in your constellations — vargen. & lazarus.
Oct 2, 2019 5:57:47 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 2, 2019 5:57:47 GMT -5
revival
relapse
reprise
Vargen Forrester was a winter sunrise — slivers of warmth trying to pierce through the cold.
Sunken cheekbones and eyes as blue as unthawed ice, he beckoned others towards his face with the same mysterious allure that the dark side of the moon was renowned for. But, his face reflected much of the thoughts that stewed beneath it; that was his weakness. “Take control of it,” Lazarus said to him whilst he tapped a large brush against the side of his palm, ridding it of the excess powder on its furred head. “In the arena, you want to become a character in a play, so speak the dialogue, and act the part. Do not let them see the real you, do not give them something visceral.”
He tried not to be so invested in these Games, but that was arduous when your hands beautified the tributes. Oblivion wasn’t so easy when you were the one tasked to paint their faces, both alive and dead.
Vargen Forrester was not in a coffin, yet.
If he honed that feral part of him Lazarus had a glimpse of a few times, made it a blade, he would never be in one for a long time. But, even if he died, Lazarus was prepared to make him the most beautiful corpse one had ever laid their eyes upon, a rose immortalized, an ice sculpture unthawed.
“What did Mackenzie say to you?”
“I don't think he likes me very much.”
“You’re not very likable,” He told him, that raw truth, no sugar. Vargen Forrester was an enigma—a constellation one had never seen before. His light was outlandish; his pattern unknown. No tribute had ever been sacrificed by a cult before, no one that Lazarus known of. To each their own, he mused sternly as he brushed the powder across his jaw, sharpening its bone. “But, that is okay, you are not in the Games to make friends.” He’d envisaged what he’d do if he ever was a tribute: feed them honeyed words, and then bitterness later, in the form of a blade. Be a flower, but also the viper underneath. It was cruel but necessary. “Don’t dig your own grave though, don’t be overconfident. Icarus flew too close to the sun, and fell.”
“Do you think of me as that fool?”
“I think of you as I think of any other boy,” he told him. “That is?” Eyes crawled up to the mirror, where both of their visages shone—Lazarus’ face afire with dreamy gleams, Vargen’s a sharp and dangerous glint like the sheath of a sword, bulge of a pistol. “Trouble,” Lazarus grinned. “Not to you,” the other’s smile, when not forced, held a tenderness, as fragile as dewdrops on a budding flower. “Are you catching feelings for me?” He jested, reaching for the silver compact on the table.
The icy glitter in the compact shone like powdered diamonds would when he clicked it open.
“You’re beautiful,” he said—
and Lazarus laughed, the sound as full as an aged wine, resonant and heavy.
“If you are trying to woo a man, do not feed him things he already knows.”
The glitter, after it’d been smeared on Vargen’s face, shone as snow would under sunlight, so wonderfully iridescent. “A winter sunrise,” Lazarus told him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Before the boy could blush, he was already out of the dressing room, his delicate robe a rose-colored river behind him.
Sunken cheekbones and eyes as blue as unthawed ice, he beckoned others towards his face with the same mysterious allure that the dark side of the moon was renowned for. But, his face reflected much of the thoughts that stewed beneath it; that was his weakness. “Take control of it,” Lazarus said to him whilst he tapped a large brush against the side of his palm, ridding it of the excess powder on its furred head. “In the arena, you want to become a character in a play, so speak the dialogue, and act the part. Do not let them see the real you, do not give them something visceral.”
He tried not to be so invested in these Games, but that was arduous when your hands beautified the tributes. Oblivion wasn’t so easy when you were the one tasked to paint their faces, both alive and dead.
Vargen Forrester was not in a coffin, yet.
If he honed that feral part of him Lazarus had a glimpse of a few times, made it a blade, he would never be in one for a long time. But, even if he died, Lazarus was prepared to make him the most beautiful corpse one had ever laid their eyes upon, a rose immortalized, an ice sculpture unthawed.
“What did Mackenzie say to you?”
“I don't think he likes me very much.”
“You’re not very likable,” He told him, that raw truth, no sugar. Vargen Forrester was an enigma—a constellation one had never seen before. His light was outlandish; his pattern unknown. No tribute had ever been sacrificed by a cult before, no one that Lazarus known of. To each their own, he mused sternly as he brushed the powder across his jaw, sharpening its bone. “But, that is okay, you are not in the Games to make friends.” He’d envisaged what he’d do if he ever was a tribute: feed them honeyed words, and then bitterness later, in the form of a blade. Be a flower, but also the viper underneath. It was cruel but necessary. “Don’t dig your own grave though, don’t be overconfident. Icarus flew too close to the sun, and fell.”
“Do you think of me as that fool?”
“I think of you as I think of any other boy,” he told him. “That is?” Eyes crawled up to the mirror, where both of their visages shone—Lazarus’ face afire with dreamy gleams, Vargen’s a sharp and dangerous glint like the sheath of a sword, bulge of a pistol. “Trouble,” Lazarus grinned. “Not to you,” the other’s smile, when not forced, held a tenderness, as fragile as dewdrops on a budding flower. “Are you catching feelings for me?” He jested, reaching for the silver compact on the table.
The icy glitter in the compact shone like powdered diamonds would when he clicked it open.
“You’re beautiful,” he said—
and Lazarus laughed, the sound as full as an aged wine, resonant and heavy.
“If you are trying to woo a man, do not feed him things he already knows.”
The glitter, after it’d been smeared on Vargen’s face, shone as snow would under sunlight, so wonderfully iridescent. “A winter sunrise,” Lazarus told him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Before the boy could blush, he was already out of the dressing room, his delicate robe a rose-colored river behind him.
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