𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇
.ೃ࿐⁷ ᵇⁱˡˡⁱᵒⁿ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ, ¹⁴ ᵇⁱˡˡⁱᵒⁿ ᶠᵃᶜᵉˢ
A Castor and Pollux of dual facades. Both dried and natural. They wait where beasts take pride in tainting the sacred of paradise. A King's touch is what they called their talons of perdition. A script of the early skies warned an equivalent tale of a clipped angel named Lucifer and his molten horns; a monster's crown to himself is a one-strike scythe to many others.—Palace Of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.
࿐SERAPH࿐
|Cazar— March 16, 7426|
A FIGURE STOOD out against the carmine rays, the scintillates of outlying thrusters reflecting in the tints of his overcast eyes. "That was incredibly interesting," the mysterious man stated in muse, his head keenly tilted to the side as he searched Séraph with curiosity. "How someone without an ounce of power managed to stop such a powerful grace," he pointed out, taking a light step out of the shadows.
Séraph's eyes rested on his fair face, sundown curls with copper borders fell by his ears. His eyes were as coal-black and clandestine as the shadows he hid behind, his focus huddled on the sagged body of the sacrificed boy, the child's bright blood pooling around him like direful, metaphysical art.
"Who are you?"
His eyes dragged back to Séraph. "Who am I?" he scoffed in smooth velvet. He took a diligent step onward, moving around the boy's monopoly of red with a pernicious class.
Do not leave anyone alive, Franklin had cautioned her, it will kill you. Séraph was going to have to get rid of this man as well. It will kill you.
The doors gave out a moan as an imperceptible force pushed them shut, they locked with a distinct click, gashes of illuminations breaking from the foot of the entrance, curling at their shadowed feet as the plurality of the room surrendered in detailed darkness.
Her poor guidance of sight made Séraph take an instinctive step back to her only reference of light: the enormous office windows that were tearing with Solomon's breathing city. Risen cars scurried past the two broad screens, their shapes promptly veiling the room's shafts of ruby red as they came and left. Oh, how Séraph wished she were under another outfit of night.
"You don't look like one of his," the man said, voice soft as the flutters of wings. "I know because I have been watching him for some time—you're not one of his." The cracking glass resumed meandering lower down the oversized screens, dominating the deep view with its lengthy patterns of breakage. "That's why I find this whole situation so, so curious."
Séraph's hand went for the fine dagger on her thigh but was rather met with an empty belt. Damn it. Instead of her preliminary technique, she just opted for another demanding, "Who are you?"
The man fixed her with a benign look, though the dancing of his tenebrous irises warned her that a strange inflexion waned in the clouds of his nightfalls. "That's none of your business, Celine."
Séraph's steps wavered. Just how long had this man been lurking in the shadows?
A smile enriched the zeniths of his young face, endangering the convincing beauty of the mysterious man. His refinement was not one of cosmic celibacy, but one that was established for the sole meaning of obliterating. And that was exactly what he was doing, obliterating the shards Séraph had forged for her saving.
Careful with that one, my girl, a lonely whisper scuffed at her ear. A luster of sweat rose on her forehead, glistening in the midnight city flickering through the unstable windows. He knows more than you can hide.
A whimper pulled her attention to the sinistral of the room where the mysterious man towered over the tied-up girl as if he were eyeing components on a list. How had he moved so fast? She had barely taken her eyes off him for a second and he was already halfway across the room. A muffled grunt came from the other girl, her pleading gaze trembling on Séraph.
Do you think she would hold such faith in you, a soft whisper stroked the base of Séraph's neck as a breeze, if she knew your intentions of killing her as well?
"I could make it lenient for you and kill her," the man spoke again and as if he too heard the menacing murmurs. He sounded almost sad, but the blade he brandished in his grip revealed he was anything but. The rare crystals ingrained in the knife adjusted to the room's firelight—they twinkled, shined like they were to be blown out on the ledge of tomorrow's reset and told the whole world the storied wrath of its royal infected point.
Séraph's dagger.
"Don’t touch her," Séraph seethed out, stunning herself with the words. He flicked the tip of her dagger away from the bound girl's chest and inspected it with a sophisticated stroke of his finger.
"Give me back my knife," Séraph scowled.
"Your dagger would sell for quite a lot in most places." He slashed his wrist through the air as if he were battling an invisible foe. Another slash, then another, and another as he whirled back to her with the most cocky and twisted smirk she had seen in her life. "Are you sure I can't keep it as a memento of your final breath?"
Séraph didn't reply, but instead pulled out a much fragile dagger that had been tucked away at the curve of her hip and tossed it at the man with great force. As expected from the useless thing, it didn't land as it blew past him and whacked into the wall on the far side of him by scarce inches, breaking in half as it did.
The man didn't query her attack as he set into his own with a swing of his—her—- blade. Was it even possible for someone to move that quick in such a short time? He swung again, cutting loose the few strands of slow hairs that whipped in the sky as Séraph dodged the bloodied dagger. He struck again, and rather than slicing into her flesh as his assault aspired to, it crashed into the iron desk with sparks and shrieks from the wrecked metal. The massive damage caused was no surprise, her blade was made out of a precious metal Darci's great-grandfather had brought back from the ends of Orcus, the 13th planet of the Calignes system. It was rare and tore into the harshest of fabrics like it was nothing more than mortal skin. It was a family heirloom that Darci Alchemy had blessed to her. And here that blessing was now—-edged at her and ready to make her bleed like a crazed hound.
Séraph promptly pivoted on her feet, dropping herself to the floor so that she could swipe at his ankles. A move she had worked hard to memorize from Scarlet. The sudden action had the man leaping away from her gliding legs, giving Séraph her needed opening to retrieve the weapon that was lodged into the wall. The small dagger was out of the wall with a singular tug, and instead of striking this time, Séraph darted to the entrance where the locked doors only gave her a shackled ring in rejoinder to her yanks. Locked. Why did they have to be fucking locked?
"Don’t you recognise me?" His voice whispered too closely behind her, delivering a dreading chill up her spine.
She flung her arm in his direction with what was once her dagger, now broken, clenched in her fist, aiming for his throat just as his larger hand fastened around hers, numbing her fingers out of blood flow with a dulling grip as he hurled her from the doors with a sharp tug.
"You don’t? That's a shame," was all he said as her body slammed into the flank of Solomon's bed with a bang, pounding out what limited air she had in her lungs. "Don't you think, Intari?" he spoke again with a bait muse, glimpsing towards the bound girl whose shackled feet thrashed panicked at the psalm of her name. He knew her. Was that why he was here? Because he knew her?
Séraph's face flowed with discomfort as her watch bounced up to the man, staring at her as he juggled her dagger with one hand. "I could hurt you." Séraph didn't respond. "I could kill you and save you from the suffering of your miserable life."
No response.
"Do you want me to kill you?"
No response. Again.
Her lack of response appeared to have bothered him as he propelled into another attack. The blade nicked the shelf of Séraph's arm as she leapt out of his way. Each whip to the right, she fell to the immunity of his left. Each lash to the left, Séraph dragged herself on the opposing periphery. It was a prom of tornadoes. A ballet of lethal elegance and stubborn knowledge.
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The man latched onto her bicep, pushing Séraph away from him with enough strength to have her tumbling over the drained body of the dead boy and collapsing before the expiring windows of the office.
"You're boring me to death," he broke suddenly, cimmerian eyes incandescent with something profane. His eyes lifted—Séraph lifted hers, pursuing the injurious richness that fashioned roguery into the defenceless soul fettered helplessly to Solomon's bed.
Intari. Her name was Intari.
Séraph's body scrambled before her attentive mind, jerking her up to her feet, only to have her plopping back to the ground and on the fragments of metal that had snapped from Solomon's desk. A wide gash throbbed at her thigh, begging for her to stay still through the stings of her torn and wounded skin. He had cut her. Red marked the white carpets as metal injected itself into her flesh, a pretty shade of coral that remarked on the patheticness of her heritage. Deep. A shuddered whimper pried her bleeding lips, the short noise of distress winning an enliven chuckle from the strange man who took a bestial pretension is prowling closer to Intari.
He was going to kill her.
What does it matter if he killed her, a whisper cut in the playful voice she had pleaded herself to neglect, when you were already going to do it yourself?Darci's voice vibrated a disturbance throughout the whole of her aching body. Is it because the lack of control makes you feel weak? Be quite. Is it because the lack of misery in between your fingers takes away the ecstasy? Be quiet. Is it because Séraph Alchemy finally feels something human? Something other than coldness? Stop it. Or it because she doesn't like the feeling of being a sacrifice? No, no,no…The feeling of not gaining? Shut the hell up.
Stop fixating on your wins, Séra, Scarlet's boyish voice called over the rings of her father's, focus on your escapes. His stupid smile was permanently clamant in her thoughts. What good are to yourself if you're reduced to a hunk of meat?
Two children roamed carefully over the raw roofs of their small town, their hands interlaced as the boy guided the girl to his haven. The two eventually suspended their pouring paces on the rusty roofs, the bases of their shoes drifting at a short pace as they walked. Four moons peered down at them, sifting the crowns of their young heads like delighted parents. One of the four moons was as pink as the delicate flowers the young girl plucked in the summers; the other as blue as the sea the young boy watched over, marvelling about the many other far cities summoning for an expedition. Their third moon was a deep purple colour, the lacquer of their dusk sky, calling them back to the shelter of their house. Their last moon was wine-red like the ink of their blood, marring and battering their youth hands as the toll of being unwanted children tried to overpower them.
"Make sure you hold on tight," Scarlet murmured into the dark, voice jammed with warmth. Séraph shuffled closer to him, head pressed into his side as he guided her, every one of his steps a telling of detail. He knew every muscle and defect of the roofs he called home—roofs that Séraph knew to be her home as well. "If you let go, you'll fall."
"Where are we going, Scarlet?" Despite all the confusion, the trust Séraph held for him was abundant.
A brother and sister on a midnight adventure. The scraps of lost families long disbanded.
"You'll see soon enough," Scarlet whispered, voice as furtive as waves of wind. The roof slabs yawned timidly under their small weights, welcoming them as they trudged from roof to roof. It was dark enough for a body to be concealed under the elation of Erebos, but still sharp enough for the misted clouds to obscure the twinkling show above. Scarlet paused, his outstretched arm stopping Séraph mid-walk as he bobbed his head towards the great ocean view. A real smile narrated his untrained face as they absorbed the peculiarities of his sanctuary.
"There," he breathed in awe, hands guiding her chin to the huge machine that sailed by. "Do you see it?" A slowly drifting machine sailed not far from the coast, passing with an exotic blare of its anthem. The elegant shadows of passengers from different nations moving about reflected in the dimly lit navy waters as the ship dragged.
"A craft?" Séraph polled back, suppressing the loss in her whisper as the two kept their curious gazes on the moving vessel.
"It's not just a craft, Sera," Scarlet said, slight disappointment softening his words. "It's our ticket out of this town. A ship to get us out of here and to the other cities." He turned to her with furrowed brows, watching as the risky words poured from one ear to the other. "We can leave town and never come back."
"Leave town?" Her words were shaky as she connected their stare. Leaving town? Running away? That was practically impossible. Anyone born under the skies of this horrible town was bound to it—not literally but the lack of finance and damaged mentalities made it seem that way. The townspeople relied on children like Scarlet and Séraph to labour, the young girl doubted they could get out without being captured and punished for the attempt. "What about the townsfolk?"
"What about them?" Scarlet jabbed back, dimples cutting into the crystals of his cheeks as he smirked knowingly.
"They won't let us leave, they'll hurt us."
"Nobody will hurt you, Séraph," Scarlet spoke lowly, turning his melancholic gaze back to the distancing ship. "I won't let them."
He meticulously plucked a vial out the pocket of his shedding jacket, folding it into one of her palms without taking his eyes off the vanishing ship.
A brown vial rested in her palm, eating at the warmth of her tiny hand. Another one of Scarlet's creations, Séraph noted. Scarlet spent most of his free hours crammed in the basement of one of the town's blacksmiths, the only person who took care when it came to the two children. The man's name was Garko, an old worker in his late 70's. Garko had left the workshop to him after he retired—Scarlet at the time being his only apprentice and only willing volunteer when it came to maintaining it. The boy spent most of his time mixing concoctions and creating various remedies to make their lives easier.
Séraph had seen and helped experiment with almost every single one of his inventions, yet she'd never seen the mahogany solution that came off almost too intimidating to unearth. "What is it?"
Scarlet faced her, eyes glowing with a readiness she wasn't used to seeing on him. "Your protection."
"Celine!" Her fake name crawled in the unfamiliar voice, heaving the wounded girl from her memories. "Help!" The man had Intari held by the roots of her hair, her neck exposed as he examined it for something. He took an unbearable yank of her hair as he changed the angle of his inspection. "Celine!"
A scoff spurt from the man as he grumbled into the death-filled air, "Do you honestly believe she would've helped you?" A vicious smile tore his angelically face of sins. "She tried to killed a First Minister, that kind of job tends to warrant no witnesses. If I wasn't going to kill you, Pyxis would've sliced your pretty little throat without objection."
Do you honestly believe she would've helped you?The bitter words winded in her ears. If I wasn't going to kill you, Pyxis would've sliced your pretty little throat without objection. Even if Franklin had asked for all witnesses to be killed, Séraph…she... Pyxis would've sliced your pretty little throat without objection. She couldn’t. Not when she saw herself in the damaged, teary-eyed girl. She couldn’t kill herself. No. No. He set you up, you stupid girl. Séraph was too weak.
You weak, The disservice broke in Franklin's profound onslaught, stupid little girl.
"How about I slice your throat instead?" Séraph spat out, words slightly slurred from injury as she stood. Both their gazes snapped to her, her palms sweating red and lips crying like her fourth moon.
Her threat seemed to have pleased the unusual man enough that he shoved Intari out of his clutch and onto a pile of Solomon's shattered furniture, his search for whatever he thought to be on her neck no longer the foundation of his curiosity. A short cry circumvented Intari as she recoiled from the sharp clutter.
He ignored her as he pushed closer to Séraph with a steely whirl of her dagger. "You really know how to charm a man, don't you?"
What is that? She had asked the boy. His eyes were coated with something she knew meant trouble. And Séraph knew any trouble that involved him would always be worth it in the end. Your protection.
Her eyes rolled back to Intari who crouched behind the bed for protection, eyes full and unsteady as she eyed the pair with terror. Her look tightened once it collided with Séraph's stare. Chasmic sorrel clashed with an arresting stew of a flooding jungle. Come here, Séraph's gaze spoke a bold whisper. Come to me if you want to live, she ventured with a confident glisten of her eyes.
Intari's eyes skimmed the room. The entrances were locked and the windows rose hundreds of feet up. She was trapped. Confined with a man who she knew wanted her dead to ruin the 12 realms and another who she watched kill without a flicker of human hesitation. She was stuck, like a pig locked in and awaiting its butchery. Celine's eyes found hers, brown and blue twinkling with something bizarre. Intari was only now noticing how coercing the girl's eyes were. Two colours tunnelled into her, both so anomalous and dreamy —just like all the red and black Intari had seen spilled in her years of living without alternative. Do something, Celine's eyes stressed on her, move and do something.
I don't know what you want from me, Intari's insides shuddered in fear, eyes denying to break from the other woman who continued to hold up poised against the formidable man before her. He kept his strides in beat with his sleek remarks, towing into Celine's personal space as he broodingly twirled her stunning blade between his fingers.
Come here, a whisper that twined an alluring halo of Celine's voice begged Intari. Come here if you want to live.
It was under that March night that her deathless decision was made—an unexpected decision that thwarted fate's prudent competition as Intari's quick figure darted past the wicked man who wanted her life to blister and into Celine who hauled them both away from him, crashing into the dual windows that instantly shattered at their contact. Before Intari had realised it, they were falling. They were falling brisk and chaotic—all in the stagnant motion of their to-be-burned-in cascade. Her tear brimmed eyes leapt up to the wavey-headed man who followed their lowering figures with poorly concealed displeasure, his mouth lining slowly as he mouthed one sentence before Celine's sorrel fumes encompassed him as it had with the rest of Solomon's grievous office.
Gold, his rosy lips shaped out, starless eyes blazing with sentiments Intari patently identified as both hate and admiration. Blood.
Her head lulled to her side the best it could, eyes putting together the image of the windblown and glowing individual to the side of her. Gold. Celine was glowing gold. Celine's eyes were still fused to the man's intense stare, eyes embroidered with a wondrous phosphorescence from the rising city around them. As the world evolved dense in her lungs, the finish of his sentence goaded Intari's fading consciousness as she watched Celine's fingers stretch out and scrape over the very device thousands had thrown their lives away to keep from people like her.
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚢𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎.
His whisper cut knives into shape, I’m going to kill you.