Vercingtorix comes here because it is where she used to dance.

The tavern is ramshackle, old, on the lower end of the economic scale. He had been in Novus long enough to follow her here, one night; and it had been too difficult for him to mend the void, come forth from the darkness, and speak to her. She had seemed impossibly far away; planets; stars. Yes, Torix remembers. It had been like looking upon the cool, distant face of a star.

Her eyes had even glanced, briefly, over him. He had watched her dance, from the back. He’d worn a hood, of course, and stood among the thong of patrons. He simply looked as if he belonged; her eyes had not even lingered on him.

In her ribbons, and her war point, and the cry of her broken heart.

It was watching her dance that told Torix she didn’t love him anymore.

He supposes, of course, it was for the better. He never could have loved her the way he wanted to; the way she deserved to be love. He stares, now, at the stage where other dancers dance. They are outfitted in silks, painted with metallic colours, performing acrobatics. Yes. It was for the better, that she didn’t love him anymore. He could never forgive her, for the lies, for being—for being a woman, not his companion, not his trusted soldier in arms. 

But when Vercingtorix dreams; when he romanticises; it is always her. He hates himself for it, of course. But somewhere along the line, Bondike had become his dream, his partner. They were meant to have spent their lives together, twin sides of the same blade. They might have married; had children. But that was besides the point. That only kept up an image, a front. They were always destined to come back to one another—

The dancers bow, and file out of stage. The next performer comes on, and Vercingtorix goes to the bar. A seed of anger is growing under his breast; but the seed is an ember, and it burns, and burns, and burns.

Damascus is in the mountains, on the cliffsides, staring out at the city from a distance. He is watching, and feeling all of Vercingtorix’s hurt. Through their Bond he says, We could always find her. We could always apologise.

Torix is taken aback at how quickly he had gone from a singular “me” to a sudden “we.” He says nothing back; he only imagines all the ways it would go poorly and how in no reality does it go well. So he orders a drink, and watches the next set of dancers as they begin to perform in the tavern. He knows, of course, she is far from here; he knows, of course, she is taken by the sea.

And that, too, is something he cannot forgive himself for. But he is not so lost in his thoughts, in his regret, that he does not realise he isn't alone at the bar. No. There is someone else there, who seems as heavy as he feels. Quietly, he orders them a drink and toasts to them.

The broken find the broken. That's the way of the world. 

"Torix." ||  @Morrighan 

wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

I can buy my own drinks, thank you very much.

Vercingtorix would be a liar if he hadn’t hoped for such a volatile reaction. Although there is no heat in her tone, the words are as cutting as ice. This, he thinks, is so much easier than if she had been quiet, soft, conversational. 

“I didn’t mean any offense,” Torix shrugs, as supple as a leopard. He finishes his drink. “I’m Torix, and—“ he looks at her more sharply; a grullo paint, with a necklace winking at her throat. There is nothing particularly remarkable about her, aside from the sharpness of her tongue. Then, his eyes flit easily over the wolf at her feet. “—who the hell are you?” 

There are nights when he cannot contain himself.

There are nights when the thing that is nestled, ravenous and rotting within his soul, screams louder than his reason. There are nights when it becoems unbearable and all he wants is to forget it.

Alcohol has always had the taste of his father in it. So Torix cannot drink to drunkenness, to soften his demons. Instead, he finds blood. He finds small wars to wage. 

"Speech." ||  @Morrighan 

wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

I’m Morrighan, the Regent of this Court - do you even know where you are? 

What had begun as an innocent gesture (as far as Vercingtorix’s standards went, anyways) quickly deteriorates. He doesn’t mind, however. There is a moment where something akin to anger flashes in his eyes; but then it is gone. He leans back, and offers a languid smile. “I’m sorry,” Torix offers, but there is nothing apologetic in the curl of his mouth. “Are you wearing a name tag? Your reputation doesn’t proceed you, Regent.” He takes a slow drink. “I’m in Denocte, trying to enjoy myself. But so far it doesn’t seem very welcoming to foreigners, despite your Sovereign’s open gates.” Vercingtorix cuts his eyes at her, sidelong.

Normally, he would leave.

Normally, he would de-escalate with a charming smile, or genuine apology. He would offer a real smile, not the caustic thing maring his face now. He would say he was only teasing, pulling a leg. Of course he had known she was the Regent! How could he not recognise her?

But tonight is not the night for that. Behind his eyes Boudika dances in ribbons and gilded gold; she is sun-bright and ferocious and everything he did not deserve to touch, but could not leave. 

“I already told you,” Vercingtorix answers. “I gave you my name; what else do you want? My life story? You don’t seem like the type to give a fuck about that.” 

The wolf’s hackles are rising; he is not the only one.Yet, for all appearances, Vercingtorix rests there as if Morrighan is not brimming with her rage, and her companion with teeth.

"Speech." ||  @Morrighan 

wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

We are opposites, I think. The fury is fire licking behind her irises; her rage is fire caught in the amber of her eyes. But where her anger boils and then flares, mine cools; I stare at her with a detached, predatory type of precision. A practiced, militant stare.

Our gates are open, but we don’t put up with just anyone’s bullshit. With that, I finish my drink with a deft motion. 

“Oh, I’m sorry Regent. Where I am from, offering to buy a woman a drink has never been a sign of disrespect.” 

There is nothing simmering within my tone; it is unabashedly innocent, and in that suave innocence, utterly condescending. I stand and step back from the bar as her cur begins to snarl.

“Don’t bother.” I say curtly, with a smile that shows too many teeth. I know the expression is an ugly one, devoid of mirth.  “I don’t waste my time fighting women. They’re too emotional for my taste. It isn’t a real challenge. Maybe another time, when you cool off a bit.” 

And to me, it is as simple as that. 

No matter her magic, no matter her status, she isn’t worth anything to me.

Not even the entertainment of a conversation. I excuse myself with that same dark, wicked smile and begin to part the crowd in the bar to the door, my glass empty. And if she follows me?

So be it. But first, she'll have to navigate Denocte's busy nighttime crowd as I slip deftly through. 

"Speech." ||  @Morrighan 

wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.