Short summary of plot: Set in the Alderwood universe. This particular starter begins with Caesar's past.
—in girum imus nocte et consumimer igni.
—❝We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire❞
He’s lost in a maze of evening fog, mossy rocks, and an endless sea of green pine trees. The sun kisses the horizon, and night quickly descends on the forest. Lost and alone, the young man calls out, asking for help but his pleas fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the haunting sound of hooting owls and bare branches creaking in the wind. Emerging from darkness is a mass of fur and brute strength, staring him down with eyes that sparkle with a lust for violence.
A coyote.
Caesar freezes. He stumbles backwards, inching away from the slow advancing creature until his spine makes harsh contact with the rough pine trees. His blood runs cold as the coyote approaches, drawing out this slow torture, almost as if it’s enjoying this. If Caesar could form words, he’d beg it to kill him quickly.
Its padded footsteps are soundless against the freshly fallen snow. There’s no place to run when it traps him there, like the seasoned predator it is— Caesar knows all too well that he doesn’t stand a chance against its skilful advance, one it’s mastered through millennia of perfection.
The coyote is close now. Its foul breath is cold on his cheek. In the moonlight, he can see the blood on its stained teeth and his panicked expression reflected in its yellow eyes, sharp and calculating. Caesar can’t hear anything over the sound of his own pounding heart. It never occurred to him that he’d die like this— he always thought he’d die peacefully at the age of eighty-something, in a multi-million dollar mansion in the most glamorous city on the planet. More importantly, he always thought he’d carry the Deitrich name and show the world that he was capable of living up to his famous name. Caesar’s aware that he brags about living fast and dying young but somehow he always thought he’d eventually get his act together and leave behind a legacy that rivalled his Roman namesake.
In the chilling silence he swears he can hear his late mother’s soothing voice, calling him her fearless leader, saying he’s destined for great things. She was the one who’d named him after the Roman ruler, certain that the name would bring him luck and prestige. “Mi jefe chiquito,” she’d call him. (*My little leader.*)
I let you down, mama.
Surely this can’t be it, can it? Is this how Caesar Dietrich, first born son and heir to the Dietrich fortune goes out? Not with the blaze of glory he’d desired, but with a pathetic whimper? The coyote gets closer and closer but all Caesar can do is struggle to fight back tears, not born of fear but of disappointment— his father had been right. Caesar wanted to prove him wrong, to show him that he’s more than just the irresponsible boy that always seems to let him down, but now that chance is as good as gone. It can’t end like this. He hasn’t cemented his place in history yet, hasn’t fixed his faults, hasn’t reached the potential he knows he can reach.
Now all he’s left with are heavy regrets.
In a way it’s almost fitting that this is the way he goes out. Caesar’s only here because of his own mistakes and now there’s nothing he can do but accept the consequences— it was *his* idea to sneak out of Catholic Camp past curfew with a few of his closest trouble making friends. Just like it was *his* idea to go deep into the woods to have a midnight party where he and his buddies could all take PCP and trip without getting caught by Vicar Dacian. Tears sting in blue eyes when Caesar realises he’d left the cross his father had given him on his nightstand. He’d never believed in god before but now, in a last ditch effort to save himself, Caesar promises to devote his life to religion— any religion— if a benevolent god protects him from this ravenous beast.
Maybe god has already turned his back on him.
Just as the coyote’s about to pounce, a hair-raising scream pierces the eerie silence. It sounds like a cross between a shrieking woman and a demon’s war cry, high-pitched and otherworldly. Part of Caesar thinks he’s imagined it. PCP flows through his bloodstream like a poison— for all he knows (or hopes) this entire encounter could be happening in his mind. The other part of him, the one that has resigned itself to its gruesome, miserable end, thinks the sound is the Grim Reaper, here to collect what’s left of his worthless soul, severing him from this world. It’s only when he sees the coyote’s ears flick back, the creature turning its head fearfully towards the sound, that Caesar registers the existence of a third entity in these dark lonesome woods.
He hears the noise again, then the harsh brush of hooves against the ground. . . then the world slows down as the cowering young man blinks, trying to capture the turn of events as they unfold before him.
A bull elk appears from behind the thicket of tall trees, charging horns-first, straight for the predator and its prey. The coyote decides it’s not worth the risk of being impaled and scrambles from the scene, flicking snow in Caesar’s face in its haste. He watches it disappear into the night, leaving Caesar to deal with the larger and arguably more dangerous threat.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
The elk doesn’t show any signs of stopping and all Caesar can do is watch as it gets closer and closer and closer until—
Searing pain, white hot agony is unleashed upon the blond as he screams out. The elk’s antlers easily stab his soft flesh, impaling him and pinning him to the tree. It manages to free itself, then turns and vanishes back the way it came, leaving Caesar writhing in pain, struggling to breathe. He runs his hand over his chest, feeling for damage. The elk has perforated his lungs— his breaths are numbered. So *this* is how it ends— not quickly at the hands of the coyote, but slowly at the mercy of his punctured lungs. *Suffocating to death, what an insignificant way to go.*
In his final moments, Caesar thinks of his mother, hoping her departed spirit will keep him company as his soul trickles out of his body. He cries when he thinks of his father— despite their arguments, Caesar knows the man has always loved him unconditionally— now his son is leaving him just like his wife did all those years ago. Wolfgang buried his grief and replaced her by remarrying. *Will you do the same to me?*
“Vergib mir, Vater,” he whispers, though whether this is directed to his father or to God, he can’t tell.
The last things Caesar hears as his eyelids flicker and close are the faint sounds of people calling his name in the distance, though louder, still, is the tragic pitter patter of his blood smearing droplets on the pure white snow.
*Drip, drip, drip.*
—
*Drip, drip, drip*
Caesar opens his eyes, exhaling raggedly as he takes in his surroundings. His naked form lies in the gold-plated bathtub, wisps of steam rising from his body and the hot water. He’d made this ritual of hot baths a necessary part of his monthly routine, both as a way to relax himself and as a way to keep him connected spiritually— nothing purifies the soul quite like a baptism.
Caesar takes a moment or two to collect himself, to lower his racing heart rate and to steady his breaths, before brushing slender fingers over two faded round marks between either sides of his chest— the sole imperfection he allows this body to bear. This nightmare-memory is one he’s had ever since that fateful night in the woods, and these scars are a souvenir from his rebirth. Looking at them calms him; they are a sobering reminder of the faithless, immature boy he used to be, the reckless fool who thought himself untouchable, invincible.
He used to hate the sight of them— they used to be nothing more than hideous blemishes on his skin, physical scars on his body that went hand in hand with the night terrors as relics of his trauma— but they eventually became something special to him.
He isn’t proud of them, but he isn’t ashamed anymore, either; while Caesar doesn’t go around showing off the scars to anyone with eyes, he doesn’t sink sharp nails against skin in the hopes of desperately scraping the marks away. He thinks of them as extra birthmarks, a testament to the naive boy who died that night and the new life that was breathed into him ever since.
Ego natus sum rursus. (I am born again).
A gentle sigh escapes soft lips as Caesar glances at the time, indicating he’s behind schedule. Curse this mortal body and its seemingly infinite need for sleep. He longs to free himself of its infernal repetition, yearns for the day he can rid himself of all its tedious demands.
The only dripping heard now are droplets of water falling from perfect porcelain skin as he removes himself from the tub, reaching for the towel to dry his hair. Once dried, Caesar takes the opportunity to inspect his reflection of any flaws in the matching gold-plated mirror. Faultless pale ivory skin greets him, devoid of any wrinkles or frown lines, thanks entirely to the various anti-ageing creams that line his marble vanity. Caesar gently touches the warm skin under compelling blue eyes, checking for any eye bags but finding none. Good. The sloppy boy he was all those years ago would never recognise the fine young man he’s become today; with sharp sculpted features, a symmetrical face shape, and the impeccably aligned jaw structure that took three years of braces to fix.
An appearance fit for a god.
As Caesar drinks in the sight of himself, he tries not to think too hard about the undeniable fact that this body of carbon and flesh will dissolve into nothingness one day. Time is his enemy and if he does not adhere to a strict schedule, it will win. What will become of his consciousness then? Caesar’s breathing becomes shallower once more as the weight of his mortality presses mercilessly against his chest, the marks between his ribs searing with phantom pain. Many alarming theories have plagued him since the fear of death first took shape in a dark corner of his mind all those years ago, of which only one is most plausible: if this body dies, his divine soul will be doomed to roam the void until he completes the tedious task of finding another body worthy of hosting his heavenly spirit.
Humanity might be damned by then and he will have been much too late to do anything about it.
My purpose is to save these pathetic creatures.
Humans need a supreme deity to lead them towards salvation, a creator to shape their fates, to forge the path ahead away from eternal condemnation and a perpetuity of hell.
Without providence, without god, evil will succeed and I cannot allow this to occur.
Caesar grips the sides of the vanity until his knuckles go white. He must guide them all towards truth but in order to do that, he must secure his position in this world and ground himself to this earth by any means necessary. The invisible ropes tying his consciousness to this realm weaken with every revolution around the sun, with every death of his cells. Sometimes he swears he can *sense* it's happening. He has already lost so much valuable time— if he continues ignoring his responsibilities, this body will age and age and age until it returns to the dust from which it was created.
His panicked breathing slowly returns to normal while he repeats a powerful phrase in latin under his breath, rocking on his heels as though the words are travelling through his body.
“Per Angusta Ad Augusta, per angusta ad augusta, per angusta ad augusta. . . ” (through trial to triumph).
I will not allow myself to die. Not now, not ever.
Caesar must find the Immortal Cup soon or risk losing his treasured godhood forever.
He lifts his head up and meets his eyes, determination burning behind those hypnotic blue irises.
It doesn’t take him long to change into appropriate attire for the cold autumn day; a white button up, black tie, and a dark brown sweater on top. Caesar despises the school’s dress code; fitting in with the rest of the regular students feels unnatural to him.
Why should I dress like the ordinary when I deserve to stand out? I’m better than the rest of them.
Despite his hate for the mundane, Caesar bites his cheek for now and dresses in these awful bland colours to serve his own interests, of course. As a student teacher well on his way to becoming a full professor, Caesar knows he must always stay in line in order to gain management's trust. Once acquired, he can put his plan in motion and finally rid himself of these hideous designs. He will dress as a god should: the picture of exceptional beauty and utter perfection.
Something as simple as a dress code seems like a trivial thing to obsess and upset oneself over, but such things matter when one is an esteemed corporeal being trapped in a dying body. He must always carry himself with the kind of regality and authority worthy of a powerful immortal such as himself— even if he is stuck in this unforgiving human form, prone to decay.
Decay.
“Per Angusta Ad Augusta,” he repeats softly, donning the bronze plaid blazer that ties his outfit together.
With one final look in the mirror, Caesar sets off towards the dining hall.
He carries himself with poise and grace, his head held high, but not too high as to seem conceited; he may well be above the rest of these insignificant students in spirit, but Caesar is still mortal and must carry that burden with humility until he gains full godhood.
Until then, I am but another servant of the Lord.
Caesar doesn’t pay much mind to most of the student body but he likes to think he can tell the unexceptional ones apart from the extraordinary. The insignificant students are the ones who are simply biding their time, the ones who will follow whatever footsteps their parents have taken before them, whether it’s running Fortune 500 companies, working in Silicon Valley, or just living lavish lives on their private islands. These people don’t want to make a name for themselves, they want to profit off the achievements of others.
These are people Caesar wants nothing to do with.
The opposite, however, are the kinds of students Caesar is interested in. These kids want to carve their own path, fight their own fight, and choose a direction that will see their names in the history books. These students aren’t like the others; they are an ambitious type that want more than just to take advantage of their last names.
Caesar’s watchful gaze lands on each of those select few students individually, silent and subtle. He has prepared the invitations and will have Ethan distribute them tonight, the first of the month, the start of their rebirth. He will sound the call to these chosen ones and the trials will begin.
Will you live up to my expectations? Show me you're worth my fascination.
He takes a seat at the faculty table, waiting patiently for Ethan to arrive. The gentle rain he’d walked through two minutes ago is now an angry downpour, with students complaining about their wet hair and clothes as they step into the Hall. 'Serves them right for being late,' Caesar thinks, taking a bite of his salad and trying not to feel disgusted with himself. He used to like eating before the encounter in the woods— now it’s but another reminder that he’s mortal, that he’ll die if he cannot sustain himself.
