He still kept the deck they had played with; it was set apart from the four others he used with his servants -- his friends. Their decks were faded from being overused, with creases at the corners and stains from the liquor they would sneak in at times. But Raz's first deck -- his and Jeile's deck -- lay untouched and fresh in the drawer by his bed, with paint still vibrant. However, like many things from his past, including their wilted friendship, the cards were buried underneath crisp pretenses.
The girl had found him with snowflakes kissing his cheekbones as he lay on the ground of the park. Careful not to irritate his pale skin with her scratchy navy blue gloves, she brushed a hand across his forehead. "Excuse me," she said not very audibly. "Excuse me, please wake up," she repeated with a little more force in her tone as she shook him gently. Biting her tongue, she unwrapped her wool scarf and shifted, moving his head onto her lap as she tied the scarf around his ice cold neck.
Four seconds later, he opened his eyes. They were an austere shade of midnight. Chloe exhaled in relief. She leaned back and adjusted her collar as the wind swirled about them.
"Thank you," the boy murmured, his voice crisp and smooth. He sat up with ease and turned to face her before leaping up to stand. Chloe blinked, slightly in awe of his grace. "I'm Sebastian," he narrowed his eyes as he spoke. His eyes did not crinkle at the corners like Simon's did when he smiled. Chloe touched the roof of her mouth with her tongue before she spoke again.
"I'm Chloe. Are you alright, Sebastian? You were kind of ... just ... freezing there." She laughed nervously, and pulled her hat down some more so it covered her crimson ears.
"Oh, I'm quite fine, Chloe." Sebastian shifted his gaze, looking toward the clocktower facing them. "Ah, that's my girl," he breathed. Chloe blinked again, rapidly this time.
"What is it?"
"You've the perfect timing."
She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but the words drowned in her throat.
-
Virginia was not a particularly remarkable state. America paled in comparison to Maxence's regal France. Yet here Maxence Penitence stood, the sunlight trickling down on his bare shoulder blades as he worked in an American kitchen on American soil. The sun was escaping the Western hemisphere, racing toward the East as the French brunette chopped away at his carrots. Many a time had Silas implored him to let the carrots, tomatoes, and string beans sprout from his own fingertips. (He was very talented at doing so already with knives and needles, why not use such gifts with his ingredients?) But each time, Maxence refused. Things tasted better when homegrown. See, lies tasted sweeter, but they would stick to one's throat unpleasantly. The truth, although bitter at times, was succulent and filling.
"Are you not cold?" Maxence did not glance up at the voice. He smiled and shook his head. Not only was the house heated, but he'd known the cold too long to even notice it. "Maxence Penitence, you are a most impressive creature." At that, the cook laughed gaily.
"If you do not stop flirting with me, Silas might kill you," he spoke as he pointed his knife toward Tomas Tod. "Or worse, your son will out of sheer disgust." He nearly smirked when Tomas winced at the mention of the Pravus. Instead, he turned back to his soup, stirring the carrots in calmly. "Besides," he added, "do you not have anything better to do?" He paused and gestured to the refrigerator. "The blood bags, might I remind you, are in there."
He did not see Tomas' eyeroll. (He did not need to.)
"Monsieur Penitence, you know very well that I do not have the stomach for such junk. I would much rather have a taste of your blood -- I am told that it is --"
"Not yours to drink." Maxence hummed and glanced over his shoulder at the older male. "Again, you should watch out. Silas may return at any given moment."
"As if you fear for me," Tomas replied with a shrug.
"You are right; I do not," Maxence grinned. "I think it would be very fun to watch Silas tear you apart."
"I second that." Maxence lifted his brow, and smiled at the sight of Vladimir Tod. Today, he did not look so gaunt as usual. In fact, there was a light in his shadowy violet eyes, and it was not the sun's. "Tell me you'll pour some blood in that soup," Vladimir said, pushing past his father and moving to sit up on the granite island opposite of Maxence.
"Of course I will," Max answered. "Have you seen Sebastian?"
Vladimir leaned back into gravity's pull, his palms embracing the sleek counter. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. "The bastard's been gone a week. Though, I did sense him earlier this afternoon -- oh, and Silas will be in soon, so there's no need for you to hyperventilate and die of worry for him." Vlad tilted his head and met Maxence's glare with a saccharine smile. Licking his lips, he stepped down off the counter and moved to grab a blood bag. "Tomas." The Pravus' father straightened, as if being called for by a commanding officer. "Go find us some worthless being to feed off of," Vladimir murmured as his fingers danced across the handle of the refrigerator.
"How long has it been since --"
"Three hours," Vladimir responded. Tomas nodded curtly, and sped out of the house. "God, where is Sebastian?" The irritable vampire exhaled before exiting the kitchen, blood dripping on the hardwood.
-
How I Met Your Mother was on when Sebastian finally arrived. Vladimir's mood had improved some since then and the soup was still warm. As they watched, the half-vampire sat on the floor by the sofa, a miserable looking woman lay crumpled in his lap. Her pulse was faint, but Vladimir's appetite had been sated. So far, it was a good evening. Maxence was retrieving another bowl of soup for himself when the red doors flew open. In what little light there was on the porch, Sebastian looked eerily like Vladimir. They both had dusk-like, raven hair that fell across their brow nicely. Their skin was ivory, and they had ink for eyes. Sebastian's was black, Vladimir's was a cripplingly beautiful shade of plum. Usually, one could tell them apart due to Sebastian's height as he was three to four inches taller, but tonight was different.
Tonight, he had a blonde girl in his tow.
"Am I late?"
The girl inhaled sharply as her light blue gaze fell upon Maxence, who still had only jeans and a sand-coloured sleeveless shirt on. Max nearly scoffed. If she was as dumb as she looked, she likely assumed he was harmless -- that this house was harmless.
Max surveyed them both for a moment longer and offered Sebastian a nod of approval and a half-smile. The girl was shoved in, and Sebastian stepped past Maxence.
To avoid the drowsiness (and loneliness) that resulted from the sun reclining lazily into the sky until dusk fell, Razalude called for four servants to come to his chambers. They came within seven minutes, as expected. Razalude opened the doors and beckoned them in, an almost giddy expression evident on his features. "Hurry before someone sees, idiot," he murmured to the last servant who stumbled into the room. The boy ducked his head sheepishly and apologized meekly. Raz shrugged before moving past the other three toward his bed. His back sinking into the bright orange sheets, he patted the space beside him absent-mindedly.
"D'you have the cards, Idan?" The shy servant nodded before blinking, surfacing from his stupor and walking toward the bed. Hesitantly, he sat down next to his master and offered him a deck of 49 cards. Razalude sat up once more and took the cards from Idan, their fingers brushing slightly. The remaining three servants assumed their usual positions on the bed, as well. Ilan, Idan's brother, sat at the foot of the bed, his gaze intent as he watched Razalude shuffle the deck. He had sharper features than that of his gentle, bashful sibling -- they were of a darker complexion than Razalude; their skin was reminiscent of the elaborate, wooden carved statues of Zerothuhians long gone. Shadow-black curls sat atop Idan's head while Ilan's head was adorned with tawny, velveteen locks. Across from Ilan, a young woman sat near Razalude's array of gold pillows. She was called Shani, and her wispy, tangerine tresses fell past her brown knees. Today, they were in neat plaits. As Raz surveyed her, he felt relieved that she did not have too many chores. Shani was smiling, and at the moment her lips were plump with sincerity. The only other female in their company was Vered, who Raz knew was with child. Vered was married to one of the head cooks, and was the eldest of six daughters. Of her five younger siblings, Vered was the shortest and the clumsiest. Even her hair was clumsy; it mattered not if she combed the jungle of midnight strands, it would somehow end up wild again by two in the afternoon. Still, she shone with an odd kind of beauty even as she lay sprawled across the crimson sofa pushed right next to Razalude's bed.
As he finished shuffling the deck, Razalude began to distribute each decorative card. He hummed thoughtfully to himself as he kept count, ignoring Shani's and Ilan's sharp glances at both him and each other. "Does everybody have their cards?" He murmured. They all nodded or voiced that they did. He smiled, and straightened. "Let's start." In accordance to tradition, Vered and Shani picked 2 cards from the excess pile to determine who would go first. Raising his eyebrows at the result, Raz closed his eyes and waited --
"You have got to be joking! Shani always goes first!" Vered hissed. The other woman simply lifted her chin and went to place a pair of two birds down in the center of their makeshift circle. Scoffing, Vered placed her own pair of birds down before handing a card to Ilan, who would go next. Ilan squinted as he considered his options, and opened his mouth before closing it.
"Razalude," he said quietly. At that, Raz gave him a quizzical look. "Are you certain we should be playing this? Vered is too loud at times, and your cousin might hear us." His fellow three servants fell silent at that. Razalude, evidently surprised that Ilan remembered Jeile's presence when he himself was trying not to, frowned.
"Don't worry, he won't bother us." He tried offering a reassuring smile. "Besides, we've hidden our games before." Ilan narrowed his eyes, his lips pursing.
"The last time we had to was when we were still children," Idan whispered. Razalude closed his eyes and sighed. He was right. Jeile would likely think nothing of their games, yet Raz wanted nothing more than to remain somewhat an unknown variable in his cousin's life. A childish fragment of his soul longed to be seen as an enemy. A threat. (The most childish part of him did not want anyone else to know or take part in their fun.)
Vered rolled her eyes and waved her small hand in the air.
"Go on, Ilan. Just take your turn."
Then, came the knock.
For a room in a desert palace, the atmosphere grew awfully cold. Everybody but Razalude tensed. Scowling, the boy moved off of the bed and gestured to the others to hide their cards. Wrinkling his nose and muttering under his breath, Razalude went to open the door just slightly.
There was an irritating tick in his jaw as he watched his father make a rather expected getaway. Subconsciously, his teeth crushed his lip as Magellan disappeared around the corner. Feeling his mother's gaze on him, Razalude looked toward the sands blown in by a velveteen breeze, caressing his bare, milk chocolate feet. Though, he regretted what happened next -- the wrinkling of his nose as he attempted to maintain a nonchalant expression. Magellan, it seemed, remained with him whether or not he actually acknowledged his firstborn.
Oh, came the realization a moment after.
Jeile was looking at him.
Perhaps that was the worst part of this all-too uncomfortable experience, Razalude concluded. There was no need for Jeile's pity or even his empathy. Truth be told, Razalude found no need for Jeile's presence in his home at all. Burying his nails into his palms, he held his ground. He dared not look up. And then Jeile sealed their fates.
Lips parting in an incredibly heavy sigh, Razalude shot Elizabeth a lightning quick glance as Jeile asked to stay the night before closing his eyes once more. "Mother, correct me if I am wrong -- which I so rarely am," he paused without smirking too much, "but I don't believe there is a universe in any galaxy in which we would deny Jeile a room for a single night if not more." His mother hummed thoughtfully at her son's words and Razalude's teeth shone in the sunlight as he grinned, opening his eyes.
"No, you are indeed correct." Elizabeth smiled at her nephew. "You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Jeile." The corner of Razalude's soft mouth twitched. She rarely addressed Jeile as 'Your Highness'. Raz liked that. His mother saw only the nephew she knew since his birth, not the king Razalude could see Jeile becoming. (Amusingly enough, there was no universe in which he would convey such observations to his cousin.) "In fact," added the regal Zerothuhia a moment after Jeile's comment about playing in the sand, "you may stay in the room across Raz's."
At this, Raz's head shot up and he wrinkled his nose -- this time, he took no notice of his enforcing his uncanny likeness to Magellan. Practically numbing the inside of his mouth as he bit into its corner, Razalude moved to step past them both. "I remember nothing," he murmured, leaning toward Jeile as he spoke. The lie tasted like acid, nothing like the succulent pastries he and Jeile once shared as they sat together drawing crowns in the gold sand.
Awkward, he decided. Jeile looked awkward in his regal capital clothes -- clothes woven for cooler days and cooler places. They were woven for those not of the desert. For those who didn't belong. The boy's crooked teeth grazed against his lip, as he stood surveying the taller, older male. How nearly irritating it was to see his cousin clad in such ridiculous clothing on a hot summer's day in a desert of all places. After all, in the desert, hot days were blisteringly lethal to others. To Razalude, hot days were simply the best days in the whole realm. And so, venomously (or childishly), he hoped Jeile was suffering in the heat.
At Jeile's recognizing him, Razalude fought against the instinct -- the urge, rather -- to frown. (Why wouldn't the idiot just wear his glasses?) Instead, he offered a gentle caress of a smile. Elizabeth's smile, according to the servants of the Zerothuhia household. As a child, he was often told that he resembled his father in every rough remark he made and the way his chin rested in his smooth palm. The way he straightened when nervous or the way he wrinkled his nose in disapproval -- such gestures belonged to Magellan. Elizabeth, however, was in the ghosts of the smiles he bit back or the few embraces he gave. Elizabeth was innocent grace. Thus, moving with his mother's grace, Razalude stepped out toward his parents and Jeile. The sun kissed his forehead with the familiarity of a friend or a lover.
"Oh, as certain as the sun rising have I come to greet you," Razalude's mouth twitched and his lips slid into an easy smirk as he spoke. The smirk faded at the stare his mother gave him. Swallowing back a heavy sigh, he leaned back against the pillar and rolled his eyes. Examining the tiny white scar on his right palm, he glanced toward Jeile and shrugged lazily. "No, I had not known it was you who was to visit us today."
His mother exhaled, and Razalude averted his gaze at once to meet her amber eyes. Lifting an eyebrow, he waited for her to reprimand him.
"My son, I am surprised to see you up and walking about."
Involuntarily, his muscles tightened and his expression hardened. He grimaced at the thought of resembling his father even more now. His father, unlike Elizabeth, had made no move to address him since his return. Essentially, they were not on speaking terms thanks to Razalude 'embarrassing the family'. Razalude, being an angry but not stupid teenager, understood that.
For the most part.
(Really, he just missed his father.)
Anyways. In honesty, he would have preferred Elizabeth to scold him rather than to expose such unnecessary concerns. What would Jeile think?
Not that Razalude paid Jeile's opinions mind, of course.
"It's not as if I've been bedridden from an illness, Mother," Razalude spoke at last, his voice tiny, having been trampled upon by his embarrassment. Pressing his lips together, he closed his eyes and attempted to look nonchalant once more. "I just decided to take a walk today and happened to hear an all-too familiar voice. Then," he paused, "I went to see who it was." He blinked, his azure eyes seeming to shimmer in the sunlight as his eyelids lifted to reveal them reluctantly. "I suppose I should greet you now, then. Hello, Jeile."
The lopsided smile he offered him now was neither Elizabeth's nor Magellan's.
Perhaps lounging around for seven and a half hours on his bed was not the wisest or most beneficial daily activity. After all, it made sneaking into the kitchen for midnight snacks (or feasts) a far more difficult task than necessary. Clearly, Razalude needed to exert more physical energy -- there was nothing lacking in his exertion of mental energy, of course. He wasn't completely lacking in exercise, but it was becoming increasingly evident that he needed to spend more time reading and walking rather than reading and laying. The latter was not effective, he concluded within a matter of days -- nineteen days, in fact.
So it happened to be on the twentieth day of his being restricted from traveling the deserts with Philomel that he stumbled upon the visitor. In reality, he was not shocked in the least. His mother, who now made sure to spend a few hours conversing with her only son each day, had previously confided in him of there being an apparent need for his father Magellan to meet and speak with one of the Eucalystias. It was something in relation with transportation or military. Maybe it was trade? Razalude was not apathetic about such ordeals, but admittedly, it had been some time since he was permitted to help his father with administration. He could count the weeks on his fingers - seven, a longer period of time than his current restriction. Alas, there was no surprise in Razalude's countenance in seeing his cousin Jeile.
Truthfully, Razalude thought little of his cousin -- except when he wanted to be particularly negative on an already horrid day (those days resulted in his forgetting when to eat). Was Jeile even really his cousin? They were connected only through the marriage of the Queen and King; nothing more and nothing less. Though Razalude did not treat Jeile with much kindness (if at all), he usually did his best to avoid the other male with caution unless it was absolutely necessary to speak with him. And after the events that unfolded quite haphazardly within the last few months, Razalude had made certain to disappear at the mere mention of Jeile's (or that bastard Lei's) name. Indirectly or otherwise, they were part of the reason he was forbidden to leave the Zerothuhia home. Really, it was Raz's own fault that he was stuck looking out the window toward the constellations instead of swimming in the skies with them, riding upon his beloved xintahn. He should have had no reason to blame Jeile.
Yet, the monster in his ribcage did.
Fortunately for -- well, all of them -- Razalude had long since learned to tame the beast. (Of course, there were several occasions during which he let the thing loose but that's how he ended up in this mess, right?) Still, the animal was growing restless and lusted for some morsel of vengeance -- of satisfaction. Razalude, it murmured, you have bit your tongue too long. It was curious, then, that Jeile would visit on the twentieth day of his punishment; the beast howling from hunger pains and Razalude the boy finding himself stumbling about in his mind aching for freedom.
-
Today, he leaped out of his bed to escape the terrible cycle he had created for himself. He was halfway down the hall (missing his silk, sunset bedsheets) when he halted at the sound of Elizabeth's voice tightening, and at the mention of his own name, too! Razalude lifted a fine eyebrow, turning a fraction to face the direction of the voice, which seemed to come from behind the pillar he was closest to. He swallowed and winced as he remembered suddenly how his throat was becoming sore, not moving for a moment before approaching the voices silently.
"Razalude is quite fine, thank you," Elizabeth was saying. He could hear the smooth lie in her voice, and Razalude was uncertain as to whether whoever she was speaking to could as well --
Who was she speaking to?
Did she mention them before? Razalude could not recall anything but the wretched sound of 'Eucalystia' hanging in the air of his bedroom several nights ago. Was he even aware of how many nights ago that had been? Was it four? Eight? Razalude scowled. Ten days left and he was free. Hopefully, his sanity would come racing back to embrace him. As he mulled over the likelihood of returning to lucidity, his father spoke and jarred him from his reverie. Placing his left hand on the pillar, he slowly poked his head out from behind the pillar. The stone underneath his fingertips was cool, and he exhaled as he recognized Jeile. His fingers curled into a warm fist.
