███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 〚 ✧┇ ═══════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ═══════════════════ ┇✧ 〛 ※ 〚 ✧┇ ═══════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ═══════════════════ ┇✧ 〛 ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ╒◖═══════════▲════════════◗╕ February 18th, 309 A.C. 5 A.M. “Cecilairen! Let’s go!” The shout came from far above him, echoing down the length of the grand, useless marble staircase that separated the aristocratic estate into thirds. Cecil looked up, releasing the poor—twenty-something? Thirty?—man he had just finished feeding on, fangs slipping back into shadows as his eyes flashed back to jade. Two, three stories up—that was doable. With a heave, he threw himself forwards and began to ascend, absent-mindedly taking out a pair of wicked knives, scanning each landing for more family members or house-guards. He found none, Most of them were all most likely already dead, anyways, so why did he bother? The cavernous space was full of the sounds of clinking metal, half-shouted declamations that came from his fellow covenmates, all of them rushing upwards to get to the roof. Cecil was the first one up, sliding into place next to Jorraine with a proud, satisfied grin. He was always the first one up. Jorraine turned to him—Void, Cecil would never get accustomed to how beautiful he was—and flashed him a smirk, taking his hand and kissing it. “<d’I> Well, my love? Anything of import?” the Dorkarth asked, red eyes staring adoringly into green, hungrily, smugly, even. “<d’I> I left the looting to the others, you and I know that I don’t do that sort of work—however, all of the house guard and pages are taken care of. The authorities won’t get here until it’s too late,” said Cecil, taking Jorraine’s other hand and twining their fingers—bloodstained as they both were—together. His partner nodded, leaning forwards to kiss him with lips that tasted of blood and gold, metallic, violent, rich. They walked over to the edge of the roof, where a rope sat in waiting, placed there days ago by a spy at Cecil’s direction. Their covenmates began to assemble, arriving with a variety of murmured d’Ithanian curses and celebrations, looking to Cecil and Jorraine for direction. Power. It was intoxicating, and Cecilairen Falleil, Desprince of the Crimson Chorus, was drunker than he had ever been. At a short command, they all snapped to attention, and Jorraine stepped forwards, speaking in a loud, smooth voice that swept through them all like the shadows that followed in his wake. “<d’I> Another day, another victory, another house fallen, another justice!” The crowd of sanguine burst in cheers and raucous whoops at Jorraine’s declaration, barely lit as the sun fast approached the horizon. “<d’I> We have taken back from those who took from us, and we will remind them, as we remind every lowly blueblood and avaricious cur in this city—their wealth is OURS, and we TAKE what is ours.” Jorraine’s voice echoed, every bit the leader and Desprince a Dorkarth should be, ringing with pride and conviction and that dark delight in destruction. Cecil stood at his side, watching over them, a bloody knife next to a gilded shadow, the crimson queen with his shaded king. Alais and Dorkarth, ruling together, pillaging a city of its lifeblood. Pillaging, and watching it burn. “<d’I> This morning, we leave this place barren, and go back to our homes to entertain the spoils of our conquest,” Jorraine said, turning to Cecil, once again kissing his hand, continuing, “<d’I> Our second Desprince has a job to do.” Cecilairen Falleil. The Morningstar. Oil and matchsticks spread across floors and walls, trailing through doors, marking the house like a map of vicious veins, a vascular system made of spite and destructive potential. Cecil stared at the front door—when had he gotten down from the roof? He didn’t remember. Where was Jorraine, and the others….? He didn’t remember either. All he knew is he held the trigger in his hands, lit and trembling. He never had a choice, anyways. The matchstick fell, and the oil went up in flames. The spattering, boiling path of fire crawled into the house, where a BOOM rattled its foundations, every explosive going off as the summer home immolated. The first rays of the sun hit Cecil’s eyes, blinding him, and he rubbed at his face to clear away the spots. He opened them, and he stood in front of the Dzekh’aar estate. It was burning. He held a matchstick. And inside, there was the sound of agony, the ugly song of someone dying a horrible death. Cecil rushed forwards, panic and horror seizing his body as the fire climbed higher, burned hotter, snapping wood and tumbling masonry. Heart pounding, breath fighting hard in his chest, he ascended the stairs of the estate and flew into the courtyard, but something seized him, and he suddenly couldn’t move. The screams continued, and the flames burned higher, and Cecil wondered if this is what they felt like, all those that he had burned. A crack sounded above him, and half of the top floor caved in. The screams stopped. His breath hitched and he watched, despairing, a sob building in his chest as his home burned. And in his head an iron-cold voice began to remind him. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault He tried to block it out, shut his eyes, cover his ears-- but it didn’t help. It was just as loud, and just as bright, and there was no escape. YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT Cecil fell to his knees, tears pouring from his face, just as the fires began to lick at his feet, and he heard his name. Cecil. Cecil. Cecil, Cecil, my love-- “Wake up.” With a gasp, the Zolathar tore himself out of the dream, trembling, sweat dripping from his temples, blankets twisted around him. It was so hot, too hot—he shoved the oppressive layers away and sat up, taking deep, gasping breaths. There was a cool hand on his back, and he flinched, before his muddled brain caught up with the real world. Stone. Cecil turned, and there was his lover, his best friend, his anchor, sitting up in their bed and looking at him with furrowed brows and a concerned frown. Cecil’s breath hitched, and he immediately stumbled forwards and into the Fin’ullen’s arms, gasping. He shivered, involuntarily, as Stone quietly and gently brought a hand to his back and began to rub soothing circles into it, drawing him closer. “Cecil, it’s alright. It’s alright, love, it’s okay, just keep breathing,” Stone murmured, his voice thick with sleep and worry, messed-up hair half hanging in his eyes. Cecil exhaled, inhaled, exhaled again, burying his face in Stone’s shoulder, trying to wrest control of his thoughts. No one was burning. The house was fine. Stone was here. Cecil took another deep breath, and the ringing in his ears began to fade. Stone shifted them backwards, propping up a few pillows and leaning into them, giving Cecil more room to curl up next to him. Which he did—resting his head on the Fin’ullen’s chest and taking comfort in the steady heartbeat he found there. “I—I’m sorry, fuck, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to wake you, I—fuck,” Cecil whispered, pushing hard against the rising tide of guilt and self-loathing, of why aren’t you over this yet and you need to be stronger, to a low degree of success. It was hard not to feel like these dreams were failures, like they were admittances of weakness—but as he breathed in and out, resting in Stone’s embrace, his chest began to loosen. The only sound in the room for a moment was the quiet noise of the early morning, a chorus of frogs, crickets, and the gentle patter of rain. Stone gently lifted Cecil’s head and met his eyes with a hesitant look. “Sweetheart, are you alright?” Stone’s voice was soft, and Cecil felt a burst of pure gratitude bloom in his chest as he exhaled once more. “I’m… I’m okay.” “Another one of the nightmares?” Cecil sighed, admitting, “Yeah. About him, and… yeah.” He stared out the window of his room, into the night sky, feeling sick with shame. Another night, another nightmare. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart—look at me.” Stone reached for Cecil’s hand, twining their fingers together, insistent. Cecil looked at him, eyes wide open. Stone brushed some of Cecil’s hair out of his eyes, and said, “You don’t have to hide from me, y’know. I’m not mad at you.” Cecil stared. “You’re not?” “Of course I’m not mad at you, why would I be mad at you?” Gentle laughter rumbled in Stone’s chest, accompanied by the faint sounds of the first songbirds waking up to sing. Cecil listened to the world turning around him, and suddenly the blood and the fire and the awful scent of gold seemed ridiculously far away. He bit his lip, then shrugged, saying, “I… don’t know? I woke you up. You need rest.” “You needed me, love. So I am here.” Cecil opened his mouth to protest, but after a pause, he closed it again. It was a short while before he spoke, mumbling, “You shouldn’t have to deal with all of the baggage that I have.” Stone’s hands paused in their errant quest to braid Cecil’s hair, and he asked, “I shouldn’t? Why not” “Because you… because...” Cecil trailed off, grasping for a reason, finding none. Of course he would find none. Stone resumed braiding Cecil’s hair, and poked him gently in the shoulder, saying, “Cecil, it doesn’t matter to me if you wake me up once in one night or twenty. If you’re in pain, or having a bad dream, or… anything, I will take care of you.” Cecil thought about that. He thought about that for a moment, and the guilt that rose again was dust, air, gone—replaced entirely by relief. He made a small noise of acknowledgement, unsure of what to say. Stone finished his braid and then leaned back, stretching. He yawned, which made Cecil yawn too, which made them both laugh, and Stone gently pulled the covers back over them as his chuckles subsided. Cecil shut his eyes, but it wasn’t long before he whispered, “Stone?” “Yeah?” “I love you.” There was a short pause, and Cecil could almost hear Stone smiling. “I love you too, Cece,” Stone whispered back. Another minute went by, before he spoke once more, half-asleep and loving. “I’ve got you.” I’ve got you. Stone’s voice was a short, quiet hum, but it echoed in Cecil’s head and took root in his heart. He beamed, and only the dark and the songbirds were witness to his quiet, disbelieving laugh. He wondered how he had ever earned the right to be this lucky. He drifted off, and he dreamed of children, of laughter, of a home and a husband and a whole life that lay ahead of him. And the past melted away a little more. ╘◖═══════════▼═══════════◗╛ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 〚 ✧┇ ═══════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ═══════════════════ ┇✧ 〛 "The sky will still be up there And the sun will always shine The stars will keep on fallin' For the ones who wish at night The mountains won't start moving And the rivers won't run dry The world will always be there And so will I" 〚 ✧┇ ═══════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ═══════════════════ ┇✧ 〛 ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ Spoiler: Relevant Tags @retsag118
