the motherland don't love you so why love anything
T
he scarab was quieter up here in the lounge, where the waiters glided near-silently past tables and patrons spoke in hushed voices. Occasionally the clink of glass on glass filled the air with a sweet, happy melody as drinks were poured and served and drank and reordered.
It was a game, a never ending cycle: drink, whisper, repeat. From back in the corner, which the light conveniently bent away from, the horned man was the only one it seemed not partaking in the lounge’s usual affairs. He was quiet, and he sat alone; a lonesome drink sat on the table before him, a trickle of condensation running down its length as the ice began to melt. But while he was alone, he was not idle: his green eyes were in constant motion, his ears swiveling to and from to catch any gossip that might drift his way. While most of the scarab’s patrons kept their voices low, Toulouse had notoriously good hearing, and his mind was adept at filling in the gaps between the stray words he caught.
For once, there was very little to pique his interest. All the talk was of old news, of the queen that had disappeared in the maze and the borders that had been tightly closed in Delumine. Things he already knew, told in a hundred different ways.
He was about to get up and leave when he saw her, a girl with a necklace strung about her neck, at whose end a single twig was caught. She was dusted in russet and spots of brown, with hair as long and pale as his own. And when she moved about the floor, she did so as if she belonged; here in this den of secrets and vices.
He hadn’t seen her before. And her’s was a face he would have remembered.
His eyes followed her across the room, the rest of the horses fading away like static in the background. And when a server drifted by to collect empty glasses, he waved him closer.
"Who’s the girl?"
The server’s eyes, a startling blue that matched his sapphire attire, regarded Toulouse with an acquisitive look. With a slight frown hinting in his eyes, he slid a silver coin across the table - and only then did the server’s eyes turn to regard the serpentine mare.
"The red rose."
The server regarded her thoughtfully, before with a shake of his head turned back to the table. "You’ll not be wanting anything to do with her. Trust me. Another drink?"
Toulouse shook his head and sent him off.
When next the mare visited the bar, the palomino rose from his seat and followed.
"What’s your poison?" he asked as he came along beside her, his voice lowered in a way that was reserved only for her ears. He glanced at her from the corner of one eye, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.
I don't know what I'm meant to do All I know is I believe in you
The White Scarab. The vision of it floated in her mind day after day while she traversed uneasy terrain, hiding in shadows, never staying in one place for long. It had been months since she was last seen anywhere--by anyone--for fear of being caught by those who knew her involvement in criminal activities. She had been sold out by an unrelated individual and the hunt for her ballerina body was started. She traveled all over the confines of Novus in that time, making sure she kept distance from everyone she knew, anyone she could be associated with. In the end, at least she was a trustworthy ally in the game of sketchy morals.
When all word had died down and her name vanished from the lips of any concerned, she once again began making rounds through the courts to reestablish her reputation. She had contacts everywhere, names tucked away for certain occasions and faces sought for specific information tucked in her back pocket. Since her unfortunate disappearance perhaps there were things that she missed out on, particular birds that brought her news unable to reach her while 'underground.'
But the girl with the dagger heart was back, and color-swirling eyes set prominently on the Scarab. She would have been able to get there blindfolded if that's what it took, but she was perfectly unobstructed in all ways.
She pushed through the doorways, those guarding immediately recognizing her not from appearance, but the way she moved. She seemingly danced across the areas they encompassed, razor-blade body cutting through all the spaces both occupied and not, eyes averted for they knew the consequences of staring too closely without having anything to offer her but gawking faces and judging sights. One could say she practically lived there in the walls of the pseudo-palace, joining the establishment when Senna pulled her off the dirty Marketplace streets. Since that time she gave rectification through means of enticing business and sharing the secrets she 'learns.' Mutual trade, mutual feelings for the outside world.
The doors were opened for her without much flair, and her slim figure slipped around the dispersed crowd to make way to the bar. She needed a drink, of course, for her return was worthy of celebration--if only for herself. A solo male sat some distance away, speaking in low voices to the bartender she knew so well. The ocean-eyed waiter shot her a glance and then it wasn't a mystery that they spoke of her. Her lips curled into a lavish smirk; so the glamorous male was interested? She sidled up to the counter's top and signed for someone to serve her while he moved in close, asking his question before bothering to introduce himself--though, she supposed, where would be the fun in divulging their secrets out in the open? She regarded him with only a sideways glance, addressing the boy across the table instead, "Red Moon, please." With a wink it was delivered in a flash and she pulled away from the pale man, dropping a singular rose on the counter in front of him.
"If you wish to know, you better keep up." She had the kind of early morning, softly groggy voice that slipped its way under bed sheets and claimed innocent hearts. But the flash in her eyes as she purposefully brushed against him whispered of sweet sin.
Without looking back she parted groups of those gathered for hushed transgression, disappearing to stand in front of a room with a red-painted door marked with the image of a rose--deep into the Scarab's core, a floor below the Lounge.
the motherland don't love you so why love anything
A
s far as Toulouse was concerned, his time spent in Novus thus far had been relatively quiet. He had listened here and whispered there, picking up names and phrases that he had tucked away for safekeeping. He had sent his shadow to the opposite end of the continent, the better to keep tabs on multiple events at once; and he had bided his time like a snake in the grass, a wolf in the shadows.
He was waiting; but for what, he wasn’t quite sure. The hunger was growing within him day by day, a ravenous beast that called only for the blood it had been denied for so long now. Toulouse had always been the reckless twin, brash and careless and headstrong; it was difficult indeed to keep the bloodlust contained, to hold patience close lest he lost it.
But he swore he could feel the wolf inside of him singing at the sight of the dusted and spotted woman. Her allure was unmistakable; Toulouse was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, unaware of the dangers she posed.
”Red Moon, please.” Her voice was nothing like he’d expected, and he loved it all the more for it. ”If you wish to know, you better keep up.” Soft, languid, enchanting - the laughter came easily from his parted lips.
"Oh, I intend to." He went after her willingly, but only after sliding a coin across the bar to its tender. "One for myself, as well, if you please."
It took only a second, as if the man already knew what he was going to ask for. Collecting the rose she left him and his drink, and liking the way she never looked back, he followed.
The burgundy scarves whispered as he brushed past the assorted equines, flowing like suspended blood at his sides. The palomino kept his head craned, horns peeking over the heads of the gathered horses, his eyes scanning their blurry faces with disinterest.
When she reappeared in the shadows, he was quick to go to her. The door framed her like she was meant to be painted onto it, alongside the rose it was marked with. Toulouse holds the rose out in front of him, his smile wicked.
"And where is it you’re leading me? he asked her, but he knew full well it didn’t matter. "I don’t even know your name yet." She could tell him they were going to hell itself and he would dive happily in alongside her. Whatever was behind that door was a secret -
I don't know what I'm meant to do All I know is I believe in you
She was certain that should she have known about him previously--if they had already met, gotten to know each other, perhaps... other things--she would have found him as equally dangerous as she was. There was something about the way that dirty minds worked (the gears shifting and turning to mold situations into their favor, the way that they slipped around in the middle of nights and passed from infraction to infraction) that made one someone to beware. It might have been a mere unfortunate circumstance that the man missed out on the glint in her salient eyes, the slight sign of her knowing more than she let on, but if that was the way things would play then she wouldn't ruin the fun.
She was glad to have returned to the eerie establishment, the place in which had been more home than any she had before. But it wouldn't be too long until she realized that nothing had really changed; did anything ever really change there? Lurking in the dark corners were members of the facility that stood on watch for unusual behaviors, patrons all milled about doing their favorite things (whatever they were, gambling, flirting with pretty girls, making unethical exchanges in hidden rooms) but they were all the same: only select few actually knew what went on, had the mind about them to tell what was real and what was a show. She grew bored of them, became increasingly disdainful with their monotonous ways and dreary personalities.
But then he showed up, and her heart did things it hadn't in some time.
As expected after placing her order, he with emerald green eyes copied her and she stifled a slide chuckle. His voice wrapped around the fragile frame of a mottled body and she wondered if she even needed the drink to become intoxicated. What a strange feeling, really, for how quickly he seemed to be making an impression on her, one that would take many days to shake off. (She wondered, too, if his intentions were to stay as long as that would take, and then she would never be rid of his memory soon.) She had also snatched her drink before removing herself from the table, from him, and she knew he would do the same before following her. So the two with drinks in hand made way to her room, and through it all she said not a word to clue him in.
His question rang in the emptiness of her chest, filled only with a heart that beat in heavy staccato tempos, as they pulled alongside the door with red ink. It looked as if it could have been marked with blood, and for those who asked she never answered. Better to leave them speculating and mystified than satisfied. She curled around to face him, his taller figure complimenting her lithe one quite nicely, splashed lips parting to reveal a quaint laugh. He stretched the rose out to her, but she shook her head, silver braid swaying with the motion. "Don't antagonize me by giving back a gift I just gave you." Cheekily she tsked at him, turning down the rose. "It's yours now, something to remember me by when you leave." If he would leave; she played coy with him, tilting her head just so, angled just right, so that her lips barely brushed the bottom of his throat. And just as hastily she pulled away, cracking open the door.
Before moving inside the darkly lit room, candles flickering against walls lined with plenty of roses, she faced him and held her glass out to meet his. "I have led you here, of course. You may know me as the Red Rose; when you are ready for my name, you shall have it." She winked softly while backing a few steps, enticing him to enter with her. "A toast, to you proving yourself worthy."
the motherland don't love you so why love anything
H
is eyes are full of laughter and mischief, a smile tucked away at the corner of his lips. Toulouse is as feverish as a kid with a secret that everyone else begs to know, satisfied in having something everyone else wants.
When he joins her at the rose-painted door, the rest of the room fades away. All the whispers, all the music, all the sharp clinks of glasses being moved. Everything about them darkens, like flames winking out of existence one by one, until she’s the sole fire remaining in an otherwise dull world.
And his eyes want for nothing less.
Here in this den of liars and sinners, they are no different. Toulouse can see it in her eyes, can feel it in the way she brushes by him at the bar, in the energy that makes the air crackle and glow around her. He can’t remember the last time he’d met someone like her, someone with the same ichor flowing through her veins.
"Don’t antagonize me." Her words are like pouring gasoline on a fire, and the temptation inside him grows like a ravenous wolf. Do you mean that? he wants to ask, as he tucks the rose safely away into his scarves for safekeeping. Or are you antagonizing me now?
Surely she must know - from the moment the warning left her mouth, she ignited in him an innate need to defy her, the desire to find her triggers and press them one by one until she gave in. It was a game to him; his heart skips a beat inside of his chest, his blood roiling with the promise seared into the look she gives him. And when she steps closer - so close he can feel the heat of her breath and the brush of her lips on his skin, her voice echoing in every corner of his mind - his smile grows.
Remembering her was not a question now - it never had been.
Her touch was gone in an instant, short enough that for a brief moment he even wonders if she had kissed him at all. But his skin remembers the feel of her lips, even as she steps away and pushes open the rose-painted door.
For a moment he thinks that will be the end of it - her way of leaving an air of mystery he supposes, leaving him hooked on her memory. But then she turns back to him, and the liquid in her glass sparkles as she holds it out in the air between them.
"The Red Rose," he repeats quietly, and there’s amusement dancing in his tone. "How fitting." He doesn’t ask what it will take, or how long it will take, to earn her name. He had her title, and her gift, and now he had her time. The rest would fall into place soon enough.
"And what’s a Rose doing here, hiding in the Scarab?" he asks, following her into the room. The door shuts with a soft click behind them, sealing off the world. Inside it’s just the two of them, with a hundred flicking candles and blood-red roses watching them from the walls. He turns slowly to examine the room, keeping one ear tilted in Manon’s direction. "I thought they were better suited to fairytales and gardens."
He thought she would fit there well enough too - with a face like her own, any King would gladly welcome her into their courts and ballrooms (and bedrooms, he was sure.) And yet it was a less-than-honorable establishment that he found her in, a gamblers’ den that she’d made herself quite comfortable in.
Just another mystery to unravel, along with her name.
"Do you often bring strangers into your room?" his tone is deceptively innocent, and he lifts his glass to his lips to mask a smirk. The smell of the liquor is strong and strangely sweet as he drinks. Or am I just special?
