I dream of my
red lipstick against your
skin, smearmarks and
vaselineslick
lines tracing bites.
I wish it would
stain you more than it
does, a semi-permanent
tattoo of possession,
a place that speaks
‘I was here’
in the only language
that matters.
Sometimes I swallow back
an ocean of words
to let only a trickle spill out.
They fall in drips
instead of torrents
and I choke on what I don’t say.
Perhaps because they are
more cruel than I know is right,
but more often,
perhaps because they are
less clever than I know I’d like.
This is Issue #85 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
The landscape outside of Ilona was hardly barren, hardly a desert, as so many in the West believed. Richly terraformed hillsides were bountiful with lumber and flax, as well as herds of sheep used for milk, meat, and wool. When areas were unable to be turned into forests or fields, they were left to be converted into aetheris mines, and the resulting energy was transferred back to the airfields, to industrial plants, to villas and palaces.
Ilonan architecture was vast and astounding, the buildings created of glass and sandstone, marble and granite, and ancient hardwoods tooled and polished to a beauty that those in the West could barely begin to imagine. Ilona’s beauty and advances beyond the West were staggering. Jet looked out into what he had once imagined to be terrifying wilderness, and saw beauty instead, beyond even his wildest imagination. He smiled behind his mask, for even the sizeable army camped outside the gates did nothing to bring him fear.
“Salutatem!” he called. “Venisti, introitum Ilona!” You have come to Ilona, and sought entrance. His speech of greeting had been rattling around in his head after Gemma’s explanation of Tenebrian pride. “Custos iubet susceperint vos, Plaga,” he promised, opening his arms. The guardian bids you welcome. “Invenies populus bene te, dilectissime, et dedit naulum eius amplitudo!” You will find yourself well-hosted, much-beloved, and given grand fare. It was as much as he could stomach to promise; he watched Acer’s irritated face grow shocked at being addressed, and then pleased, and then quite smug.
The man walked right up to Jet, and drew a knife, speaking plainly, “I hear you even know the vulgar tongue.”
Jet nodded, smiling behind his mask. He changed his tongue easily, though speaking in his native language had grown less and less common. “I do. But why have our conversation out here in the lands, when I welcome you into Ilona herself. Let us receive you and have feasting in your honor, cousin.”
“I have come here with an army,” Acer said, almost baring his teeth.
Jet nodded, loving the fact that he could smirk behind the mask, and Acer would never notice. “Why so you have,” he replied, almost with amusement. “Might I inquire as to its purpose?”
“To climb the walls of your precious Ilona, Guardian. And take it for our own.” Acer’s expression was irritated for only a moment, because it was mostly hungry, full of avarice and pride. “You know full well I come to avenge Mactabilis’s murder. By rights, I shall kill Ilona’s prince in return, and then all of Ilona will belong to house Plaga of Tenebrae. We will vault over the Luminora. We will take back the westlands and purge it of milkskins — of which you look perilously like. To force my way in to your city, as an unwilling bride must be tamed by her rightful husband.”
Jet nearly rolled his eyes, but remembered it was too easy for that much of his expression to be seen; he did not want to come across as ungrateful or proud. Even if what Acer was saying was offensive and disgusting beyond measure. “Even if we offer you entrance, willingly? You would prefer to take it by force?” Jet wondered. His guard stood impassively behind him, making no expression, gazing off into the distance.
“I take everything by force, wormskin,” Plaga hissed, smirking, looking too proud for his own good, leaning in all puffed up and arrogant. “That way I am certain it is mine. The same way I will possess your pr–”
I will kill you where you stand if you finish that sentence, Jet thought blackly. Within the mask, his gaze burned — hot and bright enough that Acer noticed.
Acer changed the subject, clearing his throat, trying not to appear rattled. “It is rumored you cannot die. Tell me, Guardian — are you prepared to reveal the truth of it?” he asked, flipping the knife in his hand, end over end.
Jet nodded again, pulling aside his sash and pulling open the wrapped fabric of his shirt, baring his chest. “Tell me, Tenebrian — are you prepared to receive it?” he asked in return, and then he reached his hand forward, and grabbed Acer’s wrist. The man gripped the knife as it fell against his palm, and then Jet was pulling him; Acer was made to thrust forward as Jet fell against him — they met in the middle, and the knife sank into Jet’s chest, scraping bone until it sheathed itself in the meat of his heart.
All the world tightened down into a tiny pinprick, swallowed whole by cold shadow.
Blood came in a red fountain, gushing over Acer’s hand, disappearing into the black folds of Jet’s shroud. Jet shuddered, and blood ran from the mouth of his mask. He sagged against Acer’s shoulder as his knees buckled, and Acer held him up, gasping at the feeling of wet heat. He began to pull the knife away, saying, “Perhaps the knife you use is a trick, cousin, but this one was real.” He looked around at the guard and made a mock apologetic face. “I am sorry, men, but this dog has barked its last, I think.”
Jet’s eyes snapped open behind the mask. He could feel his insides screaming.
And then came the fire. The cold that penetrated with the knife was obliterated, replaced with an all-consuming heat.
Acer, too, could feel the sudden rush of it, the heat that radiated from the Guardian’s frame.
Jet tipped his head back and howled in rage and satisfaction; he stood tall, pulling back from Acer, and the Tenebrian stumbled back and fell to the road, lifting one hand to shield himself in awe. He saw the bloody wound burn itself shut from the inside out, skin searing at the end, ash and dust falling away. The knife clattered to the road, and the Tenebrian moved to get back, shocked and terrified all at once, and trying not to show it.
Jet ran his fingers over the spot the knife had gone in, and revealed the unbroken skin. He leaned down and offered out a bloody hand to Acer, baring his teeth behind the mask in a smile. Though it was hidden, and Acer could not see it, the rictus grin was easy enough to hear as he growled, “You see the truth of it now, cousin? Do you still wish to bring your army over the walls, or will you come in politely through the gates?”
* * *
This is Issue #84 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
Jet’s head snapped up; he stood, looking at Secta, and said, “We’ve sent much of our forces to the farmlands, to help rebuild. Plaga’s brother must also have heard rumor of Immanis’s health.” He shook his head, sighing. “Get my allblack ready.”
“…and the mask, sir?” Secta wondered, looking hopeful.
“Yes, yes, and the mask,” Jet said, rolling his eyes.
“You’re terrifying in the mask, sir,” Secta promised.
Jet snorted, looking down over his brother. “Lucida bribed you to say that,” he noted. “Get my things ready, Secta. I have to meet with the erstwhile Lords of Tenebrae. I want more guards posted outside this room, the windows, and all the hallways leading here. Understood?” It was only once Secta made certain he grasped the severity of Jet’s command that he left Immanis’s side, and strode off down the hall to find Lucida. When he reached her room, he braced himself for the scent of sex and a huqqa full of aetheris, and let himself in.
Immediately, the gaiety within subsided, but when Lucida looked from the curtains of her bed, she laughed to see Jet. She stepped from where she had been ensconced with Gemma, and nakedly strode across her room to stand before him, high on aetheris, relaxed as he had not seen her… ever.
“Lucibellamea,” he said, leaning to kiss her nose. “We have uninvited guests. Lords of Tenebrae.”
“So turn them away,” she said, waiving a hand at him imperiously. “Tell them all they are invited to kiss the split of my bottom,” she laughed.
“No,” said Gemma, urgent, getting out of the bed. Though she’d begun as naked, she pulled a robe around herself and tied it shut as she walked over to him. “No, invite them in,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
“What?” Lucida said, one brow quirking up. “Darling girl, these men are vile. We do not wish to see them.”
“You miss a great opportunity,” Gemma said, warning Jet.
“Speak on,” Jet said, looking expectant.
“We’ll get the palace to prepare a feast,” Gemma offered. “You can pretend they are ambassadors,” she explained. “Tenebrians are proud and vain. Play to this pride. Appeal to this vanity. Put sweets in the mouth of the viper — so many that it cannot bite.”
Lucida’s eyes lit up, and she said, “My own darling, you… how brilliant you are.”
“I shall have to keep you around,” Jet said to Gemma, smiling. “As I obviously need all the advisors I can get. Have it done,” he told them both. “I will go to them, invite them, and you will instruct feasts and games.”
“Yes,” Gemma said, pressing her hands together and looking to Lucida. “And you, Princess, will sit high and be watched with hunger and delight. If Tenebrae has any sense in its head, it will recognize this as an opportunity as well. Mactabilis was little more than a thug; his brother could be a far greater ally.”
“And you?” Jet wondered of Gemma.
“I am but a lady’s maid, Guardian. I can pass through rooms and halls with little notice. Unless the lady shows me undue favor, I imagine I will be able to hear many a conversation,” she revealed, grinning almost mischievously.
“Ah, then I shall keep my hands and kisses to myself,” Lucida sighed, mock dramatically.
“When have you ever?” Jet rolled his eyes, laughing. “Dress, then,” he said to Lucy. “And make with the preparations,” he said to them both, fond. “I must see how Secta has fared,” he said, and left them to their own devices.
* * *
Before he managed to get back to his rooms, Jet slipped in to Immanis’s, and knelt at his bedside. He watched him for a long moment, and then began to disrobe. He slid into the bed beside Immanis and curled his body close to that of the sleeping man. “Wake, brother,” Jet whispered mournfully. “Come back to me.” He listened to the quiet, slow heartbeat of the fallen Prince, and was lulled into a brief doze, in the heat of the darkened room. When he woke, he pressed a gentle kiss to Immanis’s cool lips, and then withdrew. Hurrying so as to make sure the soon-to-be guests would not have to wait, he picked up his clothes, re-dressed, and strode back to his rooms, his head cleared.
* * *
“…what is this?” Jet wondered, walking into his rooms to find Secta, a tailor and attendants, and a host of guards.
“Your honor guard,” Secta said. “They need to match,” he explained easily.
“Match what?” Jet asked, looking doubtful.
“You, Lord,” Secta said, trying not to make it seem as though Jet were less than half a dunce.
Jet struggled not to roll his eyes, but instead answered, “Of course,” and let the tailor finish his work, while Secta dressed and groomed him.
The guards allowed themselves to be fitted passively, and put their new clothes and sashes on without complaint. When all was said and done, the twelve were clothed in blade and shadow, their faces sharp, their eyes cold. Jet wondered if perhaps it hadn’t been all silly, to follow Lucy’s suggestion for dramatic flair.
Jet allowed Secta to paint his face; once the lines were dry, he donned the enameled mask that covered his features, tied his hair back, and pulled up his hood. He was unrecognizeable — he was not Jet.
He was the Guardian of Ilona.
Thus prepared, he signaled the guards to follow him — Secta was not playing when he staggered out of the way and pressed himself to the wall, and neither were the rest of the household. The thirteen-guard group strode past Lucida and Gemma as the two women walked out of Lucida’s suites, deep in conversation. Gemma paused to take in the sight, and shared a smile of victory with Lucy — Plaga’s household would not refuse an offer of hospitality by such a fearsome host. It would be both insulting and cowardly — instead, they would be welcomed in and they would have surpass the terror the Guardian would generate, or roll over and present their bellies.
Though Jet did not have the ability to compel as their brother did, his immortality instilled enough fear in his opponents that they were more or less coerced to do as bid.
“Come,” Lucida told Gemma, “There is still much to do. We will need to hurry, to finish in time.”
* * *
Past the palace walls, Jet and his guard walked. The streets cleared for them; people slipped out of the way as they saw their Guardian pass, but turned to offer praises, prayer. Jet gently touched passers-by, fingertips bestowing benediction on those who cried out to him. He had grown to be of legend to the people of Ilona — his heart was proud to protect them, and they loved him in return. Children ran out to greet the marching men; young women threw flowers, and men shouted in cheer. They walked toward the city gates, and the redgold dust that kicked up about their feet whorled forth out onto the road as the gates opened, and revealed what lay beyond.
* * *
where have you gone
oh god I used to see you daily
used to have you in my heart
in my head in my in my in my
you weren’t anything but a stranger
but you held me close and sheltered me
and you didn’t even know it
where have you gone
oh god I used to dream of your voice
and your wine
and your vibrancy
and then you were just
gone
without so much as a goodbye.
It’s so fucking hard to be the center of the universe —
without a well of gravity to keep things in orbit,
theyjustgettooclose,
then slingshot away.
