Aden Marshall Brande’s Neighborhood

ooc

Milla Audley
11 minutes ago
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(Hi guys! Just letting you all know that I'm still here. November is just a very, very busy month for me and I haven't really had time to do much of anything aside from check email and write an occasional Vox post. If you have any questions or ideas concerning SLs, though, please feel free to email me! Until then, bare with me, please? Thank you for your patience!)

star of damocles

Feels strange to be drinking the wine—a vintage I can't name, but which tastes familiar, prying at my memory's faded edges. Like the Pinot noir she replaced, it has a rich but subtle flavor on my tongue. I shouldn't be surprised. Of course, I've already decided. There was never a need for deliberation. But I need a few hours of isolation to take everything in: the enormity of the thing, somehow compressed into Nary's undersized frame.

Harming her, stopping her before she can affect the course of events is out of the question. I could. I could rend her flesh and bones, gnash her between my teeth. It would be over before she could scream—and that would be the end of the Christ. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Father's Host and the exiles and I would all be at a stalemate, and perhaps it would last forever, neither here nor there, quick nor dead, treading this mortal limbo until—

Until what?

It a few hours before dawn and the sky has grown a pale azure. L'heure bleue, right before daybreak, right after sunset. The star has faded to the ghost of a glimmer. Even when I can't see it, can delude myself in brief moments that it isn't hanging above my head, it'll continue staring down. Well then—let's have a contest, shall we? Like the Children of Man do. Let's see who blinks first.

I haven't bothered with a jacket. The air is warm for November, but out on the balcony, with the tile chilled against the soles of my feet and the high breeze lancing through my shirt, the cold wakes me completely. Sleep proved elusive last night—and she, curled in the blankets by my hip as I sat up on the pillows, may never understand why. I've left her to dream safe and warm. But I imagine Corbin is awake—waiting for the next order.

They'll be coming. It's a beacon, this new Star of Bethlehem, for wise men and kings, angels and devils. Kill her, and Father's plans are irreparably halted. Save her, and the promise of the Thousand-Year Kingdom gleams brightly in the future—for the saints, for the chosen few. Not for us. But is it all that simple? It sounds like Father's rhetoric to me. Dogma in stark black and white.

Leaning on the balcony's rail, I watch the incessant flow of traffic on the street below, and the gradual brightening of the gleaming steel skyline. The glass is cool in my hand. I raise the wine-dampened rim to my lips and drain the rest.

For now, she is only a child with wide and adoring eyes. Could that love ever wither—one day mirror Father's condemnation? I struggle to envision it; but the possibility is something I won't deny. I can only continue onward, regardless of what choice she makes. For now, she trusts me entirely, placing herself into my hands without fear or reservation or guile, utterly, the way only a child can.

How else can I answer her, except by keeping faith?

divine intervention.

616 BC

Nineveh is in ruins. The large, strong gate of Nergal has been torn down, its protectors, the great stone lion-beasts, unable to do anything but watch as the hordes of Babylonian usurpers stampede over broken stone and bronze in order to wreak havoc upon the city. Torches brush against every bit of brush, wood, and cloth they can find painting the evening sky with angry hues of red and bitter orange as the thick, pungent smoke curls upwards from the dying metropolis. The terrified screams of its inhabitants, the innocent bystanders of fate, blend seamlessly with the sounds of metal clanging against metal to create a tragic sound of woe that will surely haunt the ears of the gods above.

At the north end of the city, behind the stone walls of the mighty palace, the hall of Kings Most High, the agonized screams and desperate pleas seemed muted, insubstantial, and the flickering flames could have been little more then candles dancing in the south-westerly breeze if they were glimpsed peripherally. The queen does her best to block out the sound of the screams, of her fair city's torment, and attempts to focus on the incessant chatter of her attendants.

"My lady--" A man bursts into the room, startling the women clustered together in the center. Preening and whispering as hens often do, it is not until they are sent away by a cruel gesture that the man can even see the woman they had been tending to. "--My lady!"

"En--Enkil, what is it?" Rising to her feet, the young queen, once praised for her beauty and lithe frame, seems small and terribly weak in the firelight, and the way her hands instinctively lower to cover her swelling stomach would normally cause the man to feel some small sense of affection and awe, but now it only inspires a fresh wave of nausea and fear.

With some effort, he manages to choke down the bile that was welling up in the pit of his throat. "My lady, the king is dead."

"Dead? But how?" She gasps, wide eyes darting from him to the doorway, as if she might be able to peer through the wood and catch some glimpse of the scene, of her mighty consort's demise. "I must.. I must go to him," she stammers before moving to brush past him, only to be stopped by his strong hands about her shoulders.

"No! No, my lady, there is no time -- Nabopolassar's forces have stormed the gate and are laying siege to the city as we speak. We must leave this place, we must make for Vhamere before it is too late. Come, quickly now," he urges, tugging her out of the room.

Mind numb and still reeling from the shock, the queen becomes little more then a rag doll, stumbling along behind Enkil as he carts her through the empty palace and along burning streets until they reach the western gates.

"Quickly, quickly my lady," he says, pushing her towards a pair of soldiers and the horses they are guarding. "There's little time!"

A strange, harsh cry fills the air and the men look up in terror as a horde of birds suddenly appear above their heads. Crying out in dismay, they can only think to raise their hands and shield their faces before the large birds of prey swoop down and devour them with their sharp beaks and wicked talons.

Screaming, the queen staggers backwards, hiding her eyes so as to avoid watching the atrocity, before the sound of something large and solid collides with the ground behind her. Turning to face the beast, she scream once more as she stares at the monster.

It's beastly head raises to sniff the earth and there is something vaguely sensual about the sinuous prowl of its ghastly body while the drag of its sharp talons along the sand hints at untold cruelties. The scent of decay and bloodshed coats the air thickly and the queen recoils instinctively while her fumbling hands search for the protective amulet she wears about her neck. Terror coats her vocal cords thickly, but she manages to begin mumbling the protective invocation while stumbling back from the beast, the wicked scorpion queen.

The beast matches her step for step, and the flash of the jeweled amulet is reflected sharply in its dark, dark eyes. The name of its enemy causes Lamashtu to growl its defiance, the ugly sound echoing off the stone walls of the gates and causing the queen's body to tremble all the more.

"Pazuzu! Pazuzu!" The queen shrieks in terror.

"It is mine," the beast tells the woman while lowering its body into a careful crouch. "The child of kings is mine!" It screams before springing forward, claws outstretched --

A gale force wind suddenly charges through the gate, spraying sand in all directions. The howling wind is painful to the queen's fragile ears, and she catches the vague glimpse of yellow eyes, of fierce jaws, of hunger, as it charges through her in order to meet the demon head on.

"No, no, no!" Screams Lamashtu before she is devoured whole by the yellow wind, her flesh and bones whittled down to little more then dust and grime that coats the sand where she once stood while a harsh, red wind rises up to battle with the yellow blast. The earth shakes from the force their embrace but still the yellow wind pushes onward, driving the red wind past the hordes of fighting warriors, past the sand dunes that mark the entrance to Assyria, and to the wild terrain of the west before finally releasing its prey. Having devoured its opponent, Pazuzu returned once more to the pantheon above, pleased to have finally rid the world of the cruel Lamashtu.

Unseen by the demon, a small, tiny trail of that blood red wind weakly wound its way through the lands until it came upon a small child, her dainty hands tracing runes in the sand while her long, thick dark hair danced in the breeze. With a gasp, she fell back when the red wind collided with her tiny frame, shielding her face instinctively as the thick odor of decay coated the air.

When she finally opened her eyes, they were now a shade of sick, cruel green and her mouth split wide as an angry growl welled up from the pit of her fragile stomach.

"It is mine," she snarled towards the heavens.

the wind chose me.

tableau

Instruction can take several forms, but I've found modeling and repetition the most effective. Young children in particular learn by imitation—and so charming, the way Nary will fumble to upturn her jacket's collar, and the way it tends to frame the softness of her cheek and fragile jawbone. She follows the direction of my eyes, the gestures of my hand, and I may have caught her, once or twice, attempting to ape my expression. She's a natural mimic.

This, of course, will be far beyond her ability. But I want to acclimate her to these strange objects, these obtuse rituals. And so we're dressed for Sunday dinner—or at least Corbin and I are, both of us freshly shaven and dressed in pressed suits, and I'm sure that the half-Windsor knot like a noose around my throat is impeccable. Nothing out of place. The poised trappings of a child aristocrat can come later; I leave Nary, for now, in a simple dress colored like buttercream. A sugared confection. It complements her skin, which glows from her recent bath.

Corbin has set the table. Start small, with a simple family place setting. I don't even know if she's seen a fork, and stemware must be utterly foreign. There's a bottle of Burgundy Pinot noir, and we've been draining it a slow glass at a time. I've placed the tiniest amount in Nary's glass, but I don't expect her to like it. I sit beside her, with Corbin across from both of us, thoughtfully watching as I show her with exaggerated care just how to hold the knife and fork; the tenderness of the salmon filet causes it to melt at the barest pressure.

We've left Thelonius Monk playing in the background, low, soft. Nothing obtrusive. But let's affect her palette early—for clothing, food, music, for words and poise, for sights and smells. The lamplight falls soft and gold on the tabletop, the white linen cloth and the gleaming hardwood.

I take a taste; and it's good, damn good. I might prefer a Chateaubriand, but anything that bleeds trumps vegetable life; and salmon should be perfect for Nary. A new taste, but easy on the tongue, something that dissolves and nourishes her poor underfed bones. We'll make you strong, darling.

I cut another sliver, and cupping my palm beneath her chin, offer her the morsel on the fork's tines.

Corbin has been silent. It's only when he speaks that I realize he's been waiting for the right time and, not finding it, must break into the tableau with a calm, quiet dose of reality:

“Is there really time for this, Master?”

There's an ache somewhere in his voice. That's why I'm not angry. He wants there to be time enough, just like I do. The star is back again tonight, not some passing nocturnal fluke, and drawn curtains keep neither of us from feeling its weight. But I tell him:

“Of course there is. It's not the end of the world yet.”

I sense his nod more than see it, because my attention remains on the child.

And finally he asks: “More wine?”

still life with salmon, manet

meat

“Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.”

—Genesis 9:3 (KJV)

white ghost

herald

"What is he?"

Around them, the langauge spoken is predominantly Cantonese. Their table overlooks Victoria Harbour through the picture window, but Kim Kong Kea hardly notices the brilliant lights from Wan Chai or the slow progress of ferry boats across the black water. He drinks the Château Margaux slowly, mechanically. It is a formality, like shaking hands and the reserved pleasantries he exchanged with the Englishman before dropping the pretenses.

"The peasant mentioned seeing the wings of a crow."

"If he is who I believe," the other answers, his Cantonese meticulously unaccented, his tonal shifts pitch-perfect so that Kong Kea is momentarily surprised that a white-skinned gwailo could possess such fluency, "he is a devil we've sought for years upon years." He smiles, and his broad hands are folded composedly on the table. Kong Kea has payed for the entire lavish bottle, but the other has only taken a token drink. A courtesy, polite. Professional.

Good.

"Devil?" Kong Kea asks. That word again, devil: gwai.

"In the Judeo-Christian tradition, rather than the Buddhist. 'Devil'," he pronounces the word in English before switching back to Cantonese, "not a soul reborn in Naraka."

He is pale-haired, the British man, with chiseled features that defy age with their strong, clean angles. Thirty or forty. Blue-eyed, straight-limbed, his clothing handsome and impeccable without a trace of stiffness. He is one of the outsiders remaining in Hong Kong after the decade-old exchange between Britain and the People's Republic. Retreating to their ancestral places; leaving the land in rightful hands.

"You can kill him?" the aging man demands to know, his deep-set eyes sharp, and the frown that he cannot hide forms wrinkles of tension between his heavy brows and deep lines along his gaunt cheeks.

"Kill is not precisely correct. But I can mete punishment and suffering upon his head." A pause. The outsider leans forward slightly, the cerulean gaze steady. Kong Kea misses the trace of intensity, the barely-perceptible hitch in the other's calm. He is distracted, barely hears: "You said this devil is somewhere in New York—Manhattan. And I understand that he has a child in his possession, and your son—"

A delicate muscle convulsively shivers with tension along the line of the pale man's jaw.

"The child is unimportant," Kong Kea says quietly but sharply. "Take her. I don't care. But I want something."

"What might that be?"

"All who meet him speak of his eyes." He thinks of Sangha's ruined body, staring blankly at nothing. With nothing. "—I want you to bring them back to me."

that day and that hour

“But of that day and that hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father. Take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is.”

—Mark 13:32-33 (KJV)

i'm damaged but somehow i've managed this far --

take another step.

I'm two steps away from stepping over the edge

And getting lost in the great unknown.

Because one small step in the wrong direction

Is enough to shake the cornerstone.

Where ever I'm thrown, no matter where I end up,

It can't be any worse then here.

If we're being sincere, then tell me --

What else is there for me to really fear?

I'm two steps away from just killing myself,

Because I'm sick and tired of being the prey.

But when I'm dead, everything I've ever said

Will lose its meaning and fade to grey.

I'm not ready for that -- I'd rather counterattack,

Instead of leaving my song unsung.

Because I'm too young to die,

And I can never justify not breathing air into my lungs.

I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.

I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.

I'm two steps away from making somebody pay

For every time that I've been deceived.

How can I believe a single word you say

When I know you've got a card up your sleeve?

I might be naive but I'm still forced to believe,

That all the best in life is yet to come.

That's why I refuse to lose faith in myself,

Even after all the wrong that you've done.

I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.

("two steps," clawfinger.)

everyone hail to the pumpkin song.

Autumn's chill hung heavily in the air and the moon hung low in the sky as the children took to the streets on All Hallow's Eve. Jacob had heard stories about things like Halloween and Trick-or-treating all week at school, and it stirred some distant memories, but they were not concrete enough to assure him that he had experienced anything like this before.

Freshly carved pumpkins flashed their toothy grins at him from all directions, while thick cobwebs coated the eaves of the various houses they passed by. All around them, children raced past in vibrant costumes and Jacob could not help but stare, mesmerized by the sight of so many strange creatures running about. There were characters he had only seen on television, and others he had only dreamed about -- and some were so frightening that he found himself clutching his uncle's hand tighter while shielding his face from view. Earlier, the bandana that encircled his throat had felt like a badge of honor, the mark of a true cowboy his mother had told him, but now it felt too tight, restricting, and he tugged on it nervously.

"S'just a witch," Caleb informed the boy, though it was clear the majority of his attention was focused on the cellular phone pressed to his ear. "C'mon, c'mon -- answer the phone, Juliet," the large man muttered into the phone.

"Juliet went bye bye," Jacob said matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"Juliet left. She said she was going bye bye," Jacob repeated before turning his head to inspect the house they were approaching. It's front porch was littered with festive decorations and Jacob was fascinated by the swaying motion of the skeletons hanging from the roof.

"Where was she going?"

"I dunno," Jacob answered with a shrug.

It was at that moment that Juliet's voicemail message began to play in his ear and Caleb flipped the phone shut with a frustrated growl. "Fuckin' women, I swe--"

"Caleb!" Jacob heard his mother hiss, a scolding tone that Jacob knew very, very well, and he quickly released his uncle's hand so as to avoid being considered guilty by association.

"What? Jesus, lay off it, Shannon." Caleb grunted before turning to stalk back towards the monstrous SUV (that Jacob loved to ride in because it's engine was so loud and it was so high high high) that was parked a little further down the street.

Jacob watched him go with wide eyes. "What's wrong with Uncle Caleb?"

"He misses Juliet," his mother answered, her head turned to also watch her brother's departure.

"Why?"

"Because she didn't say goodbye."

"But why?"

"Because she had to go away, I suppose," Shannon replied, pressing her lips together tightly.

"Why?"

"Because they're in love." But before Jacob could ask another question, she urged him towards the front porch. "Now, c'mon bug-a-boo, let's see about filling that bucket, hm? Do you remember what we practiced?"

"Uh huh," Jacob nodded, gripping his pumpkin-shaped bucket tightly while they approached the door. He watched his mother ring the bell and offered a soft sound of protest when she moved to leave the porch, before the sound of the door opening caught his attention.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the woman who waited on the doorstep for a long, long moment before stammering, "Trick .. treat?"

Hours later, Jacob could hardly remember all of the houses they had visited, or all of the amazing costumes he had seen, but he was sure that this would be a night he would never forget. Chatting excitedly with his mother and uncle, he scarcely cared that they added little more then vague, encouraging commentary during the journey home because he knew he had others who would listen. Others who would care.

It was Gabriel that he greeted first, the dark-haired man who made the piano make fascinating sounds and let him help from time to time, flashing his treat bucket while speaking to him in an excited rush of words and laughter. When Gabriel merely ruffled his hair before taking possession of the treat bucket -- "Let's see what you got kid," he said in his deep man-voice, a sound that Jacob often tried to imitate while playing with his toy soldiers -- Jacob beamed happily and left the foyer in order to let his mother and Gabriel argue about whatever it is grown-ups argue about without him.

Just as prior Halloweens were little more then vague memories in his mind, there were also faint memories of a man called Daddy. A man who seemed so tall, he reminded Jacob of the giants in his one of his fairytales and whenever he would hoist him up onto his shoulders, Jacob would swear he could touch the sky. He remembered the sound of rich, husky laughter, white-blond hair, and whiskers that tickled his skin whenever he was brought in close for a hug or a goodnight kiss. And it was, perhaps, because of these memories that he always sought out the golden Spartan who also resided inside the house whenever he was awake. It was because of some lingering bond, that he wasted little time climbing into the man's lap once he found him sitting in the den -- though he must be careful-careful with his friend Cole, his mother had said, so he made sure to not hug him too tightly -- and tried to tell him all about the things he had seen tonight. Because if anyone would understand it was Cole.

And it felt right to Jacob when, a little while later, it was Cole who tucked him into bed and ruffled his hair affectionately before turning off the lights. Because in the moonlight, with his head tilted just so, he looked just like the giant who lived in his dreams.

And that felt right too.

quoth the raven:

Digging his talons into the wire, the large black bird shifted his weight uneasily on the power line while watching the traffic passing by below. The sharp caw of some of his brother birds caused him to tip his head sharply while glancing in their direction.

Nervous about being so close to such a monstrosity, the ravens clacked their beaks and edged closer together before abruptly setting off with a flap of wings. The large bird watched their departure while grooming his great, shiny feathers before the low rumble of an approaching engine caught his attention.

He admired the ruined ISF as it cruised down the street, drank in the reflection of the sun's rays with a clack of his beak and yearning flex of his talons upon the wire. Muscles taut and eyes sharp, it watched the mechanical beast park in front of a large house and listened closely as the rumbling engine finally faded into silence.

But it was the man, the man with all those eyes, who caused the large bird to jump into the air with a sharp caw of defiance, flapping his wings harshly while daring that wind to try and catch him.