#koldnuya

[loetise]

Happy birthday! (:

birthday wishes for rora, always accepting!  ˎˊ˗

thank you thank you!!! 💗💗💗💞💖💗💞💝

[walkpathe-arch]

Have you gone mad? (For John).

of course she asks.   it was just a matter of time now,  to be fair,  with each day crazier than the last and not because of the scope of their work anymore.  not even because of the golden eyes and fresh skeleton buddies he had welcomed her to greytown with.  she hadn't left then,  but this is different:  there is blood on his hands   (   not literally.  the whole ordeal had been clean,  hearts lurching to a final stop.  here one moment,  gone the next   ).  cops,  soldiers,  peacekeepers,  every besieging person with a weapon in hand near the facility dropping dead.  the ultimate line in the sand,  an unjust accusation raised to the extreme    (   if they think you are a cultish evil wizard,  you might as well reverse uno card and act like it   ),  us vs them.

the problem is john doesn't feel mad,  quite the opposite.  there's a shake to his hands,  like he has downed too many coffees in a row or done a line.  it's not shock.  it's not disbelief at having killed a hundred people and some.  it's being so close to finally getting it,  the last leap,  the only thing he still can't do  —  reach the soul,  bring the dead back to life.  really back,  not just as skeleton puppets.   '  i didn't mean to.  i didn't know what i was doing  '   he had told p—— with death still on his tongue,  but when he opens his mouth now he can't bring himself to feed rozaliya the same half baked lie.

he is half seated half collapsed down on a chair inside one of the few empty rooms inside the facility,  a hand pressed to his temple and the other busy making an annoying clicking sound with a pen,  obsessively activating the spring mechanism inside it.  rozaliya isn't freaking out,  he thinks  —  not externally,  at least  —  she is not shaking him like p—— did earlier so that must be a good sign, right?   ''  someone who has gone mad wouldn't think this straight, but it depends on who you ask at this point.  ''   john looks up at her with dry eyes   (   he isn't freaking out.  not as he probably should   ),  lets the pen drop down on the table and roll towards the edge.  it's going to break and he is going to let it happen, deliberate.  people like him are not this negligent,  she should know it by know.  he thinks she knows this about him,  has seen him go over pile after pile of research,  run through calculations and formulas enough times to call him thorough and then some.   ''  nothing has ever felt clearer than when i dropped those guys to the ground.  i just need a little more time. ''

rozaliya looks like an iceberg in the middle of the room, all draped in white. he reaches for her hand, the smile meant to be reassuring and as normal looking as possible. '' i'm so close, love. i almost got it right. ''

[hyketeria]

As she had insisted with her mother, repeatedly, she had not lost her watch. Platinum silver. An elegant tear - drop face. White gold inlay for the dials and time markings. A delicate network of gears. And a silver oxide battery. It was a gorgeous piece of metal and glass craftsmanship, surely. But so were the many other wrist - watches that lay neatly in the padded jewelry box tucked into the second drawer of her third wardrobe dresser. Only none of those had a silver oxide battery. I know where my watch is, mother. It's not lost. Besides, it wasn't as if she could wear her watch to the company. She'd already been asked (nicely, too, according to the head administrator, though to anyone else's standards, to call it even polite would've been a stretch ) twice now to leave her. . . valuables. . . at home.

All of this is to say that Olga had, inevitably, shown up late to the company that day. Swept in on the winds of the rising rain - storm, she'd struggled on her own to prop open the heavy side - stage door, a monstrous beast of fortified old red oak, the wind shoving back against her, as she slowly coaxed her bicycle inside. Straining still, Olga planted her feet and formed two triangles: the first by placing one foot forward and the other back; the second by holding her arms at an angle against the door. It would not do to have the door slam, thereby announcing to the entire company, the rats in the rafters, and the bodies buried beneath that Miss Kowalska had, once again, failed to arrive on time. She braced herself and pushed back against the door to slow its closing until the lock clicked with a nearly imperceptible tick.

At first, she had mistaken it for quiet, but it didn't take long to realize the absence that perfused the theatre's halls was, in fact, silence. By this time, warm - ups and schedules would have already been done and reviewed. A brief intermission, then, to allow the dancers a chance to prepare for the first practice set, and for the instructors to gossip. But where was the loud and living hum of mingled conversation? The resounding echoes of piano scales? Wiping the rainwater from her face, she followed the familiar way towards the principle practice hall. No one passed her in the opposite direction. In a few more steps, Olga would discover why. In another few steps, Olga turned and flown from the shadow's of the stage's entrance, heart pounding, and only a single name on her mind.

ROZALIYA, WHERE ARE YOU? / @koldnuya

She had not seen her friend among all those gathered on the sound - stage. Of course, she wouldn't be among them. Rozaliya. Having forgotten her rain - coat, the storm had soaked right through the layers of her active - wear, right through to her dance clothes, right through to the bone. Still, the young heiress did not slow in her search, opening doors as quietly as possible, and kept her ear trained for the sound of unwanted company. What you seek shall always be in the place last searched. And there she was. Behind the last door, inside one of old solo suites. Without even a pause to breathe a sigh of relief, Olga quickly reached with a cold hand, her own green eyes wide but alert, made to look even larger as well as her cheekbones more gaunt than they were, by the rain - soaked hair matted to her temples and cheeks.

" Rozaliya, thank goodness, alright. Alright, come quickly. And quietly. Something's wrong. "

[blasfehmo]

His eyes focused on Botticelli's primavera. Whenever he looks at paintings from the renaissance he feels human again - his heart is beating, his cheeks are flushing, his excitement to discover the secrets his elders kept is loud in his head. Now he is rather the one who is keeping secrets . The people are slowly heading outside - but he has no intention of leaving yet . It's still early for him - but it seems like he isn't the only one with no attention of moving . A FAMILIAR FACE also stands a few meters away from him .

She's alone . Her name still unknown to him . His eyes scan the room to make sure she is alone before he moves towards her . That little boy nowhere to be seen around . " are you in need of company ? I'll be glad to fill in that spot . "

@koldnuya

[walkpathe-arch]

GRIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they had recently lost someone / something (for Kassandra!)

all of lakonia seems silent as she works,   dirt under her nails and sweat on her brow.  she did everything right.  she held her mater's hand as her eyes became cloudy with the veil of death,  seated close and unafraid,  no tears on her face but the fierce flame in her heart burning bright.  she wrapped her in a scarlet shroud,   she left olive leaves upon it as the only things her mother would carry with her to elysium.   she made offers to the gods until the smoke blurred her vision.  safe passage.  purification.

she had faltered only once,  hand trembling as she poured the wine,  the empty walls of her mother's house closing in,  ridding her of breath.  alexios.  her little brother should have been here beside her,  burying their mater in the ground,  going through the rites,  but kassandra had watched myrrine ready him for his own shroud,  in this very house,  years before.  she had watched,  hands still smeared with her brother's blood,  as mother kissed his cold brow and whispered to him.  she had stood still,  not daring to touch him more than she already had (   she had flung the spear of leonidas at his chest,  killing what was left of alexios and saving mother with the same throw   ).

she buries her near the house,  under the shade of a tree.  nobody hinders her when she carves wood for a tombstone,  throwing spartan customs to the wind. nobody dares.  she was not a soldier who died in battle for sparta,  she had not died in childbirth either,  only the passage of time had claimed her.  a mortal's death.  one that would not greet her daughter,  blessed by the goddess of victory,  keeper of the staff of hermes.

there are plenty of things she could write.  daughter of leonidas,  hero of thermopylae.  wife of nikolaos, the wolf of sparta.  but kassandra writes none of these things,  she can't bear to.  she lets sweat cool on her skin,  bare knees pressed onto the soil,  and she starts cutting words into the wood,  a sad yet tender smile,  filled with a love that refuses to be snuffed out,  on her lips:  myrrine,  loved by her children.

glimpses of the past

[astringere-a]

you're going to die tonight. this is your death

it is a lovely mid morning,   inside a lovely little café in brooklyn, when paz feels the sting of old prayers on the tongue and not the taste of their delicious blueberry muffin.  madre de dios.  salváme.  they almost reach for a cross that no longer sits against their skin, on their chest.  they don't feel like they have been told a joke or fed a scam for a tarot read   (   that would have involved a handsome stranger,  or some vague words about choices   ). one doesn't laugh about death,  paz has learned this young.

lips tremble,  then press together into a wince to ward off the wave of fear that threatens to have their mind go off in a myriad of different directions   (   who,  how,  please i don't want to die   ).  looking at @koldnuya makes them feel surprisingly steadier, however.  it's how her expression doesn't seem to change,  as if she has told them she might eat indian tonight instead of predicting their end.

near their elbow,  a waitress refills the empty mug of coffee and paz nearly jumps,  murmuring an apology right after.  they take a deep breath,  hands now on the table,  palms down as if that,  too,  might help calm their nerves.  they know this wooden table,  it has become part of their routine:  paz sat there almost every morning since coming here,  right at home amidst potted plants and the smell of baked goods.  it doesn't look like what they suppose rozaliya's scene might be,  the café is little more than a college student lair with the free wifi and laptop stations near the window, after all.  but that was the point,  wasn't it? showing her their favorite spot.

'' can i do something to stop it? '' they think about leaving town with a pang of sadness, packing one lonely bag and setting some distance between them and the darkness they have chased for years, but they have a feeling it wouldn't help. one doesn't laugh about death, because it always catches up to you.