Luncheon Discussions

A/N: Drabble. In which they all realize that lunch didn’t explode in their faces, domestication is an amusing thought, and Saint still can’t understand his predecessor’s tendency of antagonizing everything that moves. Though it could just be that karma and idiocy runs in the family.


***

“Okay? Seriously, doesn’t this scream surreally disturbing to any of you guys?”

Three pairs of eyes slowly turned to him, each gleaming with a different emotion. For all that they quietly spoke, accusation or annoyance wasn’t present in any of the looks shot at him. He took that as a sign that his day wasn’t going to go downhill earlier than he thought.

“What kind? As in surreal like you actually wearing the pants in your living-together-finally-leveled-up relationship?” The man with bright crimson eyes sitting across him spoke in bemusement.

Scratch that last thought.

The first man rolled his eyes and very nearly threw his cup of juice at the other. Then again, Sidhe had been very sweet to make him a cup before she left. No one can never say he wasn’t prudent or grateful.

“Screw you.” He settled for insulting instead. “And for the record, it’s called marriage. You know, making vows and an official commitment to loving each other equally til’ unto Death’s threshold we cross? I guess you don’t remember that seeing as you’re actually an old man possibly suffering dementia.”

The stare turned a notch less interested. “For the most part, people call it a Game Over. Was the after-party at least worth it? Oh wait, don’t answer that.”

“I reiterate, screw you.”

A snort of amusement. “As much as that sounds rather amusing, I have standards. And you technically being my successor sounds terribly like, ‘Father I’d like to--’”

“Don’t. Even think about finishing that sentence.” Kia, the only female of their little group threatened with a spaghetti wrapped fork. As of late, she had taken to wearing a silvery mask attached to a sturdy blindfold that hid most of her face, save for her mouth and the sides of her eyes. But even then he could imagine seeing her blue eyes glaring threateningly at the other, daring Red-eyes to give her the permission to doing unspeakable damage to his person. To which, the first man thought, was not unlikely to happen.

The older man shrugged, never once voicing his yield but it was already evident in his actions. The woman shot him another long, warning laced silence, before looking back at the first speaker. “So what’s gotten you asking that question, Saint?” Her tone changed to mild-mannered and curious in two seconds flat.

Get back on track. On topic. Okay. Don't make the old lady mad. “Just a random musing. I mean we’ve got a bunch of new kids hanging around trying to get a grip on things, sure. But even I have to admit Enlil being domesticated is just eye-popping. Even this,” He gestured to the four of them seated at the table. “Is just disturbing to an extent.”

“For the latter, a point made.” Red-eyes said. A grin stretched across his face as he leaned forward, interlocking his fingers in front of his face. “I should be killing you all too, for the lack of a better way to explain myself. One of us shouldn’t even be married at all, given that he’s of a class that practices celibacy.”

“You just love picking me out, don’t you?”

“It’s a hobby.”

The woman looked up, most likely rolling her eyes skyward. “For the love of everything... Saint just stop, will you?”

“Which Saint are you referring to, woman?” Red-eyes drawled, resting his cheek against an upright palm.

So even they had to admit it was infuriating. The two men shared nearly the same face -almost like twins but Odin forbid it-, and the same name. A lack of originality perhaps? Or was it something more close to following an unspoken rule of some sort?

Whatever. Bottom line, it was annoying and hell lot confusing.

Kia shook her head. “Ugh, you know what? I’ll just call you Johan. Him, Saint. Sounds fair enough.” That made the green-eyed one blink in confusion, and his predecessor glower all of a sudden.

“Why am I being addressed by his dead name?” He practically hissed.

“I am not going to call you Overlord. He’s the you now and I just like being difficult.” Came the speedy reply. Saint fought back the urge to chuckle.

The older one rolled his eyes but looked away with a muttered, ‘Whatever.’

“However surreal it is, it is fine, isn’t it?” Their attention drew to their fourth member who had been silently watching their exchange with veiled interest in his ash-grey eyes.

In place of a normal pair of ears, a pair of orange gradient wings flapped once. Saint had been curious and was tempted to reach out and touch them, but he knew when to listen to his voice of self-preservation. It didn’t mean that he wasn't distracted by their movements each time Irae was within sight, though.

“I don’t know about you, Irry, but I think I would be disturbed if supposed villains or someone along those lines were to eat at the same table as me without maiming me one way or another. The food could be poisoned for all we know.”

Irae stared at him with wide eyes before pushing away his half-eaten sandwich with a cautious look. Kia tried and failed to prevent slapping her face just as Johan -now that sounds really weird- let out a breathy chuckle.

Saint himself tried not to feel too guilty about giving the young mage knight the thought. “It was an assumption, Irry. A pure unfounded assumption that really can’t be true. You can take back your sandwich and eat it. It's actually good! I promise! Sidhe makes the best sandwiches this side of the continent.” He nudged the plate back to the other.

Johan chose that perfect time to add in his two cents. “Besides, food poisoning is such a boring way of killing someone. Only assassins get a kick out of poisoning things. Then again, Saint, you are living with a couple of assassins that are unhinged one way or another, right?” If Irae’s glare could set fire to things, the sandwich would have been nothing more but a charred piece of lump.

The same could almost be said for Saint, only, he was more of a strangling type.

“You’re really unfortunate that Sola isn’t here at the moment or that the bag of cats isn’t very interested in crossing you.”

“Really now?”

There was more to be had, really. If things went the way the former Saint wanted it to go, the table would be shot into non-existence and the kitchen wouldn’t even be called a kitchen. But there were forces that even he couldn’t defy sometimes, one of which was the woman who was already stomping on his foot under the table with a not so harmless metal heel.

Well shoot, when did she equip those pointy greaves? And no, that wasn’t him yelping like a dog. It was a manly grunt. Only in a slightly higher pitch.

“Fu--! You woman--!” He didn’t get to finish his sentence as he was grabbed by the collar and dragged out by the backdoor. Saint laughed at the sight of seeing his predecessor being dragged away by someone nearly a head shorter than he was. A rude gesture was sent his way, but he only returned it in kind with an added snort.

Kia turned to glance at the remaining two at the table. “Excuse us for a moment.” She spared them those words and promptly closed the door behind them.

“Saint.”

“Yeah?” He said, not turning his gaze from the epic earful going on outside in his backyard. Irae shifted a little, looking a little embarrassed before he took his sandwich again and ate a mouthful.

“I have to ask. Does your ‘father’ understand that he’s rather domesticated for a so-called villain?”

Now the high priest had to laugh. Normally he’d correct people about the father thing, but he was just too amused right now to bother. “Just as much as I understand why he enjoys picking on me,” a blank look from Irae, “... which is as far as I can throw him with my own bare hands. Which isn’t much.”

Irae seemed satisfied then. “These lunch gatherings. If it doesn’t end up in catastrophe, I’d like to have another.”

“You’re strange.” A smirk found its way onto Saint’s face. “I’ll see if I can get the whole house to participate next time. Bring Luce, and I’ll order pizza.”

And wasn’t that just inviting pandemonium in a box?

END ENTRY.

In The Midst of Madness

A/N: More random writing. And of course, featuring my favorite characters to write about as of late.

***

He was thankful for the silence.

This windowless cell that held the barest of comforts was his home, his somewhat sanctuary, from the madness that threatened to choke him from all around. However, much as he delighted in insulting the guards that came for him each day, he did not have the power to keep himself permanently within the walls of his poor haven.

He was often dragged out, out into the hallways that rang with the soundless cacophony of choking -choking!- madness, dragged by hair or by arms into the starch white rooms that stank of copper, of cold metal and the ever lingering odor of sweat covered insanity.

He hated those rooms, hated the white that he came to associate with the facade of innocence. Hated the professional gazes that held a primal hunger that ignored any sense of morality in the name of playing God.

The darkness, he found it ironic, held him together more than the light ever could.

But with the doors closed behind him in his little haven, the madness became a little more bearable, his sanity given more footing to snarl and keep the worst of the pain at bay.

He didn’t know why. Why, with all the chances of something horrific to happen, it had to be this. Why it had to be one of the monsters that lurked in the darkness of the human society, and not one of those that so boldly flaunted its supposed grasp of power. If it had been the latter, he would have been able to sense it and prevented more than a superficial wound.

But no, it had to be the one that stole him away in the night at the height of his unguarded state. It had to be the one that made him flinch in surprise and prevented him from making sense of anything in the crucial moments that could have held his chance of escape.

His fists clenched tightly -painfully- at his sides until angry red grooves were lightly carved into his palms. Blood dotted the grooves, but did not seep out.

Kidnap for ransom? Jealousy? He didn’t think for a moment that any of the answers he could come up with would be close to the truth. Truth that so infuriatingly eluded his supreme logic. He may have been bested once, captured and treated no more better than a prisoner, but Hel fall upon those fools who thought it would wound his pride.

And why... why had things turned for the worse? Plans of destruction in the wake of his escape whispered to him each night. But those plans had to be shoved away, in the light of the prisoner they had dropped into his cell a month after his own capture.

His brother. His precious -how dare they hurt him!- other half had also been dragged into this mess that he knew not why it concerned him. Why? He was nothing of interest to the world. No notable achievements unless one would count the amazing streak of pranks he had in his acolyte days.

He was useful. His captors had saw fit to tell him at the least. Neither of them were useful without the other. But should they prove more than a handful to handle, they had threatened to dispose of his brother first. Sadistic, heartless bastards! He had screamed at them until his throat was raw and sore.

Why indeed? Everything screamed of madness that it hurt. The answers that were kept from him only served to agitate him more. He tried to keep his wits together to form his own observations to his questions whilst he was conscious and not screaming like a frenzied dog, a feat that was nigh impossible in the white rooms. He needed to know, he direly needed to know!

There. A gentle emotion, radiating a soft shade of red drifted to him from all the slowly retreating white madness. It brushed against his mind, calling out to him.

Aniki.

Instinctively, he pressed up against the wall, running a hand against it as if caressing someone. Closing his eyes, he let himself breath into a forced calmness.

Moments passed by in silence.

He bit his lip, his eyebrows furrowing until suddenly it disappeared, a mask of indifference resting on his face despite no other was inhabiting the room. Rest, otouto. I am fine. The words soundlessly escape his murmuring lips.

It was something he and his brother shared. A strange but not unpleasant link. Words were never needed with it, but sometimes it helped put focus on the feelings sent rather than let a jumble of emotions be thrown to the other end. Odin knows they had each done that too many times as children before they eventually learned to control it. To some extent.

No matter the distance, the link provided a faint -very faint- line to a pulsing heartbeat at the other end. It was their own secret security blanket throughout the years loneliness came to grip their souls.

You can lie to everyone else as you please, but you can’t lie to me.

The soundless emotion that threw itself at him retorted and he forced himself not to laugh lest he rattled his bruised ribs. Breathing was difficult as it was.

Amusement echoed from his side. As if you could tell whether I lie or not. Pain-laced exhaustion creeped into the unspoken conversation, and his brother’s end threw an empty threat of castration should he continue being a lying bull.

They continued to have a silent conversation. He knew his brother was fine, better off than him in fact. They had been together today, and went through a battery of experiments that left them weak and barely able to return to their rooms. They may have pursued different paths in life, but one thing they did share was a cunning mind. His brother had managed to save the energy to heal himself quietly, and him to a small extent during the brief moment they touched, before being roughly shoved into their rooms.

It wasn't enough for a full recovery, but at the least it promised that he would not die from internal wounds.

His body shook with barely restrained laughter at the last thing his brother said. The sharp pain made him hiss, but fortunately kept him from hurting himself further. Lifting his hands, he looked at the crimson broken half moons on his palms. The sensation of pain was a dull throb as opposed to the bruises marring his chest under his stained tunic. A groan escaped his mouth as he let his hands fall back to his sides.

The white madness had ebbed to the edges of his mind. The darkness filled the spaces, beckoning to him, whispering the promises of comfort and escape. Cold comfort, he knew, but he would not complain. There were certainties of nightmares prowling in that darkness, but he told himself that he was far above such fears of the mind. He was strong. He was above this pain. And certainly far above those fools that called themselves his captors.

They will not break him.

When his vision began to grow fuzzy and his senses dulled against his wishes, he knew then to give into sleep beckoning to him.

He did not have the strength to drag his body to bed, and so he laid as comfortably as he could on the cold stone floor. There would be sore consequences once he woke, but he found to not care for any at the moment.

As his eyes drooped and his breathing evened out, he felt a gentle nudge. A wordless utter, filled with affection that he would never exchange for anything else, an affection he wished to be freed from the shackles of the white rooms and cold, hungry gazes. He will find a way.

He must. He will.

END ENTRY.

Clinging to Darkness

Part of the Turning Point collection.

Note: Really lengthy. More writing practice after being swamped with homework and basically this is a fic that was born out of a need to write as a form of break.

Aug. 8: Finished it after putting it on the backburner.

Summary: He can never escape the darkness he still clings to.

***

In the stillness of the night he leaned against the cold stone pillar, seated in a pool of clustered moonlight that pierced the greyish clouds. He looked above him, regarding the regal Geffenian architecture so carefully and expertly carved into the stronghold, down to its buttresses and cornices.

For the past four months, this bastion of unerring fortitude served as his new home. Though it was physically made of white marble, daunting and cold as visitors would often say, the people who call the fortress their home were rather different. Uncommon, some would describe it.

The people living within its walls were a far cry from being completely normal, in the man’s perspective of the word. The high born and low born, the poor and the rich, the well-educated and the streetwise, and all of them were members of the guild he was recruited into. Now, he was well aware of the social strata and the discrimination rampant in society, which was why after four months of adjusting to the guild’s routines and mingling with the folks, he was mildly surprised with the peace amongst the members, at least regarding anything about the social hierarchy that existed in the world’s society. Despite coming from different walks of life, they treated each other as simply friends or allies tied by a common goal. It was a mutual respect and trust that went beyond formalities at meetings or competitive spars.

For the man, it was refreshing despite the setbacks and the few people he had come to dislike, not that he could do anything to help it in the latter case. The seeming normality was what kept his mind and his laughter -in his opinion- a little more sound and whole than what he could have accomplished on his own, not that he would have ever admitted to that fact.

However he wasn’t inclined to seek such company tonight.

It was one of those moments when he needed to be alone. No interruptions. Nothing to sway him from the thoughts feeding the dark mood surrounding his presence. Gone was the light of humour in his emerald eyes, replaced by that stone cold gleam of a man who had seen too much harshness, experienced horrors a man normally should have not.

Silence had fallen over the stronghold, the quiet hands of sleep lulling its inhabitants into the pleasant darkness, their bodies safely tucked in bed. The wind barely rustled the leaves on the trees, neither were the crickets filling the air with their mesmerizing chirps. The few sentries that patrolled the gates and ramparts were lax on their watch. Likely they would hear from their head of security come daybreak.

The man broke his silence with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his messy, jet black hair. He hadn’t been graced with a peaceful slumber this night. He woke finding himself half sprawled on the floor, his heart beating too rapidly in the wake of a nightmare. He even guessed that it hadn’t even been past his second hour in sleep when he was harshly awakened.

He thought himself fortunate to not remember the details, except for the screams that rebounded even now in his mind.

Seeing that he wouldn’t be able to return to sleep until he had calmed down, he pulled a robe over himself and walked aimlessly around the keep. Not an hour later, he returned to the sleeping quarters but situated himself on the railings rather than simply returning to his room.

The screams and voices haunted him still. Returning to the darkness in his room would only serve to give them the grasp they needed to make him scream, lose what firm hold he had. He wanted to shut them out, will those echoes of ghostly sorrow and despair away but nothing he did could keep them away for long.

“Shut up...”

Murderer... Coward... The words echoed like a mantra underneath the wails and moans begging to be spared.

“It wasn’t my fault.” He murmured, shaking his head. But his words were ignored. They continued to taunt him, growing neither fainter nor louder. He wanted to scream, but refused to allow himself that. It wasn’t wise to wake the whole populace within the vicinity, this act also bringing down the wrath of one man he didn’t want to cross tonight.

He tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t going to fall. This isn’t real. This isn’t real... Nothing that is happening is-

When he looked at his hands, his heart nearly stopped. Fresh blood stained his hands, and he felt them dripping down his forearms in tiny rivulets slowly staining his robes the same color. Part of him urged to look away, but his eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the disturbing image.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

This isn’t real.

He belatedly realized his breathing came in short gasps. Memories flashed through his mind, each a fleeting second of blood dripping down lifeless limbs, slackened jaws and severed necks. He closed his eyes, shutting away his mind’s eye from the horrors resurfacing. He kept muttering the same three words to himself. Shakily. Desperately. Clinging to that small hope that it would pass like all the other fits he had after a particularly strong nightmare.

He took in a shaky breath. “Breathe, Saint. Breathe.” He told himself, forcing himself to inhale and exhale as close to a rhythmic pattern as he could.

Seconds ticked passed. The wails in his head softened until they were mere whimpers, the moans ebbing away into quiet gurgles. The images flickered and faded slowly into the darkness, until it was no longer visible to him. His breathing slowly returned to normal in the process.

You coward. Was the last thing he heard before everything completely went silent. With bated breath, he opened his eyes, hoping that it was over.

But as his eyes widened and his next breath caught in his throat.

Eyes, hundreds of eyes filled his vision. Bloodied corpses littered the floor before him, staring emptily at him, devoid of that spark of life. He couldn’t recall who each was, but a part of him knew they were all his victims.

No words were spoken, yet he could feel the accusations that they were throwing at him. He couldn’t look away, nor could he push them out of his mind so easily.

Don’t look at me like that! I wouldn’t have done it if I had a choice! He mentally screamed. There wasn’t anything I could have done! I didn’t want to die... I couldn’t die!

The eyes remained fixated on his form slowly backing away from the horrors before him. Though life had fled those orbs, they seem to shine in the darkness. The pillar behind him prevented him from moving any further, and though he could have jumped from the railing, he decided with every ounce of his sense against the urge.

This isn’t real.

As if to prove his words wrong, whispers rose from the corpses’ unmoving mouths. A steady chorus began to build, their words unintelligible but it sent shivers down the man’s spine and clenched an invisible fist around his chest. It was getting harder to breathe again, but he wouldn’t give in to his weakness of mind. Over and over, he murmured those three words, the only anchor he had as he was mercilessly dragged further away from the secured shores. He covered his ears with his hands, but it did nothing as the voices seemed to come from within him.

“S-stay away from me...”

It was his guilt plaguing him. He never had a choice in the matter. He ended lives not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t allow himself to be killed. Not so long ago, he found an escape from the vicious cycle that imprisoned him. He was freed, but at the same time, his guilt became unfettered and festered in his dreams, in his thoughts, in the stillness of the night. He could barely remember any one night that he had managed to sleep through until daybreak. Only when he had driven himself on the brink of exhaustion would he fall into blissful, dreamless sleep.

The first wave of the wailing and whispering voices hit him. Surrounded by the sound of despair and accusation, his mantra lost its voice in the overwhelming chaos. He needed to get out. Not now, he will not fall to this!

“I said leave me alone!”

His eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized he was holding his head in his hands, hunched over with his eyes squeezed shut. The wall sconces, lit by magic, flickered like fire in the night. The world surrounding him was just as he had seen it before falling to the trappings of his own mind.

There were no deadened eyes staring back at him, no corpses on the pristine floors. He pulled his hands away, expecting to see blood tainting them. Slicked with sweat, but they were otherwise clean of any crimson stains. His wide, frightened eyes regarded his hands for a moment longer, before they fell limply into his lap. The priest leaned against the pillar, letting out a sound crossed between a shuddering sigh and a grunt.

An illusion. It’s all in my head. Sitting back against the pillar, he took a deep breath to calm himself. His hands rested on his lap, quivering as he fought to control himself again. A light sheen had formed on his forehead.

His freedom did not rid him of the sins he had committed to preserve his then broken life. Even when he wanted to start anew, that dark past simply didn’t want to be left behind.

What hurt him the most about his past was that he could only remember the pain, the suffering, the blood and tears that were shed in those years of his imprisonment. All the memories before then were nothing but scattered pieces of a faded and worn puzzle, one that he wasn’t sure he had all the pieces in his hands anymore.

To where have the innocent laughter and untainted smiles fled to? Where was that hopeful, vibrant youth who longed for the adventures of the world? Where was that young man who dared to dream of a wonderful life ahead of him?

Where was Johan?

Dead. A thought escaped his mind like a breath on the wind.

“Dead... just like Jean...” The words dripped from his lips as he leaned against the pillar, closing his eyes as mental exhaustion pulled him under.

***

“So this is what you’ve reduced yourself to.”

Tainted. Scarred. Changed. If someone were to say they were fine after going through such a living nightmare, he would have thought them the biggest fool. It was impossible for anyone to not have come out of madness unscathed. Those heartless bastards took what interested them, used him like he was nothing more than a mindless tool that was dispensable once it had spent its worth. He hated them. He hated them with a passion that could kill. And it was one passion he allowed himself to keep after all this time.

“Are you listening to me?”

Belatedly, he was aware of a voice. He forced his eyes to open, shaking his head to shake off the sleep still lingering. With a yawn, he blinked at the very human form looming over him and stopped midway through rubbing his head.

“What the Hel...”

“A very usual response coming from you.”

His eyes widened a fraction before he blinked. Once then twice before suddenly pinching himself on his cheek, just so he was sure his eyes weren’t fooling him.

“Ow!” The pain was real, if hearing his voice weren’t enough of a bonus. But it’s still too surreal to be true. I am really losing it.

“Who are you?” He found himself asking. Surely it was a doppelganger he was speaking to. There was no other explanation. Unless something had happened when he fell asleep and the fort was under attack by something. It wasn’t sensible given what he knew of the guild’s goals, but it was a possibility.

“I’m sure you have an idea.” Answered the other coolly, breaking the chain of thoughts. The plain grey shirt and pants he wore couldn’t give the priest any real idea as to who it was. Each time the first man blinked, the other’s hair went from short to long and back, something that confused him. But he had his face sans the scar, an identical build and emerald eyes that clearly reflected his own.

He decided against pursuing the other’s identity, knowing that it would only be a waste. He was already exhausted from the repeated attacks on his mentality but he supposed he had to endure this last one out. Shifting his position, he asked, “What do you want from me?”

The doppelganger tilted his head. “I should be asking you that. What is it do you want from me?” He answered. He might have been aware of how uncomfortable the other was, but he made no move to change his position.

Irritation rose from the young man like smoke from a strengthening flame. “Stop playing games with me.” He poked the other man in the chest as he spoke.

“I’m not.” The phantom sighed, his eyes narrowed in reflection of the man’s own irritation. Before the first could react, his double leaned against him, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist and buried his head into the other’s partially exposed chest.

“Hey! Get off me, you bugger!” He was sorely tempted to release the plethora of curses idling on the tip of his tongue. “Doppelganger or not, this is still considered homosexual harassment!”

And yet the other did not move nor seem fazed by the exclamation, rather it seemed to spur him to nuzzle his head further against him. “Shut up. Why do you insist so much on keeping this emotion?” The question was so muffled that the other barely caught the words.

“What feeling? What the Hel are you going on about?” The first exclaimed, trying his best to push the other off him. But the other held tight, refusing to relinquish his hold.

“This drive to exact vengeance on the people who wronged you.”

Hate. Kill. Hate. Kill!

This was not only his anger, Saint wanted to say. It was also Jean’s anger. Jean’s despair. Jean’s thirst to have justice. But at the same time, he wasn’t Jean. He wasn’t as cunning, as passionate or as smart as his brother was.

The silence that fell quickly broke. “You’re not free, Johan.” The phantom muttered as he locked eyes with the man, his whole physique melding into a reflection of his own. But there were no scars and the blood red eyes looking back at him seemed to smirk. Slowly, that cruel smirk blossomed on the other’s face.

“Isn’t it about time you let Jean rest?”

“I...” What could he tell his reflection? His brother died an undeserving death. That was the basic idea. Revenge was one of the two reasons he planned to escape. If he were to let it go, who would avenge Jean? How else could he stop the nightmares from coming back?

His face set into a grim expression, he answered. “Not yet.”

“Wrong answer.” A hand shot out, pinning him to the pillar as the hand choked him. His hands shot up, trying to pry the hand off him, but it was like hitting a wall.

The other squeezed his neck painfully, cutting off his air. “You’re a lying masochist, you know?” Was that what his voice sounded like when he was being cruel? No, it can’t be. His vision swam, his mind screamed in its fast fading voice at his hands that slowly fell limp to his sides.

No, he can’t die! He can’t die at the hands of an illusion. His thoughts were jostled, fading into the darkness-

“Are you alright?”

Standing by his side was a damnably familiar woman. He didn’t know how long she had been standing there, he was however only partially aware of her presence. Taking this silence as a matter of concern, she bent down and felt his forehead. It was warm, but nothing that signified a brewing fever.

A whimper escaped his lips and she came closer, wiping the beading sweat away from his face.

“Who were you talking to, priest?” She tried again.

The familiar voice caused him to snap back into reality. For a moment, he was still lost. What had he been doing? “Didn’t you see someone here?” He asked, his brows furrowing in slight confusion. Hadn’t he been sitting on the railing alone? That was the last thing he remembered. Absentmindedly, he rubbed a hand against his neck. Somewhere in his mind, a voice was complaining that it should have hurt.

“You’re the only person I see.” She answered him candidly, raising a brow at his confusion.

He opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it and instead replied, “Never mind.”

“Saint, is something bothering you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to completely hate the woman, despite all her annoyances. But at the same time, he couldn’t like her for the same reasons. She was a damnably confusing one, that she is.

“None of your damn business, woman.” He kept himself from saying anything else. He didn’t feel like getting into a battle of words with her tonight. Slowly, he stood and stretched. He wanted to pat himself for hiding as much of the shaking he felt in his limbs.

“You can always tell me some of your troubles.” She spoke as he began walking away. Her words made him stop and face her. Saint’s face immediately told her that he hadn’t taken it jokingly as he was wont to be in the day.

“And have you making snide remarks at every turn? That’s a very tempting offer, Blue.” He said, not at all hiding the sarcasm in his tone. “I think we’ve already established that some time back.”

“We’re not friends. And never will be.” He finished.

The girl remained silent, her hands fisting a handful of her powdery blue chemise as she kept her stoic face from falling. “Of course.” She said, matching his sarcasm with a tone chilly enough to send most men taking a wary step back. He was impossible, so very impossible to handle, but it came as a surprise that she had stuck this long. She shook the thought from her head and fixed him with another glare.

She unclenched her fists, turning to continue on towards her room. “Good night, priest.” She bade him, cold but polite. He watched her disappear around the corner, but he did not bid her in return.

END ENTRY.

Forewarning

A/N: Finished one of the old pending fictions I have lying around.
***

It was an uncommon occurrence that anything would be able to rouse her that was not the silent whisper of bloodlust. Blue eyes opened to dark surroundings. Confusion hovered like a second layer in her hazy mind but it soon retreated, taking some of the uncertainty with it.

The soft and smooth fabric beneath her reminded her -assured her- that she was still in bed. The familiar cold of her room touched already chilled skin, and the silence told her that no other soul had trespassed while she slumbered.

But something certainly had stirred her from sleep.

She bit her lip, a light sneer making its way onto her face. Ah. “So this is the confounded wake up call.”

A heavy feeling had settled in her chest. A feeling crossed between anxiety and excitement, of a deep and howling emptiness that made her feel suddenly wary. Wary? Indeed. But wary of what? The silence did not grace her with an answer.

Claiomh Solais, through all the trials she had gone through in her relatively short life, had never felt a more ominous and sorrowful chill run down her spine.

Slowly she untangled herself from the blanket around her, slipped away from her bed without so much as a creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Her shaggy, golden hair fell about her face like a lion’s mane, mussed up from her sleep. It was still deep in the night, judging from the darkness of the sky but she didn’t feel like returning to sleep anymore. Rather she felt restless. She knew what to blame for it.

“Hell’s bells, this isn’t turning out to be a good night.” She groaned. A walk would ease the tension that found its way into her muscles. Perhaps. Maybe. That, or dragging a certain sniper out of bed and using him as a sparring partner. He wouldn’t appreciate it of course, but his opinion was of little concern to her most days. Fortunately, she wasn’t in the mood to barge into his room this night.

She walked to the dresser across from the bed and took the light blue scarf sitting on the top surface, wrapping it around her neck comfortably before walking out into the darkened hallway. The not-quite-humble abode belonged to Kia, and was in fact one of many that the woman apparently owned. This house stood on the tail-end of the southern residential quarters near Mercurim, half-nestled in the mountainous back of the city.

She recalled Rio asking why she had extended such a generous offer to them. Back then, it was so out of the blue.

‘Because I need live-in house help.’ The deceptively youthful-looking weapons specialist had answered without missing a beat. But that sort of answer was expected from someone like her. Sola, for the most part, understood the true message of that reply.

Two months later and she was deigned to wonder just how did the house managed to stay mostly intact. Among the residents, it was rocky semi-apathy at the very least. There wasn’t an improvement since Sidhe had wittingly manoeuvred them all into having high noon tea in the kitchen.

Or that could simply be her. She didn’t like making friends.

Back in the present, Sola made her way through the empty hallway towards the common room. The hallway was sparsely decorated. No light shone from underneath the doors she passed by. It seemed like everyone else in the house was fast asleep.

Her footfalls barely made a sound against the marble tiled floor, a testament to her training as an assassin. The magical sconces that hung against the walls were surprisingly dark and void of their permanent glow. For a moment, she felt her shoulders stiffening. Had their home been compromised?

She shook her head. That notion was improbable. She lived in this house. Not to mention there were others who could cause enough noise to alert the more battle able warriors. The hallway opened up to the spacious common room, which the ragtag residents had taken to decorating with their own unique tastes. While she maintained a certain detachment from involving herself in such things, she has heard of many an argument that happened because there was too much blue or too much green, or something like that.

“Can’t sleep?” A vaguely amused voice rose from the silence. Blinking in alarmed surprise, she turned to a man lounging lazily in the armchair to her right. Her hand flew to where she would have knives strapped, only then did she remember she didn’t bother equipping herself with any.

Green eyes twinkled with barely veiled amusement, his lips quirked upward as one hand twirled a half-filled glass. He wore a loose dark shirt and a pair of dark cotton pants. Glossy black hair fell rumpled and messily around his fair face, giving him a rather childish appearance despite him being her senior by a handful of years.

“Saint.”

The addressed man lifted the goblet in greeting before downing the bronze liquid in it.

From first introductions, she knew he would be complicated. He did not live to disappoint her. After catching him countless times sneaking bottles of cherries from the pantry and somehow getting his hands on her stash of biscuits, she learned to stop warning him and just throttle him right then and there. That was provided he didn’t cheat and used his magic to escape before she could get a punch in. That annoyed her more than him always figuring out where she hid her snacks.

Not to mention he claimed to be a priest. Well, to be fair, she did have a fair share of experiences with priests who were out of the ordinary. But Saint was a different sort of odd altogether, and not entirely in a good way. The only one who could keep him under control was the crusader he was introduced with. His wife, she later found out with rising suspicion and confusion.

Yet another reason why she questioned his credibility as a priest.

Putting all that aside however, no one could ever say that Saint and herself never got along. Once in a while.

Sola watched him for a moment, unsure of how to properly start a conversation with the dark-haired man. Eventually, she decided to simply go for the first thing in her mind. “The hell are you doing getting drunk at this hour?”

Saint coughed at the end of his drink, then chuckled as he proceeded to let his body sprawl all over the armchair like a lazy cat. “Decided to check out Kia’s liquor cabinet. ‘Sides, was planning to try something that wasn’t sake. You know, it’s getting old and I think I’ve built an immunity to getting drunk on them.” He replied with an air of mirth.

The blonde rolled her eyes. “Or getting into trouble with Kiara again.” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the man laugh at her retort. He didn’t, as far as she could tell, look close to being plastered. Or maybe he was. Saint was hardly any different when drunk or sober. A shame, really.

“How drunk are you?”

“About half a bottle down on this whiskey.” He got up and poured himself another glass. “Single malt. I’ll admit I’m feeling a good buzz right now.”

“Remind me how old are you again? You seriously want to kill your liver before you even have kids?”

Saint shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. He lifted a finger, ticking off his reasons as he spoke, “First one, no plans.” A second finger flicked up. “Second one... depends totally on the variables involved.” Sola chose to ignore how Saint practically whined at the end.

Instead, she stalked over to the couch across from where he sat and sank into it, putting her legs on top of the coffee table in front of it. Saint had gone back to pouring himself another glass.

“You want a go?” He offered.

Sola waved a hand. “I’ll pass.” There was no way she was going to risk a hangover in the morning.

“Hel, why not? You’re... what, something like an Irish right? I know you could handle your alcohol.”

The assassin rolled her eyes, crossing a leg over the other. “Yes, I’m aware I’m something like an Irish. Yes, I can handle my alcohol but I’m not stupid enough to attempt getting drunk at this hour.”

Saint ran a hand through his hair, looking every bit thoughtful. After a moment, he let out a noncommittal grunt then tossed back the fresh glass. She watched him cough on the slight after burn, her scarf thankfully concealing the lower half of her face as she could barely keep a grin from her face.

Stupid, she thought. No self-respecting drinker would simply toss back a whole glass –let alone down a whole bottle in one sitting- without some ulterior negative mood goading the self-destructive tendencies on. Then again, she’d already seen him putting away sake like it was water during happy hour. She didn’t believe Saint to be suicidal. Idiotic? Yes, but not suicidal.

“Had the same feeling too huh?” The light tone shook her from her reverie.

Sola’s head shot up, fixing him with a puzzled glare. “What are you talking about?”

Saint leaned forward, a knowing grin growing on his face. “You know... that thing that woke you up and made you come all the way out here to sulk and be my impromptu company.”

“I don’t know about that feeling.” Denial was certainly not a mere river.

That infuriating smirk was back. “Really?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Repeat your lie, you mean.”

“I wasn’t lying, priest.” She didn’t like the way he was staring at her. It made her remember feelings of being stared upon by pale blue eyes, slowly peeling away the numerous layers to her being, to expose what lay within the closely guarded center. After a world of hurt, she taught herself to hate that vulnerable feeling.

“Stop staring at me, bastard.” Sola spat out.

Thankfully, Saint didn’t look offended. But at the same time, he didn’t look apologetic. The priest sprawled back into his armchair, idly swirling the glass in one hand as the amused expression never left his face.

“Then how about a drink? Surely it would help you rid yourself of my company faster. I can try looking for some chocolate mudslide one if it’s more of your taste.”

Sola pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. By Nuada’s grave, this man is incorrigible. “I already told you I’ll pass.”

“So just water? Or do you want some milk? I think we have some tea leaves leftover too.” Scratch that. This laughable farce of a holy man was annoying as hell.

A loud smack resounded in the room, followed shortly by a muffled yelp and the shatter of glass on the wooden floor. Sola had an arm outstretched, slowly lowering it back to her side. She looked away dispassionately while Saint dumped the firm but fluffy projectile on the floor.

“Hey, ow? You know you have a good throwing arm there. Even a pillow to the face smarts.” He rubbed his sore nose with a hand. She felt herself slipping her grip on her anger upon seeing him so unfazed by her light threat.

He sniffed, looking down at the shattered glass. He muttered, “What a waste of good wine.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

“Ah, but it’s fun getting a rise out of you.” Came the jovial answer.

Getting a rise... well wasn’t that just peachy. “You really have a death wish you know that?” Sola spoke, forcing herself to stay seated and not reach for one of the throwing knives she kept under the furniture. “Kiara mauls you every other day. Your attempts at riling me up always come close to having a blade in your back. You take every opportunity to be a flea on every person you’ve ever met. Not to mention that the few Visitors you do know end up traumatized or pissed off to the high heavens.”

“Well I have to say that is a rather wonderful talent that I have. Charisma, I mean.”

“That’s not the point. Your whole existence seems to have the purpose of trying to make our lives miserable.” That, at least, earned her a reaction that wasn’t another playful comeback.

“Not my fault you all couldn’t understand me any better.” He griped.

Sola countered it mercilessly. “You’re not making it any easy for us. I doubt making a show of your presence with your tongue– which many would probably want to cut off to be honest, counts as trying to make anyone understand you better. Not to mention you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.” Now she questioned Kiara’s apparent aloofness to his attitude. She must know perfectly well how Saint was with people, but why allow him to do what he wanted? She didn’t understand the first thing about those two and the crazy relationship they shared.

The assassin rubbed her head. It was too late in the night to psychoanalysis either of them. “Just what I needed, a migraine. Thank you so much.” Sarcasm practically dripped on her words.

Saint opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly shut it, looking pensive again. The assassin didn’t want to wait for another word from his mouth. Much as killing him would probably be beneficial, she didn’t want to deal with a grieving and unpredictable crusader. And to be very honest, the priest hadn’t done anything wrong to merit the death sentence.

So much for trying to appease the restlessness. Arguing with the priest only served to calm it for a while, only because his loquaciousness demanded the full use of her half-asleep mind. She stood, making her way back to her room.

“You felt it.” Saint’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “It’s a sign. Quoting a popular show, ‘Winter is coming’. I suggest you prepare for whatever is coming, because it won’t be pretty.”

Sola scoffed at him without turning around. “You think I would be caught without my wits and my weapon? You sorely misunderstand me.”

“No.” The tone was very sober and serious. Vaguely, she could see him with an expression reflecting that tone. It disturbed her to think about it. “I didn’t misunderstand. Knowing the world? Expect something unexpected. Your weapons and wit may not be enough to save you.”

She left then, paying no attention at all to the last words that followed. Whatever, she knew what a warning was, she didn’t need him explaining it further.

“Winter is coming... eh?” She muttered as she opened her door. “Well come at thee. I’ve been itching for something to happen in this place.”

End entry.