UNDO THIS CREATURE ;

he who breaks the silence of heaven.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Your burning need to resurrect yourself,”

— Virginia Adair, from Living on Fire: A Collection of Poems; “The Sun God,”

[viktordaegal]

THE EMPRESS /.

&. WHAT WE OWE LOCATION: queen’s quarters TIME: the seventh of the tenth month, morning. AVAILABILITY: @viktordaegal

As the years pass, Calliope finds that she sleeps less and less. Is it natural? The weariness in her bones that reels her up early in the morning to greet the birds she once compared herself to? Or is it simply that her unconscious cannot bear a second more of letting all the things that weigh down on a person’s mind run free, and snaps, dropping her back into the waking world? Whatever the answer, she is up, and the birds are up, which means her husband is not and will not be for a while.

Such is the boon of Kings, perhaps: that everyone is hectic, save you from some divine grace of nature, and it is no more hectic for anyone but Viktor. She sends for a variety of foods to be sent up to her room, and begins the process of dressing and grooming before she sends a summons for Viktor himself. She’s just finishing up, eyes neatly lined, rouge already applied, now gently brushing the carmine onto her lips, peering into the mirror as a knock sounds at her door.

“Come in,” she says, before the servant can finish announcing Viktor’s arrival. She doesn’t look up from the mirror until she hears boots sound over the threshold, and she looks in the side to catch the eye of his reflection. “Blessed morning,” she greets, finishing the last coat of her mask, setting the brush down, and turning to face him. She sighs at this; the sentiment feels overly cheery for the morose day, rings too false for her liking. “I’m sorry to impose upon the few free hours you have free of your duty to my husband,” she says, and means it. “I just wanted to thank you, Viktor,” she continues, pausing for a moment as she formulates just what to say. “If not for you, I fear a great many more people would have died yesterday. The world has seen far worse trades than a single life for that of many. Please,” she says, gesturing over the spread of foods laid out on a side table. “Help yourself. I don’t usually partake in breakfast, so this is all for you.”

Viktor hadn’t been sure what to expect upon receiving the Queen’s summons, and the uncertainty lingered at the tail of his long, steady strides as he made his way to her quarters. A fair number of amiable encounters had brought them together over the years, but the times when she had requested him outside the scope of his duty had been few and far between. However, they had always entailed a need for his aid and service in one way or another, and such was what Viktor expected upon noting the Queen’s haste in answering the servant’s call.

But then he entered, and the Queen seemed to be in no hurry to divulge the cause of her summons. She idled around, hovering before the mirror and taking the time to greet him; and it was then that Viktor’s expectations of urgency were unraveled. “And to you, my Queen.” He said, returning her greeting with a courteous nod. Patiently, he awaited an elaboration, bones tightly wound with tension, coiled and braced; eager to spring him into action the moment an order was given. Yet the Queen’s lips only parted around an apology, and Viktor frowned, dismissing it with a mild shake of his head. “You owe me no apologies, Your Majesty. I am glad to dedicate my time to you, free of duty or not.” It was an honest declaration, touched by a note of earnestness and tinged with a rare spark of warmth. Any service he lent to the Queen was an act committed willingly, for it rarely required any cruelty or cold-blooded judgement on his part -- and it made Viktor eager to stand at her side whenever he could afford to do so.

In between the rigid demand he had expected, and the lilting apology he had received in its stead, Viktor went on to be given something that he had long since abandoned the notion of coveting -- gratitude. The words rang in his ears with a sharp, unsettling echo, like the toll of the Sanctum’s bells after long weeks of absence; off-sounding and jarring to his senses, yet strangely serene. Comforting and grounding; like the phantom memory of his mother’s fingers as they trailed down his cheek in a pallid caress. Viktor’s gaze dropped to the floor, posture shifting as he flexed the hands he had clasped behind his back. He swallowed around the words tangled up in his throat. A long moment passed, and then he opted for silence, though not without tipping his head in acceptance of the Queen’s gracious regard. However, he was quick to shake his head when she beckoned him towards her table. “I appreciate your kindness, Your Majesty, but I can’t be expected to indulge in your meal.”

[viktordaegal]

THE DEVIL /.

The fresh, cool air of the coming winter was not as calming as the cool embrace of the void, but it was something: sharp and familiar, chilling in a way that soothed them, calmed them. The heightened feelings they’d tried to quash as they left the throne room had mostly dissipated, now, left them catching their break in the wake. Walking around the grounds in the cold shushed their racing heart into a slow and even beat, cleared their mind from the blur or anger and fear and let them clear everything else away and come out the other side with a clear single-minded focus: to uncover the cause behind the burning man first, before Andros could, and secure Septimus’ good graces once more. 

The cold, dark night was the closest thing there was, to the void, after all. It wasn’t the first time they had sought solace there. 

They were reaching to unbuckle the mask from their face, when Viktor’s voice interrupted, cutting through the silence from behind them. They’d thought to breathe easier, without the mask, in the dark where no one would see their face, but the sound of the familiar voice stilled their hands for a moment, and urged them to motion the next, re-securing the covering over their face before they turned back to see him, leaning there against the castle wall, arms crossed. 

     “Yes, but unfortunately those who would self-immolate to see him dead aren’t often the type to loose their lips in the local tavern.” They gave a shrug, one hand up, as if to add: c’est la vie.

Wraith painted an image that starkly differed from the one that had bore the brunt of the King’s scornful gaze; shrouded in nonchalance, draped in disregard, and soaked in the blackness of night that left no fodder for the eyes. It had once been difficult for Viktor to gauge what they so artfully concealed, but he had gazed upon their mask until he knew he had to look elsewhere for the truth; had traced their pretenses until he learned to peel back their curled corners and glimpse what lay underneath. And now, Viktor had become adept at grasping the nuances and telltale signs that marked Wraith’s distinct brand of body language -- not enough to fully interpret it, but enough to have an inkling of the meaning it carried.

Yet as he watched them now, Viktor couldn’t help but feel at a loss. Their clenched fists, taut shoulders, and stone-hard stance -- it had all eluded him, but even with those details banished and the throne room long since left behind, Viktor found himself still seeking clarity. In his eyes, it was only natural for Wraith be affronted by the King’s stance on the assassination attempt, especially since it unjustly held them accountable for what had happened. And if they knew Viktor at all, they would expect that understanding from him; so why did they brush it off? Why did they hide, time and time again? Was it a matter of pride, or mere wariness of how their words could be used against them?

“You have no guilt to shoulder here, Wraith,” Viktor murmured with a shake of his head. “It was unreasonable of him to blame you, and you had every right to argue against it. No one could have anticipated what happened.”

[bluebeardsbride-deactivated2021]

“Truth – and justice – require calm, and yet they only belong to the violent.”

— Georges Bataille, Literature and Evil

[drlelandsoffice]

The Excessively Detailed Headcanon Tumblr Meme

[tigersniper-deactivated20150224]

Send me some numbers, and I will tell you:

What does their bedroom look like?

Do they have any daily rituals?

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Eating habits and sample daily menu

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

Makeup?

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

Intellectual pursuits?

Favorite book genre?

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Favorite beverage?

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

What is their biggest regret?

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Most prized possession?

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

Concept of home and family?

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

What makes them feel guilty?

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

How misanthropic are they?

Hobbies?

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Religion?

Superstitions or views on the occult?

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

How do they express love?

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

[ofhotheads-blog]

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

No deleting questions, either!

[persephonememes]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 /  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠.

❛ You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast. ❜

❛ You are going to break your promise. ❜

❛ I understand. ❜

❛ And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you. ❜

❛ Oh, I will be cruel to you. ❜

❛ It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. ❜

❛ But you understand, don’t you? ❜

❛ I am a demanding creature. ❜

❛ I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. ❜

❛ For you alone I will be weak. ❜

❛ I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. ❜

❛ In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold. ❜

❛ I have looked for your face in the patterns of the ice. ❜

❛ I moved the earth and the water for you. ❜

❛ Because my magic is as strong as an arm. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all. ❜

❛ You will always run away with her. ❜

❛ You will always lose her. ❜

❛ You will always be a fool. ❜

❛ War is not for winning. ❜

❛ But her heart was so cold that she could hold ice in her mouth and it would never melt. ❜

❛ You look like a winter night. ❜

❛ But if you must be clever, then be clever. ❜

❛ Be brave. ❜

❛ Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight. ❜

❛ She is so stubborn, her heart has an argument with her head every time it wants to beat. ❜

❛ How I adore you. ❜

❛ Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ❜

❛ Oh, quit that. ❜

❛ In his own country, death can be kind. ❜

❛ Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing. ❜

❛ Someone ought to write a novel about me. ❜

❛ I savor bitterness - it is born of experience. It is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ❜

❛ What is the world but a boxing ring where fools and devils put up their fists? ❜

❛ After love, no one is what they were before. ❜

❛ In the space of one heartbeat to another I loved you and I was lost to you. ❜

❛ No one is now what they were before the war. There’s just no getting any of it back. ❜

❛ How long your hair has grown. You could strangle a man in it. ❜

❛ I have survived, but I have not been spared. ❜

❛ After all, when all else is gone, you may still have bitterness in abundance. ❜

❛ I’ve a devil of a habit for being right. ❜

❛ Everyone is a criminal! ❜

❛ Naturally, then, humans fall into three categories: the criminal, the not-yet-criminal, and the not-yet-caught. ❜

❛ Forests have secrets. ❜

❛ We are better at this than you are. ❜

❛ We can hold two terrible ideas at once in our hearts. ❜

❛ It’s not so bad, my darling. ❜

❛ I look at you and it is like my throat being cut. ❜

❛ Do you think I am a fool? ❜

❛ Did you never think, even once, that I loved lipstick and rouge for more than their color alone? ❜

❛ I still want to kiss you. ❜

❛ I hate it here. ❜

❛ He’ll burn you down like wax if you let him. ❜

❛ Did I not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? ❜

❛ I am not a little girl anymore, dazzled by your magic. It is my magic, now, too. ❜

❛ My heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it. ❜

❛ Nothing ever truly dies. ❜

[viktordaegal]

THE CHARIOT /.

The question scalded their lips: who would dare kill the king? That is, before they had the chance to. Their blood drummed in their veins and demanded answers: who dare challenge me in my own quest? If their mother’s ghost was truly a symbol of all that Valeria must right in Tyrholm, then the king’s life belonged solely to her; it was their birthright, and Valeria would not have it taken from them. Ebony and scarlet bled into their vision at the very thought of it: who would dare kill the king before Valeria?

She must know. Each step rang in the castle with purpose as she made her way to Viktor’s quarters. Those who passed her seemed to stick close to the walls, with Valeria marching along its center, clad in the same armor she defeated Reynaud in. They were a sight to behold. They were a sight to inspire epics and poetry and, above all, fear.

Oh, how Valeria hated the way the furious knot in her chest loosened at the sight of Viktor’s tired eyes and stooped shoulders. Vengenace had no room for pity; but Valeria did, and the quiet concern in their voice was sincere as they said, “Viktor. We should speak.” They were already closing the door behind them as Viktor invited them in. “Privately.”

“We need to discuss the assassination attempt. Report every detail you can remember about this man on fire.” The hard line of Valeria’s mouth softened, though her voice remained firm as she continued: “If you are settled.”

They stood before him, a portrait of blood-speckled, steel-wrung glory, heel crushing the flames of disaster and eyes scouring its ashes for answers -- and out of all those details, Viktor could only see himself in the urgency that painted the image. After all, the two of them led starkly different lives and shared harshly clashing goals. Yet they strode through both at the same pace, one foot within the threshold of the future and another in the snare-trap of the past. And still they marched ahead, never stopping, never halting, and never facing their fear of what they might find upon looking back at their crooked footprints.

It was for that reason that Viktor was not surprised by Valeria’s unexpected visit or her prompt demands of clarity, even so soon after the ashes had settled. Like him, she could only move forward. Yet she seemed unwilling to do it alone this time, and thus Viktor was intent on supporting her in every way he could.

“Yes.” He attested simply, straightening from his slouch and crossing his arms against his chest as Valeria crossed the room towards him. He glimpsed the gentled edges of her eyes, caught the tentative note in her words, and offered what was needed -- a nod of reassurance and an utterance of truth. “I am settled, and even if I wasn’t, it has no bearing on what is necessary for the circumstances at hand. The situation is far too urgent.”

Pausing in thought, Viktor frowned down at his soot-stained hands, struggling to recall anything distinct about the man in question. “He was too fast; I barely glimpsed his face before I made my strike, and even after he had fallen and the flames had sputtered out, it was too charred for me to glean anything from his features.” He sighed, shaking his head to himself before finally looking up at Valeria. “His dagger could be significant; perhaps it carries an engraving or a mark that could lead us somewhere. The flames, too -- they have to mean something. Perhaps they were symbolic, in a way, or meant to send a message.” A pause, and then, “What do you think?”

[viktordaegal]

JUDGEMENT /.

when: 7th of the 10th month, evening where: the courtyard closed to: @viktordaegal

Even in the winter, when the lush courtyard of Castle Tyrholm has turned cold and gray, Francis loves to visit. In the summer, it is a bustling, sunny place where they can watch lovers and friends meet. In the winter, it is quiet; a place for Francis to find peace. This cycle is the embodiment of the Undying God, and they find solace in watching it unfold: the circle of life and death, death and life. They come to the courtyard to pray, to breathe in the salty air of the sea, to watch the flowers bloom and grow.

Francis does not expect to find Viktor there, when they arrive the evening after the excitement at the tournament, but the Undying God has made their meeting so. They do not understand why, but they are confident it will be revealed in time.

Francis sits on a bench beside Viktor. They do not look him in the eye, but rather they stare outward, toward the sea. It is silent for a moment, as Francis contemplates what to say ( as it is unlikely Viktor will speak first ).

“That was quite a feat you accomplished yesterday,” Francis says finally, their voice meshing with the ebb and flow of the waves. “You have a quick hand.” 

Tension gripped him the moment he felt the gratingly serene, damnably familiar presence beside him; winding around him in ropes of steel and sinking into his bones with thorns of poison. He didn’t need to turn around to recognize Francis; they were among the rare few who chose to greet him with silence. Yet where it felt like a blessing when received from others, from Francis it only felt like a curse -- an endless string of mockeries stretching from one encounter to the next like stars aligning in an omen along the skies.

Viktor could almost feel the rasp of the Undying God’s mirth drifting near his ears.

He took a breath, barely sparing Francis a glance; electing to afford them nothing but his disregard. But then they spoke, reaching out, tugging on the fateful link between them as if to force Viktor’s gaze upon it -- and force it, they did. It was a victory that they reaped each and every time without fail.

Viktor braced his elbows atop his thighs, letting his hands hang between them before threading his fingers together loosely. It was the only way to keep them from curling into fists. “I have expressed no need for your opinions, Cleric... and yet you continue to offer them. I see that it’s a habit you have no intention of quitting.” He briefly turned to send a hard-eyed glance their way. “It was no feat. Merely a duty fulfilled.”

[viktordaegal]

THE HIGH PRIESTESS /.

    Against her better judgement, she pulled Norn to a stop, fingers weakly tugging on the leather, nothing more than a whispered touch. He stomped and snorted but it was all white noise, hooves pawing at dirt and stone, lost to the sound of Viktor’s quiet, steady voice as he sought to make her understand the reasoning behind his actions. I’m driven by oath, he says. It’s about fulfilling my duty, he intones. A shield made of fallen leaves and blades of grass would guard him better than such soft words. What’s worse was that she understood, all too well, how much sense this made to him – and how much it made to her, in turn. She couldn’t refute it, but could only look on. 

    When she was young – before the days of corpses and crumbling kingdoms – she remembered how a brushfire had swept through the countryside, destroying the crops of the neighboring farms. After a certain point, her parents had stopped their efforts, faces covered in soot, and had no choice but to look on as the fire consumed everything. It had been beautiful, the way that it consumed with no regard. And she had never understood how she could find such yawning hunger so beautiful until it had grown within herself. Until she had turned her gaze to the man beside her and had seen it reflected back at her. But she could see his hunger only as shackles that he needed to be liberated from – his hunger for duty, for a path, for purpose. 

    All she wanted to do was set him free. 

    All of them.

    And his own inflexible and steadfast ideals barred her from doing so. 

    “It was metaphorical, Viktor,” she said, his name curling her tongue, potent between her teeth. “The appendage in question was comparable to the iron that sits on your hip. And I was merely observing that perhaps it is your duty to keep it sheathed when appropriate.” Her gaze flickered to the weapon in question, her breath beginning to quicken as she longed for her voice to raise as it used to. Instead, it grew as frigid as the promised winter chill. But the frustration was not because of him, it was the consequences of his actions – actions that were expected and ought to be lauded. “But I’m glad you were able to recognize my poorly veiled attempt to question what happened at the tournament – your sword is sharp but your wit, even more so.”

    The leaves whispered as a breeze swept through them. A shadow fell across them as a cloud crossed paths with the sun overhead. Norn sighed and shifted his weight, betraying his exasperation and impatience. She knew what she sought for – a notion of recognition that his duty would cost his head, was leeching his soul, was placing him within the same grave as the king that he bent his knee to. She thought that, in her old age she might have grown used to such disappointments. And yet, the Undying God never ceased to reveal to her the novelty of it, making sure that the wound of it was fresh each and every time. 

    She might as well relish it while she could – that, too, would be taken from her soon enough. 

    “Understanding,” Levana answered. Ghosts whispered their truths louder than she.

When Levana pulled her horse to a stop, Viktor was quick to do the same, the response as innate and natural as that of shadow slotting itself against light. Yet where she retreated into the caverns and crevices of her mind, he merely lingered at the forefront of his, toeing at the threshold and running phantom fingertips along the entryway without venturing beyond. Levana’s actions, driven as they were by the mere simple, senseless act of clutching at the reins, were the only indication he had needed in order to be certain that his words were heard and understood. And so, Viktor didn’t feel the need to continue reflecting on it or pull them further along the lull of kindling tension.

He hadn’t intended for his words to prove a point or drive an argument; he had only meant for them to be heard. Because it was only ever Levana who stuck around to listen; to grant breathing room for his truth to be spoken. It was a gift that she offered time and time again without fail, and this instance was no exception. With that, the purpose of his words had been achieved, and Viktor was willing to let that mark the end of the conflict -- at least until it was inevitably roused into being once again. And it would, but not today. Not if he could help it.

Taking a breath, Viktor willed the long stretch of Levana’s silence to center him, tugging his focus outward and looking upon their surroundings to ground himself in the moment. Reaching behind him, he dipped his hand into the saddlebag of his mare, pulling out an apple. He bit into it then kept it anchored to his teeth while he reached in again and pulled out another. He threw it at Levana, sweetness-slick lips curving in a mild yet warm smile at his companion’s adversely sour words. “Only you would employ a metaphor and then go on to explain it at length,” He muttered with a snort. “Going through two lifetimes certainly highlights the inferiority of others, doesn’t it? I mean... otherworldly powers aside.”

His smile dissipated, sputtering away like fickle candle-flame on a storm-swept night. A sigh locked itself in his throat; held down until it choked. “You have every right to question what happened, but not in regards to the duty I fulfilled. The man's blade could have very well struck true, and Tyrholm would have still devolved into chaos.” He turned to look at Levana, gaze solemn. “There is another factor at play here other than your allegiance and my own, and just because it aligns with yours, doesn’t mean that it’s not a threat to be looked out for.”

Then came Levana’s answer to his question, and it lanced through his heart with the flit of an arrowhead, caught crooked in its gnashing mass and left to crumble. “I have already found it, Levana. Long ago. I thought you had, too.”

[viktordaegal]

THE WORLD /.

late evening 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖒 with @viktordaegal​

       𝓟rincess or not, Aurelia is not permitted to follow her father into the Throne Room, nor is she permitted to hear his decrees. She is not, however, properly banned from the area either, and thus she has remained, waiting for her father to emerge for what feels like hours but is probably less than thirty minutes. Her hem is ruined by the mud it was dragged through during their hasty retreat, Guard Captain Andros ensuring their safety all the while. Tears track ruddy and ugly down her cheeks, and her Coterie stands out in the hall, adding to the King’s already stringent security.

She doesn’t know when she falls asleep. She only knows that when she wakes, the night is dark around them, and her Coterie must be exhausted. She thinks, at first, that it’s them waking her, and she looks up with a moment of vulnerability before realizing that it’s not her trusted guards touching her shoulder. but someone she trusts not at all. Aurelia freezes, every bone in her body seeming to stiffen before she relaxes one breath at a time. Suddenly self-conscious, she rubs at her red eyes, ignoring the pounding in her head and the rough feeling in her throat to address her father’s principal guard.

❝ Good evening, Guard Daegal, ❞ she says around the frog in her throat, straightening from where she’s been slumped against the wall. The unintended consequence of privilege: if you’re the Princess, no one feels able to move you without your express permission. ❝ I’ve been waiting to meet with Father. Is he — ❞ she stops short, something in his expression drawing a black shroud around her heart. ❝ He will not meet with me. ❞ She doesn’t say it as a question, for she knows the answer all too well. In spite of herself, those foolish tears well in her eyes again, and she turns away, refusing to allow him the honor of seeing that far into her being.

It only takes a moment. Swallow. Breathe in and out, and again, and again. When she turns back, she has collected herself and put on the armor she’s so accustomed to hiding behind. Hurt may remain in her eyes, but she’s already flinched before him once, and if she does it again, something within her with shatter entirely. ❝ Why send you? Has his paranoia strode so far as to make him fear his daughter, also? ❞ There’s a bitterness to her tone that’s rarely felt, and she looks at Viktor as though she actually expects an answer.

Across his years of service at the King’s side, Viktor had made constant, rigorous efforts to keep himself at a distance from the royal family. He grappled with enough conflict as it was when it came to his view of the King and his investment in sustaining his rule, and any involvement with his family was only going to add onto that. One tie would bind, but a whole cluster of them would choke, and Viktor had already betrayed that principle once by growing close with Valeria. It was a mistake that he had no intention of repeating.

Yet it was one that he drifted closer to nonetheless, reeled in by the despondent sight of Princess Aurelia as she hunched into an undoubtedly fretful slumber. Viktor’s steps slowed as the doors of the throne room closed behind him, his measured, militant pace drawling into something more careful and contemplative as he approached Aurelia. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and allowed a shard of concern to cut into his brow for the meaningless moment it took for the princess to startle awake. By the time her vision cleared, there was already nothing for her to see; his expression wiped down to a blank slate that reflected none of the perplexed distrust with which it was met.

He returned her greeting with a curt nod of his head, taking a deferential step back as she straightened up and turned towards him. “He will not meet with anyone, princess.” Viktor said, the elaboration meant as a comfort. Truth was as double-edged as any weapon in the arsenal of tongue and language, but for him, it was the most reliable and thus the safest one that he could wield in this conversation. It still managed to wound, coming out slick with crystalline tears. Aurelia turned to wipe them away at the same moment that Viktor averted his gaze.

Resentment was far easier for him to confront than vulnerability, so he was much more at ease now that Aurelia had let it take hold. It was a choice that she often made when they crossed paths and in that sense, it was just as reliable, just as safe, as the truth that Viktor upheld with equal diligence. “He sent me because I just so happened to be the underling who stood closest to him. He didn’t choose me for the task.” In the face of her following question, Viktor was silent for a long moment, considerate of the answer he would go on to provide. “If I were to offer my opinion, I would judge it to be rage, rather than paranoia, that is keeping him from you. His Majesty is in quite a volatile state at the moment.”

[viktordaegal]

OUTSIDE THE SANCTUM ; SIXTH OF THE TENTH MONTH.

closed for @vasylia

His steps faltered at the threshold of the Sanctum, as they often did, feet rooted to marble by the intangible questions that never failed to coil around his ankles and bring him to a disillusioned halt. It was always a clashing set of reasons that sent him drifting back towards the veiled, shadow-lit path of the Undying God. Sometimes, it was out of heartache and longing for his mother who lived on to touch and heal any life but his own. Other times, it was out of a need for the grounding stability of his halfhearted worship which, despite how it always wavered and morphed and flickered in and out, was the only constant that he had ever found. It was always one reason or the other or all of them intertwined. 

He wasn’t sure which one it was tonight; wasn’t even sure if he had truly ventured out to seek Undeath or if he was simply wandering on an aimless search for clarity in the wake of all the doubts that now clung to him alongside the ashes of the burning man.

Viktor gazed up at the towering beam of the Sanctum as it pierced the skies and the heavens, looked down at the stretch of pews, the gleam of gold, and the reach of Undeath’s gaze where Her idol hung at the center of the room -- and then he turned away. He walked across the courtyard encircling the Sanctum, fingers curling into loose fists at his sides, eyes shadowed and shoulders locked. He came to a stop at one of the railings overlooking the sloping cliff and roiling waves upon which Castle Tyrholm was perched, taking in the sights for a long moment before his wandering gaze landed on the familiar form of the court’s bright-eyed necromancer, Vasylia. She carved herself a visage as solemn as his own.

Without moving from his spot near the balustrade, Viktor addressed her, the quiet impression of his voice enriched by the dominating silence. “Have you also come to seek what cannot be found inside?” He tipped his chin in an indication of the Sanctum. “Or have I caught you at the end of your search?”

[viktordaegal]

THE HIGH PRIESTESS /.

    The unfolding of the events on the sixth of the month left a bitter taste in her mouth – dark thoughts a stark contrast to the crisp air that promised a ruthless winter. She had lived through enough of them to know which winters would be brutal and which would be kinder. The roiling and rumbling of the storms that have already come to pass were enough of a promise of what would follow. Her horse, Norn, huffed and snorted – hooves stamping at the ground with each step, as discontented as the pale figure that sat upon his back. 

    Which could only mean that Viktor noticed as well. Few details slid by his piercing gaze; a trait that she thought of as a curse more than a blessing within the last couple of days. 

    Her iron-wrought legs creaked and groaned against the oncoming cold, her white hair shifted in the wind. But all that she could notice was the weight of his gaze that so clearly demanded an explanation for the tension that lay thick between them. If she were capable of feeling in such a way there was no doubt that she would be alight with anger. Luckily for him, there were only the vestiges of irritation and displeasure. Which, by and large, were eclipsed by her disappointment at having such an opportune moment felled by the sword that the man beside her so expertly handled. 

    Levana’s dark gaze remained steadfast on the path before them, fingers idly twisting into Norn’s coarse locks. A thoughtless testing of the nerves in her fingers – a little dull, but still she was able to press the hair between her fingers. “Tell me,” she begins, “why you think it’s so necessary to brandish your sword about when it would be far easier for it to remain sheathed.” She paused for a half-moment, as though to give him room to answer. Before he could open his mouth, however, she continued – her soft voice taking on a musing tone. 

    “Explain it to me – do you wield it about like a young, green soldier wields about their dick in a brothel? Thoughtlessly? Hoping to get it wet?”

    “I am not one for open violence nor do I understand swordsmanship, so I am quite curious about the intricacies of a soldier’s instinct.”

His eyes remained locked on her as she paved the way for their conversation, laying word upon artfully-plucked word like stones across a flowing river. Yet as she began to lead them across the scattered road, Viktor’s gaze slowly withdrew until it came to rest upon the reins coiled in his hands. It wasn’t in dismissal of Levana’s statement, but in contemplation of it; as it came as no surprise to him that such was the nature of the weight she was carrying.

Viktor understood why she harbored such disappointment. Even as she went on to undermine him and ridicule the duty that he had fulfilled, he still understood. Her perspective on the King and his worthiness of the throne was one that she shared with leagues of others, and so was the contempt that she now wielded against him. He had laid within the shadow of its looming blade and hovered near its roaring flame enough times now that he could no longer muster anything but numb acceptance towards  it. He understood the sentiments propelling those who wished to see the King fall -- even shared more of them than he would care to admit. Yet just as they had reasons to detest the King, Viktor had reasons to protect him.

Levana was more familiar with those reasons than perhaps anyone else in his life, and still she always pushed him to acknowledge and justify them -- almost as though she relished the conflict that it roused between them. However, Viktor knew that such wasn’t the motive that drove her ceaseless arguments on the matter, and it was for that reason that he didn’t take it as an attack. He knew that it wasn’t. “That would be a fair comparison... “ He attested with a nod. “If only I were a soldier driven by his dick. I’m driven by an oath, Levana. One that I merely seek to uphold with the actions that I take. It’s about fulfilling my duty, not about doing what is easy or what is necessary.”

They rode in silence for a few moments longer, but it seemed that his explanation was not enough for her. She always demanded more than she needed. “It’s not a soldier’s instinct that you’re curious about, it’s my instinct -- particularly in regards to my duty towards the King.” He turned to meet her gaze in that moment, unafraid of combating her blunt truths with his own. “I know you have certain aspirations when it comes to that, but you know just as well that I will not set out to achieve them for you. So you tell me, what point do you see in this argument?”

[viktordaegal]

CASTLE GROUNDS ; EIGHTH OF THE TENTH MONTH.

closed for @undyingpriestess​

The sky stretched overhead, draping them in its silken, sea-like veil while the ground rolled beneath the trot of their horses in expanses of woodland and greenery. They rode in silence, as they often did when they ventured out to seek their shared solitude, and Viktor didn’t mind it, at first. After all, most of their encounters were shrouded in quiet and anchored in wordless understanding. It wasn’t what had drawn them together, but it was what had kept them bound when there was still a chance for them to pull away.

As time passed, however, he slowly grew aware of the sliver of tension that had woven itself into the silence from the moment he had greeted Levana and received nothing but a hum of acknowledgement in return. Viktor hadn’t lingered on it at the time, but now, paired with her current disregard and faraway gaze, it seemed significant, and the realization only heightened the concern that had driven him to find her.

He couldn’t help but look upon Levana as he rode beside her, almost as though part of him hoped that his gaze would send a strobe of light piercing through the murky, inscrutable depths of her thoughts. He hoped, and he waited.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I waited in the dark for something not quite human—and all too human—to begin.

Zadie Smith, from “Windows on the Will,” published c. March 2016 (via paris-inthespringtime)

[viktordaegal]

TOURNEY GROUNDS ; SIXTH OF THE TENTH MONTH.

closed for @tasmindeclair​

It was a peculiar thing to witness; the scattered, gold-paved steps of a noble while they drudged through mud and grime, soaked in it and weighed down by it so heavily that they might as well become one with the earth. Some would most likely seize the opportunity to scorn the noble for their unelegant state; Viktor recalled a particular, age-old incident where folk around his town would fling a noble woman’s window with stones and goat shit every time they passed by her house.

Word-of-mouth had dictated that she had been a widow of great affluence and repute within Hightown. Having grown bored of her riches, old age and the boundless time that both notions afforded to her, she had decided to amuse herself by catering to the desperation of the commonfolk. With her identity concealed and her form disguised, she had built a name for herself as a local fortune teller, peddling false prophecies and spun omens to those who either bore no trust for the Undying God, or felt a need for further reassurance beyond their blind faith in Her. She hadn’t prevailed for long, however, as somehow, whispers of her true name had begun to seep into the town; curdling hatred and spewing scorn in their wake.

And the rest was history. The pretender had been spurned and shunned back to her ivory tower, and the commonfolk in his area had been left with nothing but their wounded pride and plundered faith. Viktor had witnessed it all as an outsider looking in, as he hadn’t been one of those who were blindsided by the woman’s trickery. He had wished to relieve his people of their pain, yes, but he hadn’t found it in himself to share their disdain. In this moment, he felt as though he was watching the tale unfold all over again -- only this time, there were no enraged crowds blocking the way to the person sought by his curiosity; there were no half-truths and heresy to muddle the path to the truth.

There was only him, and the girl stumbling in the mud.

Viktor watched her for one final moment, and then made his way towards her, taking off his jacket and offering it for the meager concealment it provided. He didn’t have much pride of his own, so it made sense that he would seek to nurse hers -- or so he told himself. The thought was a lot easier to grasp than the notion of him still harboring some kindness for the world around him. “Here you go, miss. It’s not much but... it should help.”

[viktordaegal]

VIKTOR’S QUARTERS ; SIXTH OF THE TENTH MONTH.

closed for @valeriavalmont​

It had been two hours since the tourney had descended into chaos, yet Viktor felt as though he was still caught in its ashen quicksand; gripped by whatever outside forces that were at play and left with no choice but to let them drag him down as they sank into themselves.

Having been swept into his vigilant post by the King’s side from the moment the charred, cleaved assailant had dropped at his feet, Viktor hadn’t had a chance to wash or change his clothes. The scent of burned flesh hovered around him in a sickening aura, his clothes soiled in ash and specks of dried mud while his crimson-stained sword lingered beside him like a watchful sentinel -- and Viktor simply sat there and soaked it all up.

He told himself that what he was feeling was nothing but the burn-out of clarity; a necessary stand-still in his unending march in order for him to absorb the events of the day and all the dastardly prospects they entailed. But in truth, it was a sense of self-imposed punishment that had kept him from wiping himself clean of his sins. After all, how else was he supposed to confront them? How else was he supposed to stare upon all that he had lost and admit to himself that he had willingly given it away?

It didn’t matter -- because at the end of the day, he wasn’t going to do anything with these blood-soaked truths that were drowning his sight. He was simply going to stand still and wait until the slickness of them dried out from his eyes before he continued to look on ahead. Just like always.

Viktor never got to follow that trail of thought to its end, however, as it was swiftly cut by the sound of the door as it was slowly eased open. He looked up, his tension-wound posture wavering at the familiar sight of his friend.

“Valeria... come in.”