Bleeding · The · Angels

The light was too bright, too yellow, flickering. Or that might have just been him. Given his druthers, he’d have been slipping in and out of that light right now, flat on his back on the lino, the smell of urinal cakes cloyingly sweet in his nose. And when the next visitor to this deodorised, flouro-lit den of iniquity came through the door and gave him that familiar look that said he was scum, that he was a freak, that he was lower than the shit they had stepped in on their way across the common, maybe he would cut them sweetly and leave them to bleed. Felix smirked wanly at the fantasy, the edges of his mouth creeping slowly up his face like egg-white across the bottom of a pan, then he opened his mouth. Curling his tongue upwards, he located a thick black vein and slid the needle in, shuddering at the pain so sharp that it was almost like coming. Then he squeezed the plunger.
The coarse wool of his duffel coat bunched in his hand. Sweat dampened his hair and he felt his eyes flick back momentarily as bliss overtook the pain. He gasped briefly, and he heard the sighs of relief in a neighbouring stall abruptly halt as a stream of obscenities rolled off his tongue. His skin prickled as if he were growing feathers. Felix put his head down between his knees and focused on breathing. Sweat rolled off his nose in big fat droplets and splashed onto the marble-look lino.
He checked his watch. He had better get to his next lecture.

Heads turned as the white BMW pulled up to the curb, but Alice was used to that. She peered out at the University through the windshield, and once again checked the timetable on her lap. Grabbing her bag, she quickly checked herself in the rear-vision mirror, then climbed out of the car. As her Prada heels clicked along the pavement, several gazes turned her way, but Alice was used to that as well. Nevertheless, she found herself self-consciously smoothing her pants down over her hips as she walked through the main door. The foyer was an average reception area, clean and simple but neither extravagant nor comfortable. Seeing that the receptionist was busy, she reluctantly took a seat, glancing at her watch. She couldn’t afford to be here for long or she’d be late for her first lecture.
Thankfully, it was barely a minute later that the woman behind the desk looked up.
“May I help you?”
Alice stood, flicking her blonde mane back off her shoulders and approached the desk.
“Alice Landt. Psychology. My transferral should have gone through from Beaumont.”
The receptionist clicked away at the keys, her eyes scanning the monitor. For one long, terrible moment Alice feared that something had gone wrong, that she wasn’t on file, then the woman turned back to her and smiled.
“Pleased to have you with us, Miss Landt. How will you be paying?”
Alice relaxed.
“Cheque.”
She wrote out the slip, passed it to the woman behind the desk and filled in the reams of paperwork that she received in return, before passing them back to the receptionist, who smiled and handed her a final sheet of paper.
“This is a map of the University layout and,” she said, pointing with a blue-laquered fingernail, “this is where you need to be. You should find the room no worries, but if you do have any problems at any time, come back down here and we’ll do our best to sort them out for you. Okay?”
Alice nodded, smiled politely and then walked away, her shoes clacking on the linoleum. She studied the Uni map in her hands, then folded it up neatly and slipped it into her handbag.
Alice quickened her step.
She could still make the lecture.

Felix fidgeted in his seat. He was absolutely sure of it now, there could be not doubt. Second year was just the same as first year. The material was as dry, the lecturers were as boring and the chairs were just as uncomfortable. If not for the sweet poison coursing through his veins, the night would have been a total write-off. He pulled out some file paper and a leaky, blobby red pen that stained his fingers bloody and began to scribble a violent revenge fantasy in which he took to the lecturer with an orbital sander. Felix enjoyed Psych, and would never have even tried to deny it - that was why he had returned, after all. He was intelligent, and a hard worker on his assignments; last year, his theses and essays had all passed at an D level, showcasing a detached brilliance that made his lecturers uneasy. He loved the subject, was fascinated, in particular, with the theories of Jung, but the way in which all of the lecturers presented what was otherwise stimulating information was just so boring. And this one more than most, he decided with a snarl. He’d been back at Uni (“as a second year Psychology student” - it always sounded so pretentious) for four months now, and he already suspected that the tedium of the lectures had done irreparable damage to his grey matter, which, he thought resentfully, left him a lot less leeway for chemical damage. And Felix Cheshire’s computer-like brain had not overlooked that point; he knew that his “excesses” as his bitch mother had called his habits was costing him dearly, but he didn’t care. Under his bed at home he had half a kilo of black hash, an unmeasured amount of crack and three pounds of snow. Not to mention all the various ingredients in his private party mix; trips, e’s, fantasy and angel dust, powdered and combined. He was going easy tonight, though, in case the boring old @#%&* actually said something worth writing down. He just had some prime grade heroin in his veins, so he was practically straight.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip and his hair fell into his eyes, so he reached up to flick it away. It was then that he became aware of the sound of a door swinging shut and smirked. Someone sneaking in late, he thought - good luck to them if they can find a seat. He turned to see who it was, not that he really knew any of these losers anyway, and stared.
She was smoothing her long, shiny blonde (not from a bottle, he thought) hair back over her shoulders and looking desperately for somewhere to sit down. Her skin was very pale but her cheeks were pinkish, whether from exertion or embarassment he couldn’t tell. She was about five foot six and slim, wearing a cream cashmere knit, similar-coloured slacks (which, he noted with a stir, fitted her much better than they did their name), off-white high-heeled boots. She was slipping an ivory felt coat off of her shoulders, freeing tendils of silvery-blonde hair from the high neck of her top. Her cheeks were the brightest thing about her. Her eyes were green.
He dropped his pen, and twisted around in his chair to watch her as she tried to find a seat. Finally she sat down directly across from him. He watched her from deep within his hood as she withdrew paper and pens from her handbag and started taking notes. Apparently the lecturer was saying something interesting after all. Felix didn’t care.
He ignored the rest of the lecture, watching instead the play of light off the top of her cheekbone, the shining movement of her hair, the graceful arc of her throat.
She was perfect.
Felix’ blood was on fire.
He marked her as his.

Alice swung the door behind her and locked it, hanging her coat on the nightstand and threw a glance down the hall. All the lights were still on.
“I’m home!” she called, setting her handbag down by the door, walking towards her bedroom. The carpet was soft under her feet, the light softer over her head. She detected a hint of her mother’s perfume in the air, and smiled. So their “fabulous night out with the company branch” had ended earlier than expected. She was going to go straight to bed, but the television was on in the living room so she made detour.
“Allie!”
“Liebshan.”
Her parents were sitting on the couch, at opposite ends as usual, still in their evening wear, watching a late-night movie, an old one, something starring Kim Novak, she didn’t know what. In front of them on the walnut coffee table was a bottle of champagne - her mother was obviously still in a celebratory mood, she surmised - and three glasses, and on the other settee…
“Alice.”
“Oh...hello, Ricky.”
She allowed herself to be held, stiffly, formally as he whispered into her ear,
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you tonight?”
Releasing her, he turned to her parents, smiling winsomely, multi-thousand dollar teeth on full display.
“Clara, Heinrich, I plan to steal your daughter for the evening. She shall be wined, and dined…”
And sixty-nined, Alice added mentally. She pushed him away.
“Actually, darling, I’d like to beg off tonight if I can. It’s been a long evening, and I’d just like to go to bed.”
He frowned, and tightened his grip on her arm.
“Well, Alice, this is really very awkward. I’ve made reservations…”
She twisted away from him, freeing herself.
“Look, darling, I‘d really rather not…”
His voice took on a steely tone.
“Alice, dear, surely you could…”
“Please?”
She gave him her most winning smile, her eyes pleading, her fingers resting lightly upon his arm.
“Please, Ricky.”
His face softened, and his arm crept back around her waist. He turned to her father, his voice light.
“Well, only a fool would deprive his own lady of her beauty sleep, eh?”
He chuckled, then turned back to her mother, smiling.
“It appears that I should be saying my goodbyes. Goodnight to the pair of you. And to you, my angel. Get yourself to bed, and we can go out another night. I shall take my leave. Go on, then.”
He leaned over, cupped her face, and kissed her roughly on the lips. When he spoke again, his voice was thick.
“Goodnight.”
His face was smiling, but the darkness of his anger lurked still behind his eyes. Thankfully, she slipped away.

Felix lay on his back, staring into the darkness, replaying the memory of what he had done that evening. He had followed the girl out to her car, keeping to the shadows, at times so close behind her that he could smell her perfume, sweetly floral - he could smell it, even now, just remembering. She had gotten into a white BMW, he didn’t know what model - Felix didn’t know much about cars, his expertise lay in other areas - and sped away. He didn’t know if he’d see her again, he hoped he would, was determined that he would, if he had to make it happen, and when he did…
Felix smiled. His fingers were sticky, but he couldn’t bothered reaching for the tissue box. The world kept shifting and changing when he moved, the darkness kept flowing like water, and that made him feel sick, so he’d decided to lie still. As it was, he wasn’t completely sure where he was; he knew he was in his bed, but that was all he was certain of. The mattress stank of sweat and other things, but the night smelt like flowers.
Flowers, possibility and promise.

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	sleepy
Current Music:	'Ringfinger' - Nine Inch Nails

I also intend to post up a slightly modified version of the the meme that started it all, but rather than me picking a song for how the other PC views their relationship with mine (which, it seems to me, is a flawed plan at best), I will let the player pick their own song, for purposes of accurate appropriacy, from a selection that I have suggested, according to what they think is the closest reflection of the relationship from their PC's perspective, or even suggest their own if they have one that really hits the nail on the head for them.

*The song doesn't really strike any sort of chord with me, but Kat wants it, and I'm happy to oblige! :-)

Current Location:	inner Perth
Current Mood:	calm
Current Music:	'Dropping Plates' - Disturbed

You are The Magician

Skill, wisdom, adaptation. Craft, cunning, depending on dignity.

Eleoquent and charismatic both verbally and in writing,
you are clever, witty, inventive and persuasive.

The Magician is the male power of creation, creation by willpower and desire. In that ancient sense, it is the ability to make things so just by speaking them aloud. Reflecting this is the fact that the Magician is represented by Mercury. He represents the gift of tongues, a smooth talker, a salesman. Also clever with the slight of hand and a medicine man - either a real doctor or someone trying to sell you snake oil.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Current Location:	inner Perth
Current Mood:	anxious
Current Music:	'Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps' - Cake

An interesting snippet of IC conversation:
"Do you ever get lonely?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"You'd know if you did."

Would it?

Current Location:	inner Perth
Current Mood:	contemplative
Current Music:	'Step Up' - Drowning Pool

*Five minutes may mean as much as, but never more than, two days.

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	irritated
Current Music:	'Keep Away' - Godsmack

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

The creature called the Inquisitrix watched the young Acolyte with gimlet eyes.
Gwenyfar...
Faith, it had been so long, and now, to find her here, here, and so changed...
Her face had aged beyond the one it had known, and her beauty now had a wild, overgrown quality to it; she moved like an animal, and looked about her with an animal's eyes...
It caught her gazing its way, eyes alight with fascination, with curiosity.
But no memory.
No recognition.

"She doesn't remember you, Escher."
The voice was warm, unbearably sweet and full of perfect love, and it raised the hackles on the back of its neck.
"What do you want, Xaraphon?"
It didn't bother to whisper; it knew by now that no-one else could see the luminescent figure that hovered just behind its left shoulder, or hear anything that was said between them.
It didn't turn, but it could sense the beatific smile, nonetheless. And then the fingers, stroking lightly down the side of its neck...
Acting on instinct, it reached up to grasp its companion's wrist, to make him stop; but again, as ever before, its fingers met only air.
"You are full of sin and corruption, Escher...and we find you so, so beautiful. But we are not them..."
It was weary, now, from the blessings it had given, feeling thin and weak from the benedictions it had delivered, and the monster moved beneath its skin.
Not tonight, not here. I have things I must accomplish; I can do without the distraction...
Go away.
It felt its fists clench at its sides, as a low growl stirred in the base of its throat. It felt the blood ooze between its fingers.
"Why do you come here, angel? Have you a task for me? Did He charge you bring me word, or have you simply come to gloat?"
He chuckled, a low sound, full of mirth and genuine joy, and laid his golden lips against the nape of its neck.
"She belongs to someone else now..."
The creature turned its head, slowly, its every movement evincing control over the snarling beast within that strained at its bonds in the presence of its long-time tormentor, this being that had shaped it, created it, crafted it with loving, remorseless hands into the thing that it was.
It laid its head against the angel's shoulder, and it whispered, in tones of velevet and honey.
"You're getting thinner, you know. Flimsier. I can see everything through you these nights, Xaraphon. Your voice is fading. Soon, you won't be here at all. And I still will. What is that worth, to you?"
The angel smiled, as their noses brushed, and its breath smelt of honey, and of gold.
"We are so proud of you..."

I wear this crown of shit
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

"Good evening, Inquisitrix."
Fenris.
It smelt him even before it turned its head, and heard the angel giggle behind it.
Blood, and sex, and expensive cologne.
The scent was heady as ever, intoxicating as always, and it felt the desire stir, low in its belly.
The angel's breath was hot in its ear.
"We gave you a name, Escher. It's rude of you not to use it."

"Mr. Black. A pleasure, as always."
It leaned forward and smiled, its easy smirk belying the turmoil in its mind.
The former Prince of Melbourne stood over it, smiling, a pretty young Damned on his arm. He was looking particularly frilly this evening, and a thousand mocking comments leapt to its lips, but it hadn't the time.
"Is that a courting habit of the higher predators that I don't know of? Because it seems to me that those little flippancies of yours must be extremely effective at discouraging admirers...why do you do that, Escher?"
Its fingertips itched.
"You made me, Xaraphon. You tell me."
It smiled, and locked eyes with its new companion.
"Fenris...how does the evening find you?"
His queer blue eyes ate up every detail of its face as they exchanged pleasantries.
Behind its shoulder, the angel giggled.
"He looks an awful lot like Felicien, doesn't he?"

Felicien.
A memory, a flash.
Blue eyes, burning with need, dark hair always hanging in the way, a voice that wrapped around its brain like warm, scented oil, promising purpose, promising...hope.
"Felicien was a long time ago."
The angel laughed, and the sound was like sugar cubes falling into the depth of a well, like the chiming of church bells, like the breaking apart of things that could be sundered but not destroyed.
"Did you love him, Escher?"
"No."
"You're lying."

Fenris was still standing over it, asking it to...asking it to...
Asking me to watch over the girl for him. A childe, someone's childe, not his...
The childe it had met before, in passing, a pretty little thing, her name was -
"Karly."
"Of course, Mr. Black, it would be my pleasure."
The scent of him, the sight of him, so close, was stirring things it didn't want awakened.
It felt the flesh rise along the length of its spine as the hunger rolled over in its sleep, felt the reflexive lengthening and sharpening the back of its mouth, as muscle and gum parted in breach, felt the white fangs slide down to scrape the surface of its tongue...
It bit down hard on the cigar holder to hide the lisp, turned its attention to the childe, and ignored him until he went away.

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

Gwynefar was moving among the Damned, and the creature called the Inquisitrix watched her every movement, absorbed in her simple grace, entranced by the light, shining off her hair.
She was very beautiful.
The angel's voice whispered across its neck.
"Do you really think she'd be pleased to see you, if she did remember?"
It leaned back into that scent of gold and of honey, as at the periphery of its vision Lady Cerise, all demure beauty and gentle manner, chatted to the childe, Karly, keeping her amused, and it smiled, bitterly.
"No. No, I don't imagine she would. They never are."
He took a deep breath, and wrapped his arms around it, cradling it like a child. And it knew, that while those arms were warm and solid, any attempt it made to move against them would be met only with thin air.
His lips were in its hair.
"Why do you still watch them, Escher? You follow their Requiems, far off and unseen, and none of them know who you are anymore. You've discarded the names they knew you under...are you so frightened of the past?"
It shook its head.
All of the answers are right there waiting, at the tips of your fingers, if you have but the courage to take them....
"They still need me, in their way. All my little soulless, Damned refugees, stumbling blindly through the Danse Macabre..."
"How can you stand to be forgotten?"
"It gets easier."

A memory, sudden and startling, whipped its head from now to a moment long past.
Strings.
The strings were in my hands...
I could smell it, flowing inside her.
Just a taste...
I drew them too tight - she fainted, later.
You forget how fragile they are...
And how strong are we...
You forget;
So long since I needed to breathe...
Strings.
Strings in my hands.
I drew them too tight.
I was hungry.
"Do you ever feel remorse, at all? For what you did to her? For what you did to the others?"
The angel's golden voice, breezing across its neck, brought it back to the present with jarring speed and, momentarily disoriented, it looked about, reminding itself of where it was.
Its eyes drifted over beauty that most mortals would never dream of, and debasement as thick as syrup, lingering on each Kindred in attendance in turn, sparing some longer glances than others.
Predatory, and they pretended not to be.
Lonely, and decieving themselves that the company of their own kind could relieve that.
Damned, and so few were willing to admit it.
The angel ran his fingers through its hair, and watched the denizens of the night over its shoulder, hand playing upon its upper arm, fingers tapping, as if on the keys of a piano.
"No," it said, finally, and there was not an iota of doubt in its voice.
He chuckled, then, and cupped its face in his hands, fingers like ivory talons, eyes, as always, fixed on something far distant that it couldn't see, wondering, dreaming, wet and benign.
"You're perfect," he murmured, and with those words, condemned it again.
"You're just like him."

Current Location:	Sydney
Current Mood:	contemplative
Current Music:	'Hurt' - Nine Inch Nails

A whisper in the darkness
A shadow in the hall
A memory slowly fading
That she won't miss at all
It's too late to say he's sorry, it's too much for him to bear
He's got all the time she needed
Now she doesn't seem to care

Current Location:	Sydney
Current Mood:	lonely
Current Music:	'Heaven's Gate' - Toni Childs

For the umpteenth time it read the words.

''We have allowed this masquerade to continue long enough. We are tired
of maintaining an icon for the Sanctified to cling to as a beacon of the True Faith.
We are Abidan zas Fershun.
We will speak of Titles. We will speak of Sin. We will speak of betrayal.
We are Praetor of the Brood of Belial.''

And it felt no surprise. Only a disgust, and a contempt so profound that it stirred a snarl, low in its throat. It clenched its fist and felt the blood trickle down its arm.
Abidan...they will cry for you.
Unconsciously, its lip lifted slightly.
They will weep, as if you mattered. As if any of us ever mattered. As if the tears were not shameful. As if the love were not shameful. So many that allowed themselves to become your puppets because they permitted themselves, indulged themselves to fall to the complacency of trust.
Predators, indeed.
And Valeron...Valeron...sweet-faced, golden haired, honey-tasting Valeron...
I can't even summon disappointment.

''Come those are willing to die for their faith. We will grant you release at Our hand.''

Its face was resolute and cold, as its fingers danced across the keyboard.

''Father Inquisitor,

I would pray that your words are a ploy to unite us.
But I fear that would be in vain.
You know what we must do.
Prepare thyself.
And may God have mercy on you, for we shall not.

Mortis ultima ratio,
Escher, the Inquisitrix, High Bishop of the West''

So.
And it began a new correspondence, to cross the nation, to cross the world.
To war.

Current Location:	Central Perth
Current Mood:	nauseated
Current Music:	'Head Like A Hole' - NIN

The small aircraft rocked violently, and the angel was knocked sharply from its reverie by a startled gasp from the seat beside it. Slowly, it turned its head and looked into the face of the Alder Lord Khovros, the handsome planes and angles of his exotic countenance hidden and revealed as the shadows passed over it. His usual unflappable demeanour remained in place, although to the Inquisitrix, it seemed now to fit him slightly askew.
"My Lord?"
The plane rocked again, harder this time, and there was a startled yelp from the seat behind, quickly followed by an only slightly shaky enquiry of,
"What was that?"
The angel turned in its seat, twisting its body against the firm restraint of the seatbelt, and craned its long neck to look its abecadarian in the face. It did its best to keep its own voice steady, and keep hidden the creeping fear that unfurled its dark tentacles low in its belly.
"Just some turbulence, I imagine, Jason. Probably no greater than we'd normally encounter flying; we must simply feel it more, since the craft is so small, and thus more vulnerable to the elements."
"Your Grace?"
"Sit back, and tighten your seatbelt. We'll be on the ground in less than twenty minutes."
It twisted back around, and draped itself back against the seat, attempting to affect its characteristic languor. It didn't work.
The creature glanced sidelong at its Invictus companion, his regal attitude defiant in the face of his tense pallor. The Khovros was old, it knew that much. Old in the way that the Kindred reckoned old, and perhaps as old as Shaitan, if the whispers were to be believed...
The Inquisitrix was not certain of that one way or the other, but at any rate, it knew its companion was certainly of suffucient antiquity to be distrustful of modern technology at the best of times...
The plane lurched again, and it felt its own knuckles turn white on the edge of the armrest.
The man beside it was dressed in the clothes of a wealthy Arab, but if the rumours of his age were true, then the angel judged him more likely to have lived as a Persian catamite.
God knew, he was pretty enough.
"My Lord," it began again, turning to the Alder beside it, "Are you quite -"
The crackle from the loudspeaker warned them of an incoming message from the cockpit, and both predators turned their heads towards the sound.
"Good evening passengers, this is your captain. There's nothing much to worry about - you may have felt some turbulence, but its nothing we couldn't fly through. However, I've just recieved word from the control tower that we can't land at Perth Domestic Airport. Apparently, we're being redirected to Perth International."
The Inquisitrix turned to its companion, and saw that his eyes were wide, with just the flicker of fear beginning to rise behind them. The unease settled deep in its stomach and sat there, like a leaden weight.
"But...but our escort is waiting at Perth Domestic..."
"I'm sorry about this, gentlemen. There's nothing I can do - we have to land at Perth International Airport, they won't let us land at the domestic terminal."
The crackle died away, and a heavy silence descended on the three inhabitants of the passenger bay. It was Jason who broke it.
"But...Your Grace...why does it make a difference where we land? As long as we make it onto the ground in one piece, surely -"
The Inquisitrix shook its head, carefully watching the dark-skinned Ventrue beside it lest he lose composure and, in these quarters, doom them all.
"No, Jason - our security and our transport is waiting at the domestic airport. If we're re-routed to the international terminal, we'll be completely exposed. We'll be disembarking open and naked to anyone who wants to attack us."
It touched the Alder's hand, and briefly squeezed it.
"My Lord, I think someone's interfering with us."
He gazed back, realisation slowly dawning in his dark, wanton eyes - the angel could only wonder at how many women and men had lost themselves in those eyes, over the centuries - and nodded.
"When we land, I'll call my Proctor. No one leaves this plane until we have ourselves an armed escort waiting inside the terminal."
The Inquisitrix nodded slowly, then fixed its companion with a sombre gaze.
"My Alder Lord...if there comes a need, I will keep you from harm. Know that the Second Estate, as always, will continue to protect the First. I...we...will not see you hurt."
He nodded his head once, and touched it lightly on the arm.
"I should greatly appreciate that, Lady Bishop. You would, of course, be repaid, as the honour bonds of the Invictus dictate."
It shook its head, then, and managed a quick smile before the apprehension crawled back up into its throat.
"Why, my Lord, I would not hear of such a thing. It is merely self-preservation to thwart those who seek to do me harm, and hardly more effort to foil similar attempts targeted at your person, as long as you stay close - and, I come to suspect, my pleasure besides; this has Vitruvio stink all over it."

Current Location:	400, 000 feet above Western Australia
Current Mood:	pissed off
Current Music:	'Two' - Ill Nino

Rix: You'll never catch me being Prince
So don't get cute ideas!
Elders: This City's had so many Princes and
It always ends in tears!
Rix: You'll never catch me on the throne,
Or drawing up new laws;
I'd rather stand in the shadows
Like I always have before.

Elders: We haven't had a stable ruler since...
Rix: Oh, I so don't want to be Prince!

Elders (speaking): You know, we're running out of prospects, Your Grace, and it really seems...
Rix: Don't you bother asking!
Elders: Please?
Rix: Don't you bother pleading!
Elders: Pretty please?
Don't you bother threatening!
Elders: Don't you care about the City?
Rix: Don't you bother wheedling!
Elders: STEP UP!

Rix: Free to puppet some other poor sod...
Elders: Now, if you'd just see reason...
Rix: With no-one after my blood!

Elders: We think it's time that you and we arranged a heart to heart.
Rix: No-one'd even know how to address me, for a start!
Elders: The City's sliding toward ruin and...
Rix: No, screw you, count me out! Out of spotlight, out of firing line, I'll be nowhere thereabout!
Elders: We're getting tired of dropping you these hints...
Rix: Oh, I so don't want to be Prince!

Rix: Everybody look left..
Everybody look right...
Everywhere you look I'm...
Dodging the spotlight!
Elders: What will it take?!

Chorus: Let every Kindred whisper at the Ball;
It's written in the blood, upon the wall...
Inquisitrix is saying "F*** you all!"
Rix and Chorus: Oh, I so don't want to be Prince!
Oh, I so don't want to be Prince!
Oh, I so dooooooooooooooooon't waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant to be Prince!

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	annoyed
Current Music:	See above

( Sex and Salvation )
Fenris smiled as his eyes fell upon his beautiful visitor, and murmured,
"That's a lovely pair of trousers, Inquisitrix."
The comment hearkened back to a former conversation, and as his odd, blue eyes slid over its face, eating up every detail, the Inquisitrix felt its flesh rise in response, nipples hardening.
It gave no sign.
"Your Highness," it murmured, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, barely aware of the curious regard of its Invictus companion, standing at its side, "A genuine pleasure to see you once more. We thank you for your hospitality."
A tiny smirk played at the corners of the Prince of Melbourne's mouth, and he inclined his head ever-so-slightly. The creature called Inquisitrix tensed, imperceptibly, as its eyes fell upon the side of his neck, and it felt the reflexive growth and sharpening start involuntarily in the back of its mouth.
Then it smiled, dazzlingly - although not too widely, lest he glimpse the drawn fangs - and reached inside its jacket, and withdrew a largish square box that could not possibly have fitted beneath the perfect, flat-laying fabric. The man opposite quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not appear to respond to this anomaly.
It reached down, every movement smooth and graceful, and placed the box on the table between them, then straightened back up, murmuring,
"In thanks for your gracious hospitality, and in recognition of our Covenants' long-standing association, I have taken the liberty of bringing you a small token of my regard."
Fenris smiled a little further, and thanked it in a soft, low voice, eyes still ever roaming, unceasingly over its face, jawline, neck...throat.
The animal within the angel snarled and strained at its bonds.
So pretty...want....need....
No.
The Inquisitrix smiled enigmatically as the Prince of Melbourne opened the box. His slight frown, his almost indetectable uncertainty, warmed its insides, and set it to silent laughter within.
Within the box sat a figure, exquisitely carved in ebony - a black wolf, snarling and bristling, with a mother-of-pearl disc between its jaws.
He looked up at it, then, the question hanging in his eyes, and it could tell he did not know whether to take the gift as a compliment or as an insult.
The Inquisitrix simply smiled suavely once more, an unspoken challenge in its eyes, as its flesh rippled with excitement. The smile could almost have been cruel...but it was not hard enough for that. It was...mocking, but not mocking him, somehow.
He smiled, and the confusion was gone.
It smoothly withdrew, dropped him a low bow, and turned away.

The angel sat in the far corner of the library, near to the door, its long, sleek form draped across a piano stool, and watched in silence as Fenris and its companion, the Alder Lord Khovros, spoke upon matters of the First Estate. It didn't listen. It didn't need to listen.
It had a fairly good idea of what they spoke.
Of Sydney...and of Shaitan.
That word alone set its lips to curl. There was no love lost between the Prince of Melbourne and the self-declared Primus of Australia...
Perhaps that went some way towards explaining its attraction, it mused. Certainly, Fenris was handsome, and charming, and intelligent, and charismatic...but those qualities held no particular allure for it. After all, it was possessed of them itself.
But there was something about this Fenris Black, something that it had sensed when they had first met, in Autumn, amidst the turmoil and the upheaval of the April gathering...
Something that touched its passions.
And the Daeva Prince made no secret of his reciprocal desire, but then, his kind wanted everything of beauty that their eyes fell upon.
And what the Inquisitrix wanted of him was not to surrender, to be conquered as so many pretty Kindred who were able to giggle the words, "Yes, Your Highness," did, falling at his feet...
No.
The angel wanted something different.
And, despite itself, it did want him.
So badly.

As it watched, Fenris lifted his head, and met its eyes. Then he rose, excusing himself, came around the table and approached. The Inquisitrix watched his every movement, his every step, as he crossed the room, held his eyes all the way...
And, not for the first time, cursed the demands of its Creed.
I want....
The voice of that other mind, reptilian and hungry, whispered through its head. It closed its eyes as a hot shudder ran through its body, then pushed it away.
No.
"You must be awfully bored."
The angel looked into the face of the man standing over it, and smiled enigmatically, taking a slow drag on its cigar and exhaling the aromatic smoke. It allowed a moment to pass before it answered.
"Not terribly. I've been enjoying watching the newborns come and go, and eavesdropping on their tales of this...'Black Elysium'."
Fenris inclined his head as he watched, and once again the angel felt its eyes drawn inexorably to his throat.
Damn.
"Come sit with us."
The casualness of the words was belied by the intensity, riding low in his voice, and the fire that licked at the back of his eyes, burning into its own. It was disturbed to feel a pulse begin in its neck...
Fenris offered a hand, and drew the Inquisitrix to its feet. His hand was surprisingly warm...or at least felt that way through its gloves.
I want....
No.
He led the angel towards the table, where it saw that a spare seat sat waiting for it, on the other side of Fenris' chair to Khovros. Then his hand slipped out of its own, found its shoulder and slid down to rest lightly on the small of its back...
His touch seemed to burn through jacket and shirt, to scorch the flesh beneath.
I want...
No.
A long-ago conversation, one that it had thought forgotten and lost to the sands of time entered its head then, and it blinked in surprise.
Felicien.
How long had it been since it last thought about him?
"You can't suppress your needs, childe...you must give them a little indulgence, now and then, so that they don't overwhelm you. If you repress them so completely, they will consume you in the end. Don't be a fool. You can't possibly think you can keep to this laughable geas...not with the blood that flows through your veins whispering to you in the dark...renounce this folly."
"No. I took a vow."
Fenris pulled out the chair and motioned for his guest to sit, and the Inquisitrix snapped back to the present with jarring speed. His hand was on its shoulder, once again burning its skin through its clothes.
It imagined those self-same fingers brushing lightly across the flesh of its neck and sighed softly, longingly, as it sat.
Then Fenris sat down beside it...slid his hand under the table...and began to gently stroke its knee...
A moist heat blossomed low in its belly...
And it was all it could do not to moan aloud.
I want....
No.
It closed its eyes, and began to pray.

Forgive me, Father, for my impure thoughts, and grant me the strength to overcome this need...
Oh, Father.
Help me.
I WANT....!

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	bored
Current Music:	'The Sinner In Me' - Depeche Mode

The night wind was cool but gentle, and spring was in the air, for those who could sense such things. The evening was still; no birds cried in the night, and there was sense of tranquility...of rest...in the air.
Perhaps that was why the boy moved so confidently through the darkness, only shivering slightly from the chill that cut through his clothes, unafraid of the shadows.
Perhaps he did not notice the red moon.

The angel, the predator, smiled as it tracked his progress toward the rooftop where it crouched, the thistle turning, contemplatively, between its fingers. No heartbeat, no breath betrayed its presence as it watched the lamb that moved slowly on the ground beneath. Such a pretty child. Surely there was no harm in simply observing this one...true, he did no wrong that would be its to punish, but his sweetness, his youth, his sheer seeming innocence drew the beautiful creature on the rooftop like a clarion call.
"Father, rejoice," it whispered to the night, in a voice of silk and honey, "For whatever you wanted them to be..."
A thorn caught on the fabric of its glove and dug, sharply, through the fabric and into the flesh beneath, and the angel's prayer was abruptly cut off as it drew in a hissing breath at the sudden pain. A drop of blood welled from the tear and fell, seeming to hang suspended for one agonising moment before it destroyed itself against the cobbles below.
To the creature on the roof, the sound was like thunder.
The boy below could not possibly have heard, yet he stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and stopped walking for a moment, in order to cast a brief, cursory glance around, as if to reassure himself that he was alone. The predator above him knew better.
The deer senses when the hunter is close.
After a moment, he moved on, and the creature watched him, head cocked with interest.
What was this child doing out alone at this hour?
Impulsively, it decided to find out.

It rode the rooftops, keeping pace with its quarry, but now it noticed a change in the boy. Whereas before he had seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts, now he appeared more...aware, somehow. As if conscious of a change in the air. He stopped, now, and sniffed the air like a hunted rabbit, drawing in some scent that his pursuer could not detect. There was a moment, then, where he glanced about in confusion and apprehension, and the creature froze, flattening itself against the roof, watching the child for any sign of having noticed it...
Then the boy visibly relaxed, seemingly, inexplicably, almost...comforted.
Serene.
The angel swung itself down onto the fence, and smiled.
"Boy...where are you going?"
The child stiffened, startled - and now, in the moonlight, it could see shadows at the base of his neck; dark, livid bruises that rose above the collar of his woolen jumper, and its lips curled back from its teeth as its hands clenched into fists.
Someone had been hurting this boy, this sweet-faced cherub.
Something dark and hungry stirred inside.
Someone would pay.

The boy turned, slowly, where he stood, and his eyes naturally found the beautiful creature which sat perched astride the spear-topped wrought-iron fence, one leg dangling.
His eyes betrayed no fear, only surprise.
Good.
"G...going? Just...for a walk..."
It smiled more broadly, and its teeth caught the moonlight. It's voice was like satin in the stillness of the night.
"Why do you walk alone, out here in the cold?"
The child inclined his head slightly...now that he did so, the creature could see that he was older than it had first thought, perhaps fifteen...and squinted, trying to better make out his new companion in the night. Tentatively, he stepped closer, and it felt the reflexive lengthening and sharpening of its incisors begin as it caught the scent of him.
"I always do this. I usually don't go to sleep until at least an hour after I know the other boy is asleep."
Other boy?
It suppressed the soft growl that rose in its throat. Now it knew who had been hurting him...
The boy fell silent, and his hand went to his mouth.
The revelation was unintentional, then, it mused.
The lad lifted his chin, defiantly.
"Father Patrick says it's okay. You can ask him, if you want."
Ask him...? Of course. He saw its black clerical suit and Roman collar, and thought...
Ah. It could use this.
"What's your name, boy?"
It grinned again, and the light caught in back of its mouth, then it leapt down from the fence to the cobbles below. The boy was looking at its strangely, as it approached, his brows knit in that way it had come to recognise. That particular brand of perplexity that could only mean...
"I don't think I recognise you. And that makes sense..." he paused, brows knitting together, and it prepared itself for the verdict, "...since girls aren't allowed here."
There. There it was. Now it knew what to play to.
"If Father Patrick finds me talking to you, he'll take away my privelages..."
"Shhhhh." It moved closer to him, allowing its charisma to wrap around him, watching his pupils dilate as it closed the distance between them. Its voice took on a low, hypnotic tone as its blood began to flow...
"Shhhh, it's alright; everything's going to be fine."
Slowly, slowly, it watched as that familiar aneasthetised look crept over his pretty features...now, standing so near to him, it could see drying tracks down his rosy cheeks. The boy had been crying.
It's heart twisted within its chest. Damn mortals and the hurt they did each other...
"A...alright..." his voice was low now, and relaxed. Almost dopey. He was so close...
It closed its eyes, briefly, and lost itself in the scent of him. Pain and fear and loneliness and life.
And that voice...
"I'm Aidan. Aidan O'Riley."
"Aidan...I'm Ravel. Do you know where the nearest church is around here, Aidan?"
Aidan O'Riley. You...and all those who wear your scars...are the reason so many doubt God's existence. It's not right for one so young to be so sad.
The lad nodded slightly, as his pupils almost swallowed his irises, and mouthed the word, as if tasting it, trying it out; Ravel.
"Yes, there is the Cathedral...it's just on the other side of the boy's dormitory..." he pointed vaguely, his eyes never leaving its face. There was a small, dark bruise of his left cheek, and Ravel felt its eyes drawn there, irresistably pulled to that small badge of pain.
The Lord is his shephard, he shall not want...Father, where are you now? Where have you been? This child is your SON!
The angel swallowed a lump of pain.
"Aidan...would you take me there, Aidan?" it smiled gently, and stepped closer to the child. The lad nodded a little, nervously almost, his countenance one of a rabbit caught in the spotlight. His pulse was speeding, it noticed, and he was taking little, shallow breaths.
It frowned slightly, concerned.
"Of course, I suppose..." he glanced back, in the direction of the dorm house, "I suppose that I can walk you there and be back in time."
It cocked its head to one side, and smiled sweetly, reassuringly.
"When is your curfew? I shouldn't want to make you late."
"I am supposed to be in within the hour."
The lad shrugged his thin shoulders, and the angel watched him keenly, not missing his attempt to appear nonchalant. A small smile played at the corners of its mouth. Aidan looked up and met its eyes again, his gaze wide and somehow heartbreakingly fragile in the moonlight.
"I have a performance tomorrow, and I need to be awake early. But...shall we?"
Ravel leaned forward, smiling confidentially, and whispered, conspiratorially,
"Am I going to get you into trouble, Aidan?"
And suddenly all the hurt in the world was visible in those big eyes; the creature had to fight the urge to gasp and pull back.
"Probably...but that wouldn't be so bad, really...maybe if they saw me with a girl, they wouldn't think..." he stopped abruptly, and fell silent.
The angel, the predator felt a sudden stab of soul-deep pain. It was rare enough that its kind encountered such honesty...or such vulnerability...
It smiled, teasingly to lighten the mood, even as the sorrow clawed at its breast, and looked off toward the Cathedral.
"Ssssh, you'll get me in trouble. I'm here to see the Father about a position in the church. Aidan...you won't tell on me, will you?"
The boy frowned, which was better than his horrible, beautiful openness.
"No. No, although...you shouldn't be here. It's not allowed."
He paused, and then shifted uncomfortably, avoiding its eyes. That rabbit-like cast returned to his face.
"Why don't we go to the church? It might be better..."
It was frightening him, it realised, with the closest thing it had felt to shock in many years. In some way it didn't quite understand, it was frightening him...the creature moved smoothly back a step, carefully watching the boy's face, and smiled again, to end the moment.
"Alright, young master O'Riley...why don't you take me there?"

The lad nodded slightly and then turned away, his feet turning smoothly onto a path that Ravel could not see. As it started off behind him, the moonlight fell onto the back of his neck, highlighting the bruises, and its hands curled into fists.
It would stay here, then. Long enough to put this right.
He spoke without turning.
"It isn't far, but it does get dark. I'm afraid I don't have a flashlight. You won't get scared, will you?"
The creature was glad he didn't see the smile that crept across its face, then.
"Only if you don't come with me, Aidan."
The boy looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide with honest surprise.
"Oh, of course I will show you..." and he gave it a smile then, which went straight to its heart. In the light of that smile, and in the glow of the moon, he was unbearably beautiful, bruises and all.
Ravel felt a slight catch in its throat.
Oh, Father, look at this child...how could any not love him? Where are his parents?
Aidan giggled, "Well? Come on, then!" and turned back to the path.
The creature followed behind him, heart full of pity and head full of righteous wrath.

The minutes passed in silence as they trod the wellworn path through the trees, and then the lad turned to his companion and spoke.
"I don't want to be rude, but what kind of a name is Ravel? I've never heard anything like it before."
The predator couldn't help but smile.
"You're not rude, Aidan; I doubt you've met anyone with a similar name before. It's actually Ravel de Chandagnac - it's French."
The boy looked thoughtful.
"Oh. I suppose that makes sense. I've never been to France." as he spoke, his hand strayed down to his left pants pocket and he withdrew a small, black, and thoroughly unimpressive rosary. He rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully, touching each bead.
Ravel watched him in silence for some time, trying to guage his mood, then finally spoke, voice heavy in the silence.
"How long have you been here, Aidan?"
He looked up at it, and replied,
"Three years now, since..." he made as if to say more, but then caught himself, and finished, guardedly, "Since the government took me."
So, he had been removed from his home. That explained the question of his parents, then. But what could they have done to him? What could anyone have done to this sweet, innocent child?
In time, it would learn. But for now...
The angel smiled, slow and easy, glancing inscrutably at the lad who walked at its side.
""You're very fortunate to be so close to the church...what's your favourite hymn?"
The gambit paid off, as the boy was obviously disarmed, and he gave a genuine smile as he responded, "Amazing Grace. I know it's popular...but I've loved it since I was a boy."
Ravel had to move its hand to cover the smile that snaked across its face at that. Since he was a boy? What did he think he was now? After a mere moment's struggle, it subborned the mirth that had threatened to make itself known, and turned back to its young companion to question him further...
When suddenly he broke into song, there in the darkness, the clear, high, unbearably sweet strains of his voice seeming to shatter the night into a million gleaming shards. And the creature felt itself carried away then, riding those long, unbearably beautiful notes up to the heavens, to touch the face of God...
And then Aidan fell silent, and bashful, and the moment of transcendence was gone, and the angel fell painfully back to the cold, stark loneliness of the Earth.
Aidan looked down, blushing.
"I'm sorry...I don't...I don't know why I did that."
Ravel was startled to find that its hand had flown to its heart, and that its vision was misted over in scarlet. Self-consciously, it composed itself, blinking back the tears that threatened to betray it. Then it touched the boy's hand briefly - little more than a brush, in passing, or so it would seem. And it smiled.
"You have a wonderful gift, Aidan - thankyou for sharing it with me. Even the beauty of that sweet song is eclipsed by the greater sweetness of your voice. And I know what it is to be lost in music - I am something of a musician myself."
At these words, the boy seemed to come alive; his eyes were bright, and an excited smile grew upon his face and oh, how it wanted to take this child in its arms and steal everything that had ever hurt him to itself!
"Oh? Really? Do you sing?"
Ravel shook its head.
"No, not quite." it raised its slender, graceful gloved hands, and turned them over, for the boy to inspect." I am a composer. I extract the purest voice from both violin and piano, and weave it into tunes of such beauty that I hope they may touch the face of God, like your hymns."
Something occurred to it, then, and it turned to Aidan, smiling gently.
"Please tell me you are in the church's choir - it would be a heartbreaking loss if you were not."
The boy grinned then, shyly, and glowing with soft pride, replied, "I serve in the Ireland boy's choir, actually. I am their soloist."
Though his eyes were downcast beneath the screen of his lashes, it knew that they must be brilliantly shining, and restrained the urge to reach out and touch him.
"Good," it whispered softly, watching as the lad closed his eyes in the soft caress of its voice, "Because you have a beautiful gift, and when God gifts us, the least we owe him is to dedicate that talent to his glory."
Just as I have done, haven't I, Father? If only my talents were as gentle as this child's.
A light appeared up ahead and Aidan pulled up short now, turning to face his companion, gesturing toward it.
"That's the door to the Cathedral," he murmured, his voice suddenly shy again, eyes once more downcast beneath the fringe of his long dark lashes. "They always leave in unlocked, even this late at night. I think I see Father Patrick's office light on, too."
He smiled then, a smile of such beauty and sweetness that the angel was, momentarily, quite lost for words.
"It was a pleasure. It really was."
It reached out to him and touched his shoulder, drawing his gaze to its eyes. Then it lost itself once again to the warmth as its blood surged within it, and as its voice went straight to his heart...
"I will be seeing you again, Aidan - seeing you soon. Now, go back to your dorm, and sleep well, and peacefully. Goodnight."
Then it released him - he stood there, looking dazed, for a moment - and turned, and walked toward the church.
The wind whispered through the trees above it's head, and through the grasses about its feet, and it said softly aloud, in a voice of silk and honey,
"Do not chide me, Father. This child needs a miracle."

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	contemplative
Current Music:	'Rapunzel' - Emilie Autumn

I've got a bitch of a headache and I'm OOC tired from IC challenges, such as studiously ignoring the amorous attentions of a certain Daeva prince. Plus, people who shall not be named have been really nasty to me today, and I'm just about at the "Screw you" point.

So, this is all that's going up today. Enjoy, kids.

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	bitchy
Current Music:	'Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps' - Cake

Mi Ange,

If you are reading this then consider this my last confession. My Requiem has met its Final Night and this is what I wish that you know of my last thoughts and feelings. I have done many bad things for what I feel is the betterment of my fellow Kindred. I do not know if my death is because of what I know for that would be not equivilant to what I have done. Yet I have commited the greatest sin to the Sanctified of all. I have loved and that love is you.

Well it took a little time, but I guess you finally learned
That promises get broken, and bridges do get burned
You've been sifting through the ashes just trying to find the flame
And holding on to nothing
You're a victim of the game

You may drop this letter in shock or you may tear it asunder then cast it to the four winds. I beseech you to read on. I have loved you and it is no curse of the blood, I swear to you this. You have given me a new perspective on life even though it was short lived. You made me feel old feelings that I have long thought dead. You have allowed me to let the death of my wife haunt me no more. I have buried our wedding rings in her grave.

You were standing way too close to see it fall apart
And there were things you couldn't hear, because you were listening with your heart
You can't say I didn't warn you, now there's no-one else to blame
There's no-one quite as blind
As a victim of the game

I thank you for all things. Now I confess my sins. I will never see your beautiful face. I will never look in your lovely eyes. I will never feel your touch against my skin. I will never be able to feel your pure flesh. I will never be able to smell your midnight roses or the smell of roses off your skin. But last I will never feel your sinful kiss upon my lips. I cry thinking these thoughts even though they are written before my death. God has torn me from this earth and sent me to my judged place. If I am turned toward Hell maybe they will torment by letting me look upon you from time to time.

And it don't matter who you are
It treats everyone the same
All you need is a heart
To be a victim of the game

If I am sent to Heaven maybe God will allow me to watch over you and guide you. Either way I hope to see you again. I have sinned; please find it in your heart to forgive me for my sins. I love you. May God forgive me, and may you forgive me.

You know it's really getting to me when you pause to tell your lies
And you can try to fool your friends but you can't look them in the eyes
There ain't no standing tall in the shadow of the shame
When everybody knows
That you're a victim of the game

This is my last confession for I no longer walk this world and do His works. May God guide you on the path and may Longinus keep your fangs sharp and your claws honed. Happy hunting, Inquisitrix, my cunning Fox, mi Peche, mi Ange.

With All my Love,
Tanis 'Arachnid' 'Wolf'

And it don't matter who you are
It treats everyone the same
All you need is a heart
To be a victim of the game

"I did what duty was mine to do...and I am not ashamed."
The beautiful creaure's eyes, at this moment as tawny as opium smoke, hardened, suddenly flinty and cruel. It crushed the letter within its fist and smelt the dry, dead scent as the blood in which it was scribed flaked off and fell to the floor, swirling and eddying in the dying light like nothing more than red dust.
Nothing...more...than dust...
"Never ashamed."

Oh, you know when I look into your eyes
I can really feel your pain
I'm staring in the mirror
At a victim of the game

The crumpled piece of parchment fluttered slowly, like a defeated angel, to the cold stone flags, and the paragon turned on its heel, flicking the shining gold tail over its shoulder and strode away, drawing from its jacket a cigarillo as it did so. It stopped, at the door, and stood, slouching catlike in the doorway, hunched forward over the silver lighter, enamelled with a full-colour picture of the blessed virgin, replete with halo and sacred heart.
It was very beautiful, and the night smelt like roses.

"Was it worth it, Levram?" it whispered, and its words were silken ghosts upon the velvet blanket of the echoing silence, hanging, weightless, just above the void. The flame caught in its eyes, and in that moment, its eyes were as red as blood, or embers, and its words were hard and inscrutable.
"Was it? I really hope it was."
It paused to exhale a cloud of sweet-scented smoke, and then snickered - a hard, ugly sound, with a tang almost as bitter as the smile that climbed up its porcelain features. And it shook its head, then, slow and rueful.
"Look upon my works, ye wretches, and tremble...God have mercy."

Then it turned away, and shut the door on the shame it didn't feel.

Current Location:	30, 000 ft in the air, between Melbourne and Perth
Current Mood:	blah

The moonlight falls dappled through the leaves and plays upon the water of the lake, sparkling and teasing, like the promise of catching a rainbow. The night breeze whispers a soft susurrus through the long grass where Howling Wolf sits cross-legged behind Grey Fox, braiding his hair. They have been blood-brothers for more than three years now, and have shared this ritual often, although Howling Wolf, for some reason he doesn’t quite understand, enjoys it far more than does Grey Fox - far more, he senses, with the poisonous whisper of soul-deep guilt, than he should. Grey Fox’s hair is so glittering a gold, and so soft and silken in Howling Wolf’s hands that he can’t help but like to touch it - it is far different to his own, which is coarse like the tail of a horse, and a dull ebon black, though he oils it often. And he likes to touch Grey Fox, likes to be close to him - he is drawn always to his blood-brother, who stirs him in a way that none of the other braves do, for some reason that he doesn’t understand…
Once more the guilt pinches at his chest. Perhaps it is because Grey Fox smells like flowers, a sort of flowers that Howling Wolf doesn’t recognize although he feels certain that they would be very beautiful, or perhaps it’s because his skin is soft, like a squaw’s. Or perhaps it is because with his delicate face and softly glowing creamy-white flesh, Grey Fox reminds him of a spirit…
Or perhaps it’s because of that day when he came upon Grey Fox bathing alone, and saw that his body was smooth, and hairless, and rounded like that of a squaw, and he watched, unseen, for a long time, unable to look away…
And the image of his blood-brother bare has burned in his mind ever since. He sees it every time he closes his eyes, and it enflames him in a way he doesn’t quite grasp.
Perhaps it’s because Howling Wolf suspects that his blood-brother, his best friend, whose soul is now mated to his for all time, is not really a brave at all…
Now his hands shake, ever so slightly, as they linger about the back of Grey Fox’s neck. Howling Wolf breathes deep, and he can smell those flowers again, and Grey Fox’s silken, glittering hair lies is a partly-braided golden rope between his hands, and it lights a fire low down in his belly.
He shifts back a little, horrified at the idea that his blood-brother might feel the press of his awakening.
And he makes himself be silent, as for another long moment, he continues to play with that soft, silken mane…
And then he speaks.
“Why don’t you bathe with me, Fox?” he asks, trying desperately to keep the tremor from his voice. And he calls himself a thousand fools as his best friend stiffens under his hands. When he replies, his voice is carefully measured, unlike the Sioux boy’s own.
“I’ve told you before, Wolf, where I come from the boys don’t bathe together.”
And Howling Wolf is filled with self-loathing as he hears the words slip, unbidden from his tongue,
“But you are here now, and you have adopted our ways. We are brothers.”
Stop it, he tells himself, stop it now, you’ll ruin everything…
But he is powerless in the hands of the spirits and, trembling all over, he slowly leans forward and puts his lips against the soft, scented flesh of the back of his best friend’s neck.
Grey Fox gasps and stiffens, and Howling Wolf dies a thousand deaths as he thinks of what his father will say…
Then the other boy relaxes, and leans back into his arms, and gooseflesh crawls over Wolf’s body like an army of tiny, tingling ants.
“Are you a brave?” he whispers, his voice strained by the lump in his throat and muffled by the press of his lips against the other’s soft nape.
There is a moment of silence, then Fox answers.
“…No.”
And Howling Wolf’s heart runs faster than his namesake. His voice cracks with emotion, and a fervent, desperate hope.
“Are you a squaw?”
“Not exactly.”
And Fox twists in his arms, turning about, until he faces Howling Wolf, and lets his head fall forward against the other boy’s shoulder. The night air is heady with the intermingled scent of unknown flowers, and longing. Wolf’s arms close around Fox, and he whispers into his hair.
“What are you, then?”
It feels as if lightning runs between them, across them, over them. The flesh of both boys rises in response to the chill in the night air as far off in the distance, thunder cracks along the horizon. The heavens open up, and the torrent pours down.
The water dampens Grey Fox’s skins causing them to cling to his form, and Howling Wolf can’t tear his eyes away from the smooth curves of waist and hip, so girlish in contour but utterly without bosom, the confusing flatness of his breast heaving now in the space between them. The water runs like tears down his beautiful face.
“What do you want me to be?” he whispers in the darkness, and then the space between them is bridged as their lips, aching with longing, finally meet. The thunder crashes a little closer now, as they pull each other close, hot despite their drenched state, oblivious of their shivering, their world shrinking and tightening until it contains nothing more than lips, and tongues, and hot breath, and frantic hands, and the press of two bodies that fling themselves together in the midst of the storm.
And they fall together into the long grass, heedless of the torrent.

Current Location:	Bayswater
Current Mood:	creative
Current Music:	'Rose Red' - Emilie Autumn