d a r k h o r s e

“Please,” a moment passes where she’s unsure of what to say. She hasn’t seen Priam since that night, that moment when power had been seized as easily as dynasties had been snuffed out. In one fell swoop, they had taken everything. Territory, money, loyalty. All stolen and is currently in the hands of the victors. And even when Lucrecia was given the chance for justice, though others would surely call it vengeance, it was all the same to her, and perhaps if she’d been granted her wish for his death, redemption wouldn’t have been much farther down the road. But now she’ll never know, and she has Priam to thank for that. Yes, he saved her life, but he also stole it away. She didn’t ask to be saved; she was willing to die for her cause, for her revenge. And surviving, being here right now with this feeling of dread, of emptiness, of failure, she knows she’s supposed to be grateful. She’s supposed to thank him for sparing her, for handing her her life back. But this isn’t the life she wants. “It’s my treat,” she finishes, fighting every urge to spit rage in his face because what’s the point? What good can come from blaming yet another person on this quest for revenge?

It seems those are questions for another day, another time, because he rises quickly and guides them toward the elevator, and it’s a quiet ride, but the silence speaks if you know how to listen. They arrive and cross the lobby, making their way to the bar fairly quickly, and he’s as chivalrous as he’s always been. He pulls out her stool and orders for her, and for a mere moment, it feels as though it’s any other night, any other occasion where friends meet for a drink, where colleagues discuss work and life and everything in between, but she knows – they both know – this evening is anything but normal, as is the reality in which they reside now.

How are you holding up?

A lighthearted laugh leaves her lips as she crosses her legs and shifts to face him. What’s she supposed to say? The truth? That she’s miserable, more so than she ever has been, and it’s even worse than before the death of their one common interest. Hopelessness has replaced faith, of which she has none, not even the sliver she carried through her grief and mourning. It’s gone as well, and it left when he’d saved her life. Or shall she lie? For his benefit? Give some rousing speech of accomplishing their similar goal of avenging those lost and making them pay. Tell him there’s still hope despite their surroundings, regardless of enemies lurking behind every corner, no matter that they’ve been ripped from their homes and threatened to be hunted. Two extremes, two opposite ends of the spectrum, and perhaps the problem is she cannot find a middle ground any longer; the ability fled the moment that gun had been pressed to her temple. And though she’d resigned herself to death, to a graceful demise, here she sits.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she offers him a small smile, barely there. “And you?” She asks back quickly in an attempt to shift the conversation to anything but herself.

END

The Spades had taken to both the streets and either side of them, engaging in colossal warfare. Tripping over wires and halting dangerous games to instil their own rules within boundaries that should never be touched. It was as though a dozen signs of THERE IS NO HOPE and DO NOT ENTER and TURN BACK NOW had been put as picket-white fences. Perhaps it had been folly to think of the what-ifs and the grandeur surrounding them all along. If it was fleeting, if it was something that could not last – had Hea overlooked this downfall, had they been slighted with the idea that the powers could be overthrown and tested in deep waters? Had it been – human error? It was the alternatives to fantasising about the return of Verona to them that tantalised the overwrought mind. The what-ifs in the sense of, what if I had gazed more, what if I had not been blinded by my own sense of selfishness. Perhaps they had never been above the rest of them. It was a hard and long fall to endure for the sake of it. Dreaming of these concepts was more of a danger than entertaining the others.

If they knew, they would encourage Priam to keep his hopes. Or would they? Maybe to himself, as they would be unable to bear to hear it. There was little surrounding them but ruins. And their moroseness should be something which passed into the netherworld, but instead, it crept up to their side and nestled against them like some long-lost pet returned to them. “Who else will be hard on me if I am not hard on myself? There must be some kind of standard to uphold, and if I am the one who has to hold it, then I shall.” But Priam’s hands were stained the same shade of red as theirs, which provided them something in common. It might not be so bad to be seen as a mortal, to be considered human, if this was the kind of person they could be beside. It was a hard realisation all on its own, to be seen as that. “No, I suppose not.”

Although they distantly sensed his tension, they did not dislodge from their thoughts until he took their hand. You should not take the fall for it either. But they allowed it to remain unsaid. It sometimes was better that way, to think such things and never let them vacate the premises. Let them become permanent residences in a hothouse of a mouth. “Even a flower which has been trampled upon can be coerced into growing, and other such things.” They blinked into fuller attention and watched him as he pressed the kiss there to their knuckles. “Though this flower wouldn’t dare to admit how much they feel near uprooted to just anyone.” So it was that the boundaries were not pushed, despite being tested. “I do take comfort in your words, despite my current prevailing-preference for long-suffering.” It was that same dark gaze of many times before that searched his countenance ( or at least, a haunting of it ) – even as their thumb touched near the corner of his mouth – this time, paying attention to him. “Do you truly believe in them?” 

END

“I can’t work out whether it’s a good or bad thing that there are now enough gangs to rank as enemies.” In her mind, she was inching towards bad. The city had hardly been big enough to split between two - and if the saying held true, then three was a crowd. The only option was to phase one out - to take their territory and their business, to smear their names until it had no meaning but historical. A horrible gut feeling in her stomach told her that it could end up being them. Although, strangely, the other side - the Capulets - were beginning to merge into that image. It was harder to hate them - now she knew there was a human among their ranks. “Not that you’re my enemy.” Offering up a quick smile, she felt the inexplicable need to clarify.

No, it was understandable. She didn’t want him to hate her.

Joining him at the bar, the smile that spread from her lips and across her face at his order was warm enough to melt even the thickest of ice. He had remembered. Strangely, she hadn’t believed he would - but with answer, the last inkling of doubt faded away, leaving her empty. She wondered what would replace it. At his words, she wafted a hand - filled with bitter disappointment that things didn’t go her way either. “Trust Faron to have a bullet-proof vest made of diamonds. You can’t say he doesn’t know how to spend his money.” Pausing, she sighed into her stance, still regretful she didn’t succeed. “Guess I’ll go for the head next time. Unless someone beats me to the draw - he’s making a lot of enemies.”

END

Fuck no, her instincts told her. Work with a Capulet? Perhaps, under certain circumstances with certain people, and if, and only if, Castora could not discern another viable option. But to work with Priam would be a sin - a transgression against the divine order of Verona. They clashed so quickly and with particular vigor that she doubted they could ever come together. 

Yet, she held her tongue. Castora took a small step back from him, rubbing the arm he had just let go with her other as if trying to shake the shock of his offer.

“Temporary allies,” she repeated, trying to get a handle on what exactly those words could mean. If it was anyone else Castora would have made a pithy comment about how quickly alliances can go sour (just ask anyone in Verona) or become genuine friendships (ask anyone in Hollywood). But it was Priam, clever and good at fashioning her words into weapons against her. “Temporary allies - but on my terms. He’s my lead and I’m driving.” 

Castora moved out of the alleyway, gesturing for Priam to follow her. “I’m parked down the street. I don’t know what you’re carrying, but I have some goodies in the car if you need anything. This guy is apparently holing up in an apartment 20 minutes from here.” She dug through her pocket, pulling out an index card with the target’s name and address and handed it to him. “Anything look familiar?” 

END

 “It’s not your fault,” Catherine says, though she knows it’s hard to believe. It feels as if it’s all their fault, all their doing. If they’d just taken veiled threats more seriously, if they’d turned a cold shoulder to the man and his Spades instead of trying to befriend them and strengthen their numbers… Things would be different. “I’m staying in my apartment, but I’ve got a little room here just in case. Just somewhere to sleep, should they come to run me out.” Habitually, she tucks her hair behind her ear to busy herself. She does not think she will be targeted for any reason other than spite from Grace, a vengeful tactic to once again harm her own blood.

His question catches her off-guard.  How does she care? It’s such an odd question, and one she cannot instantly produce an answer for. It’s as if Priam has asked her how does she breathe, how does she blink–it’s natural, automatic. It’s who she is: the soldier who cares far too much to be a useful emissary, one that will struggle to drive hard and sometimes unfair bargains.  Before she gets a chance to answer, he speaks again. She swallows hard at the mention of Rafaella and Maeve. “They were so easy to care about,” Catherine admits softly, shoulders rising and falling in the most pitiful excuse for a shrug, “it would be hard to go a day without thinking about them, or talking to them, or just being with them. That night at the auction… It hurt. It still hurts.” Whether one personally cared for the two had little to do with it; the Capulets lost a soldier, an advisor, and allowed a snake to climb their ranks–if one didn’t care about infiltration, it would be worrisome. However, she knows that both Maeve and Rafaella were more than just fellow Capulets to the Taravella man, which is why losing them hurt so badly.

How do you do what we do and still care?

“It’s the only thing I’m unquestionably good at, the only thing I can do with ease without having to be told to do it.” Her voice is small, hardly louder than a whisper as she holds his gaze. It’s as if she doesn’t wish to answer him and confess the workings of her bleeding heart (how could she, when being soft and just in a world of war is seen as treason?), but she indulges him out of both respect and necessity; if Priam needs an answer from her, she’ll gladly give it. Catherine continues, “It’s what keeps me going–caring for others, that is. For the Capulets, for our allies, our assets, our livelihood.” Wryly, her lips purse and she looks down at her hands. “I joined for my father, for Regina, for Grace, and to keep the Daly name deeply rooted in Capulet affairs. I stay because… I think I have my uses, that I’m better fit for some things than others. I stay because I think I belong here, doing what we do and still managing to care.” 

END

Men spoke more so through their physical bodies, and so it was the physical body that Hea Min watched with an almost desperate need for observation. Priam’s nod, and then the extension of his hand, were the remarks that they sought out. The agreement, the physical response of it, the seriousness of the contract at hand, about to be signed. In creating one, there were many small and almost obsolete details that needed to be portrayed, so that they might commit them into their memory, so that the paper trail of it could be as accurate as possible. Their neutrality did, after all, extend into their viewpoint of the world, and so that meant remaining distant. And to be honest – it was quite difficult to remain distant here. 

And so they did not. They closed what small distance remained between them – the physical distance, that is, for there was little remaining towards intellectual now – and then they halted. They were not sure when he would have expressed his claim on the contract, if he would have dared. His mettle had suggested that he would, but people seemed hellbent on surprises and shocks these days, and so Hea had not anticipated it. Nor had they anticipated – this request. No one would dare. They were considered mystery and fascination for this very reason of being detached and soaring high above the other citizens of Verona. Some wished to shatter this and reveal it to be illusion, to be sure – but few would ask for it. 

Even more strangely – it did not trouble them. They regarded him for a moment longer. “Priam Taravella. You are, indeed, more mystery than man yourself.” Then, as their punctuation, they took his hand. Slid fingers to the heel, and their grip was as relentless as the rest of them. “Then we have an agreement. And it will be kept.” On both of our parts. Because the rules had been changed, and the circumstances needing these changes. “Although I do hope that you don’t mind how long of a wait that might be. There are many – many problems that must be solved and strings that need tying. But you will receive it, as you asked.” 

END