aphelion. {sunrise v} | calbraxas

Moonlight and darkness streaming in from the window swathes around my body like ribbons, silver and black crossing into delicate tangles across my skin.
But the night —
it's too cold.

With ashen skin and a blackened heart, there are no flames dancing across my flesh to chase away the ice that hisses along the night sky. I have never feared the endless valleys of darkness stretching out before my fingertips, nor have I dreaded the arrival of its blackness rolling over the dying light. For it was the night, kissed by the falling sun, that carried my soul into the shell of my body — never could I fear my creator.

It is the night that holds the beacons of the stars and the moon I have come to love so dearly. Silver light, silver fire of the moon promise me asylum against beasts of darkness who dare bare their teeth against the barrel of my gun. Silver light, silver fire of the stars take my hand and lead me from the mists curling across my vision to the winding paths of great adventure.

It is the night harbors the crooks and the monsters — no, they're not hiding beneath a child's bed — but growls and gunshots are music to my ears; the crooks, the monsters, they are of my blood, they are my sisters — we are one.

Pistol strapped to my thigh beneath midnight blue satin, black heels click click clicking like bullets roaring through the air against the ballroom floor of Thaddeus Bloodworth's mansion, I am nothing more than a fool pining for her sister, violently ripped from her grasp by a brotherhood bathed in blood and darkness. I am a chess piece shoved across a bloody board, and this game is not mine.

I do not take kindly to the suffocating bindings of rules — their rules.

Before them I am rendered easy prey, for a piece of my heart — or what is left of it — lies in their iron grip. My armor fell away with Xanthe, leaving me with one defense: the black mask across my eyes.

The inside of the Bloodworth Mansion is somewhat of a fantasy, all gold, white, and blue. Marble floors, polished and pale gold, beam against the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Paneled off-white walls lined with gold hold long windows, draped in midnight blue velvet, looking out into darkness. Ivory columns stand along every bend of the walls, where refreshments — mostly glasses of champagne — are clustered upon elegant white tables.

Among a sea of copies of myself — fine clothing and elegant masks — the name Calypso Delacroix and her ghost, hanging over my face like a blood-stained shroud, abandons me, leaving me bare but in liberty at last.
Freedom is so sweet on my tongue, it tastes bitter.

Weaving like a dark serpent through the dancing crowd, drinking in the smell of champagne rising into the air with every steady breath, I keep my eyes locked on the Brotherhood members, easily distinguished from the others. They stand with the pride and grace of gods over the crowd — their crowd — elevated at the top of a marble staircase against the wall at the far end of the ballroom. His face, no longer shrouded in harsh shadow, nor obscured from my prying eyes by a mask, summons a swell of bitterness in my mouth. None of them hide their faces like their guests, perhaps to showcase themselves out of their own sick pride.

A promise is carved into the back of my skull —
Thaddeus Bloodworth, I will have your head.

The unspoken words burn my lips.

My eyes scrape like nails against a chalkboard across their ranks, boring into Thaddeus Bloodworth, imagining how good he'd look drenched in his own blood, and onto the next brother, scrutinizing every slightest movement, every twitch of the fingers, every rise and fall of the chest.
Until I find my gaze in a gridlock with a someone I recognized all too well, and not because I had shaken their hand in the shadows.




Abraxas Morrigan's eyes are daggers into mine.
They drive through the hard bone of my skull as if it is air.

A manic fear seizes my windpipe, and I forget how to breathe.

Tearing my eyes away from his and turning my back to him, goosebumps riot beneath my skin and chills dart down my spine like panthers submerged in the cold thrill of the hunt.

My mind seems to leave the confines of my skull, leaving my heart, roaring in my chest, and shell of a body to take reign. Every fiber of me rises as one, screaming an order, an omen, for me to flee. And I heed them, breaking away from the crowd as hastily as my feet, imprisoned by high heels, can carry me. Up the stairs, around the corner, down the hallway — they are mindless movements. It is as if my body moves on its own, as involuntary as the beat of a heart.

Fingers closed around the doorknob of one of the guest bedrooms, heart risen to my throat — I am not ruled by myself, but by something I cannot name. Instinct, perhaps, an ancient compulsion at the very roots of my being.

One push and the door swings open with a soft groan.

My feet carry themselves forward from the hardwood floors of the corridor to the carpets of the bedroom, leaving my heartbeat to fall at rest. In the arms of a temporary haven, I spare my lungs and inhale sharply, drinking in the comfort of safety, no matter how short-lived.

[presto][/presto]