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[Several thousand red poppies are delivered to Eva’s condo - enough to fill up the entire living space. Some are in bouquets, others in vases, and some in beautiful arrangements, and there’s enough of them to take up the entire floor space. There’s no note with the delivery, but it should be obvious who it’s from - it’s served to remind Eva of her first date with Morgan on his ranch.]

morgan weston: lying, cheating, romantic bastard asshole (thanks jay for wanting it titled as such)

#answered.#threads.#th: self

It Began Here (Part Three) || Michael & Babanel

England || Rebirth || 859 Years Ago

"Trust me."

Impatient; the monster had grown impatient, waiting with a sickened mouth and thinning cheeks for another taste. His jaw ached from the throbbing in his gums as they shifted around teeth that grew pained from the prolonged, unquenchable thirst. But it would be sated soon enough, and his agony would diminish.

Or at least, that's what Babanel promised him.

The night was dark, filled with smells and images that were heightened beyond measure to the fledgling who had spent weeks trapped within the walls of that cathedral. He almost dared to feel free again as the bottoms of his bare feet touched the forest floor, arms stretched out to allow his fingertips to graze against chilling bark. But his Maker stayed nearby. Barely a breath away wherever the boy looked, he was a constant presence; in the trees, in the shadows, bathing in the blessed moonlight as it pierced through the canopy above. Babanel swore he wouldn't leave his side that night, and he didn't. He hadn't, ever since...

Rebirth.

The process had eluded Michael. Even with the progress of his new predatory brain, he couldn't fathom how it happened. One minute he was a mortal, and the next he was hunting in the night like a rabid animal. His bones felt sore; from his new set of fangs he was just on the brink of discovering, to the marrow of his legs that felt heavier than usual. But that was necessary, wasn't it? Denser bones made it easier to ground themselves when they were standing still, listening to the world pass them by like an impenetrable fortress. And their inhuman speed defied its constriction anyway. Defied physical laws that were bound by wights, but never themselves. Never again.

He felt reborn. Like an entirely different person. Like a whole new Michael who could shed the skin of the masterful painter he had hopes of becoming. That Michael was no more. That Michael he would mourn for and grieve when the time came. But right then, under the illuminating forests just outside London, he could only feel hunger.

#history: childhood #th: self #thread #babanel #blood tw

The Family Business || Liam Cooper III (FB)

He told them he was a distant relative of the belated Cooper family. A nephew, or a cousin of some sort. No one really asked, so diving into the specifics went unwarranted. The people of Leeds seemed eager to hand over the estate; likely just excited to have yet another source of income flowing into their sinful little paradise. But Liam was happy they obliged him as readily as they did.

He hired men to sweep the floors, dust the halls, rebuild the archways and rooftops. He promised to pay them, but since they didn't specify when he had to pay them, he swore to do so once his first patient came in. To write off the debt little by little over the next few weeks. It wouldn't take long, he'd said with a smirk, and they of course replied with a series of moaning and grumbling. But that was only because they didn't know. They didn't know about the Cooper name. They were just young boys who knew nothing of the legacy he was going to rebuild. They didn't know his talents, his skill, nor the accomplishments of his family in the science of medicine. But they would soon enough.

They all would.

Liam had organized the study; putting the journals that once belonged to his parents in alphabetical order onto the bookshelves, stacking his own scribbles alongside them, and moving all the furniture around until it was comfortable for the lanky figure to walk through. When that was done, he headed down the hallway into what they had once called "The Quiet Room". It was a room made of stone, with curtains hung around the metal framework of a steel table that had seen its fair share of bodies atop it, once upon a time. On the opposite side of the elongated room were hooks that hung from the ceiling, a stack of buckets that sat lopsided on top of one another, and a workbench with odd looking tools fixed just above it to the wall. It was all so beautiful. Each detail so finely crafted, even down to the grate that let the liquids from past experiments leak into the tunnel system below Leeds. He could see them now. All the people who would soon fill up that room. All the gorgeous vessels to hack into, organs to inspect, bodies to take under the precious care of his own two hands...

It wasn't long at all before the rebuilding of his family's estate was over.

Liam took significant pleasure in looking over the house when the project had finally finished. He'd stood outside in the bright, beautiful daylight, staring up at the large, crooked building with a shine in his dark red eyes. A glimmer of pride surging through his new, supernatural body whilst he marveled at what the future would hold within those walls. What sorts of bodies would hang from hooks in there? What sorts of patients would come and go, seeking his aid? What sort of new tools would he add to his old, relic-like collection passed onto him from his father? Had the world changed any? Had new inventions been created while he suffered outside of earth, away from it all? And if so, how would he find good use for them after all this time?

Truth be told, he already had an idea.

It had been twenty years in Limbo. Twenty years worth of running from crazed, animalistic figures through the hellscape of a nightmare. Twenty years of fear and panic, of hiding in the darkness and running towards the light. Twenty years of pain and torture on his psyche, and it had all come full circle. It had all managed to bring him back here, back to the beginning. He wasn't going to waste any time getting back to business.

When Liam finished soaking in the view of himself picking up the pieces of where his family had last left off, he headed inside. But not before brushing off the plaque out front, nailed beside the door, that simply read:

Doctor Liam James Cooper III, Walk-Ins Welcome.

#history: return #th: self #thread

It Began Here (Part Two) || Michael & Babanel

England || Rebirth || 859 Years Ago

"I'm hungry," he said. "You'll eat soon," the man replied. "After this?" "Perhaps."

Michael eyed him from the pew he sat in, feeling his insides writhe with insatiable need. All he could think about was a feast; a table brimming with the foods of his homeland that he missed already. He imagined a welcoming sight of breads and well-made pastries sprawled out across a banquet capable of seating twenty or more. But instead he was there, trapped in England, with nothing but the swollen organs inside of him grumbling for food.

His captor had told him to be patient, something that no longer seemed to come naturally. Ever since he had woken up he had urges and wants and needs that demanded to be met and sated, otherwise his entire body would fill with the desire to erupt. And erupt he had, until his captor would come and put him at ease. He had woken up in England a week ago, and since then there had been a few incidents where the man -- Babanel, they called him -- would settle the boy down within the folds of his arms. He would coo this tune Michael had never heard before, and whisper him words in a tongue that he didn't recognize as human. More beast than man, he had told Babanel, only to have him shrug and laugh. There was a tenderness to his captor, and while Michael didn't want to admit it, he was becoming less frightened about being... What had he promised?

A King?

#history: childhood #thread #th: self #babanel

It Began Here (Part One) || Michael & Babanel

England || Rebirth || 859 Years Ago

When he woke up the world had changed.

Green eyes fluttered open slowly, and muscles that had been molded into new strength felt sore and foreign as they twitched with movement. He didn't recognize where he was, and as his mind started to come to, he began to feel frightened.

The colors of the night were vivid. He could see, with new eyes, every lucid fiber of the stones walls around him, like the pores of his own flesh. He could see the moonlight streaming through the stained windows this multi-colored hue of blues and reds, and the dust particles that danced inside the vortex of light as if suspended on wire. As he pushed himself to sit up, his fingertips brushed against fabric where before he had sworn he'd felt the brick of a building...

Michael looked around the room, wincing at the colors he saw in the darkness, with only the flickering of candles from a wrought-iron chandelier to guide his vision. Or, so he thought. It was all so new, so sensitive to take in. But when he drew a shaky breath, it was made even worse. He inhaled the fire that flicked on the candles, the dust that sat atop the desk across the way, and the distinct smell of rot in the air.

Fear built itself a home in the pit of his stomach, and he reacted to it with widening eyes and careful movements. He pushed himself to the edge of the bed he was sitting on and looked around once more, thankful no one was there. Escape had to be quick. He made for the window, with narrowed eyes trying to see through the hot sear of the moonlight. But panic started to shift, and he forced himself to look out. No, he was too far up to break the glass and get away safely...

"You're awake."

Michael froze in his stance for a second, and then turned quickly, pressing his back to the stone wall. The dark figure in the open doorway was hazy, with the young boy still trying to fight his way to see with his new eyes... new abilities. "Don't be frightened, boy. It's alright."

"Where am I," he asked, louder than he thought himself capable of. "England," the husk voice replied. "You're in England."

#history: childhood #thread #th: self #babanel

All The Wounds And All The Ghosts || Michael DePalmado

Being there made him uncomfortable, and it showed in how he shifted his weight from side to side and clenched his jaw so tightly it could shatter. He didn't believe in any of this. He knew magick; had tasted it in his mouth before, and felt it consume him where his soul had once took up residence more than a handful of times. He thought he knew the things it could do, the limits that it had. But as he stood there, as he breathed in the mountain air outside of Night Haven and listened on as dozens of people were slaughtered like cattle, he began to doubt what he knew.

Magick couldn't bring back the dead. Life didn't work that way. That's what he had told himself. That's what he reminded himself of the nights in England when the sorrow of losing Rosemary weighed Emery down like an anchor. When Michael would sit with his back against the door of his child's room and listen as his heart broke. That's what he reminded himself of when he listened to the pain in his child's pleading voice as he dragged him from her bloody corpse. That's what he told himself when he pushed the thoughts of his own companion, and what had become of her, far from his mind, night after night.

Dead mortals stay dead, and no amount of praying or magick could bring them back.

As the atmosphere became thick with the smell of fresh blood, he wondered what would have become of his relationship with her had he thought for just a second that he could spend eternity with her. That death may not have been as final for her as they had assumed. Would he have fought harder? Loved more deeply? Or just simply have stayed? Would their lives have been made easier if he thought that magick could pull her from her death and spring her back into his arms? Would the schism between them have happened in the first place, or would he have held on more tightly before letting her go as he had?

Michael hated thinking about her. When they escaped for England he had shoved her so far back into his head that he didn't even speak her name anymore. It was surprising he still remembered it at all...

Magick can't bring back the dead. That's what he told himself.

I can't bring her back.

From the safe distance he watched with wincing eyes as the power ignited into the air, threatening to knock him over even from yards away, atop the hill. But while the elements raged on, it was not so much the magick he was concerned with anymore. It was the bitterness building in the pit of his stomach. It burned like acid in his organs, wondering why not him and why not her? Wondering how he would ever face her best friend after what he'd let her suffer. Let them both suffer... It'd been fifty years, but the question begged of how Michael could ever look the ghost he'd let rot on that ground right in the eyes. He couldn't. Didn't want to. Being there only made the giant monster feel small.

His fingers fidgeted with each other as he watched on, dumbfounded by the energy pulsing like static in the void of darkness with only the fire and frenzy to illuminate the field. He heard the lips of the warlock chatter some incantations, and watched the door pierce through the thin veil between Here and There.

Anxiety was a fickle friend. It hadn't been with him much of his life, but it came in brief moments of overwhelming tides that drowned him. He stood there suffocating as he watched a long haired raven dip its arm into the white light of the door. Had Michael been mortal, his heart would have raced right out of his chest and bled as it tumbled down the hillside. But instead, it merely rattled with death as he let his retinas burn from the glare of the glowing portal.

He forced himself to watch; unbelieving still. Even as the raven began to step away and pull, even as he caught glimpses of her dark, curled hair... Even when the light finally vanished and there she stood, he... He...

"That's impossible," he murmured to himself, taking a step forward with widening eyes. It had to have been an illusion, a trick of the warlock's in an effort to prove himself. It couldn't have been her. Dead mortals stayed dead. It couldn't have been her. He had watched the life fade from her eyes, and her aura decimate into nothingness. It couldn't have been her. He had dragged his son away from his wife's bloodied body. He had heard her screams and the pleading from his child's lips to let him go, let him follow her into the true death.

This wasn't real.

He wanted to run down there and scoop Emery away from the false figure. He wanted to put an end to the charade, to the hope that welled in his progeny's chest that he could see from hundreds of feet away. But the feelings of confusion and fright bled together inside of him, and froze the Elder in place. He lost the feeling in his limbs. He only felt the tickling of a single tear as it rolled down his cheek while he watched the past melt into the present.

He told himself he couldn't stay. He heard something in the back of his mind telling him to run, to go home, and to pretend like none of it had happened... And that's exactly what he did. With slow, sullen footsteps Michael headed back to Thirst, hearing only the cries of everyone else left behind. Only the haunting, shrill voices of the ghosts that he simply couldn't save.

But hers was the loudest.

#th: self #thread #atwaatg

Now Is Your Chance Boy || Michael DePalmado

Emery's smell tangled with the aromas in the air. It flooded the entirety of Thirst, dominating over all the other scents filling the main room, engulfing it like a curse the building would be stained with for a thousand more lifetimes. At first, it froze Michael in place. He had thought about this moment for many nights. He had thought about what he would say or do, paced around his study for hours upon hours, not leaving the confines of those four walls just thinking. Thinking until the thoughts ran mad in his head, until he was certain that the only thing he could do was to go to Emery first. Prove to him that what he had promised years ago still rang true then, after everything they had been through. But, when the moment finally turned up, he was not in control of the situation, and all of those thoughts bled away and paralyzed him.

He closed his eyes. He braced himself in the seconds he would have between the time Emery stepped inside, to the time it would take him to make it towards the back room. He clenched his hands and drew a deep breath. When he heard the doorknob begin to turn he looked at it with a visible desperation. But also, with a quiet disappointment. What does a father say when actions always spoke louder than words to his son?

"I'm sorry."

Michael remained quiet, but the phrase caught him off balance. He only listened as his child stumbled out the words choking in his throat, with a muted disposition that they both knew so well. It wasn't the first time they had met like this. It wasn't their first go around at Michael watching Emery with a knowing, saddened gaze, and his progeny standing in front of him trying to relay his feelings like a scared little kid.

He watched his boy stare at the ground, both of them fidgeting. He felt the pang in his chest of those fatherly instincts wanting to scoop up the child who hated physical contact in his arms and tell him, as he always had, how all right everything was going to be. But instead, he listened. And within fleeting seconds, the boy was gone again.

When the door shut behind him, Michael gasped as if his lungs had collapsed all over again. He gripped at the back of a chair and leaned on it as he tried to stop the dizziness of his head, the dead Maker inside of him telling him to go, to follow. If Emery wanted him there, he would be there. He would stand by his progeny's decisions, whether he found them realistic or not. But... was it the right thing to do? Is a Maker only ever there to follow their progeny blindly? Is a father only there for his son to watch him spread his wings and then constantly fly too close to the burn of the sun? Perhaps it was more complicated than that. Perhaps, after all this time, Michael and Emery weren't like other Makers and their progeny, and maybe because of that they couldn't adhere to the same laws and structures as they did. Couldn't be held to the same standards as they were. Perhaps they were unique. Or perhaps they were just denying themselves of the mundane that came along with following the rules.

But either way, Michael had made a promise. He was not going to follow in his father's footsteps. He was not going to abandon his child and become a figment of the boy's imagination. He was not going to leave Emery's side when his world was on the verge of changing. He would be there, come hell or high water, for everything -- every major change, every minor slip up, every step of the way. No matter what.

I'll be there.

Michael grabbed for a jacket and headed out the door minutes after his kin. He was careful to stay as far back as he could, to keep a distance between them. This wasn't his moment. It wasn't his duty to be involved or join in on whatever was going to happen in that field. This was all on Emery, and he was fine with that. He was only going to spectate, and be there to pick up the pieces of a fragile little boy should nothing come of it. But strangely, in some part of him that didn't find all of this absolutely impossible, he hoped it would work. He hoped that he wouldn't have to take a disappointed Emery back home to nurse those wounds ever again. He hoped that whatever was going to happen wouldn't wind up scarring the child he cared about anymore. Emery didn't deserve more pain. He didn't deserve to be let down by whimsical magicks that told stories of resurrecting a dead wife. Of rekindling lost love...

And so he prayed to Mother Moon to give her favorite her blessing, and to spare him anymore hurt.

Let this work.

#th: self #thread #niycb

Mountains In Between || Michael DePalmado

He had paced around the study for what could have been hours.

When Collette left he felt… better. He wasn't sure how long the feelings of heartbreak over his kin’s actions would last, nor the overwhelming discouragement the loss of his father's blood weighing on his shoulders brought, but he would not let it all beat him down forever. He couldn't wallow in self pity and anguish anymore. Instead he took to his faith, to his Mother’s arms, just as his father said to. He prayed to her on bent knees and whispered words of hope and strength and guidance. He sent his pain to her, put the fate of his troubles into her hands, and left it at that. He would deal with everything another time, in a fashion more rational than the man he was at that very instant was capable of. He would deal with these when Mother gave him her hand and showed him the way. But there was something important he had to do for himself.

And it involved the Garrett wolf.

When the prayers were finished Michael straightened himself out and stood up, beginning to pace around the study he had purposefully held himself in the walls of for some nights now. Though this time it was not in punishment. It was not out of fear of driving himself insane, or the agonizing need to stay where he belonged because of what might happen. It was not because of the Vikings. This time, he had stayed put to find his wits again; to put the spinning world on hold for just a few moons so he could finally function again at some kind of normalcy.

Normalcy -- strange how that turned out.

He plopped his tall body down in one of the velvet chairs nearest the fireplace, and ran his fingers over the bridge of his nose, pinching at the flesh there. He then smoothed the edges of his hair back, raking his slender fingers through the messy tendrils over and over. Scratched at his skin for a few more seconds, and watched the red trails on his ashen skin fade instantly. When would the fidgeting stop? The Elder took a deep breath to try and settle his nerves, and slid further into the chair lazily, draping his limbs over the sides.

He didn't want to do this, but he didn't have a choice. He didn't want to call on the Garrett dog, didn't want to have to go to him for a favor, didn't want anything to do with him anymore. He needed to put all of that behind him, everything that had happened with the mountain and the secrets. Everything to do with Shiloh. But if something about his past needed to surface, if there was something he didn't know that Shiloh did... He had no choice. That's what the dragon said at least.

Dull hazel eyes closed and another few unnecessary breaths came before he could bring himself to reach into the wolf's head. A small part of him hoped he wouldn't be intruding on the creature, and a larger part scolded himself for caring.

Shiloh? Meet me outside of the ports two moons from now. By the field there... Please.

#th: self #thread #mountains in between