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gobble gobble . 27th metal
[ GENERAL: DAY
He slips through the crowds, among them but not touched by them, his panther daemon pacing patiently by his side. He checks with his contacts and listens to how the world is moving, what people are saying, what they are thinking. He skirts the market and the docks, dipping into them to pause on the quay and watch the water move. He's scouting.
NIGHT: HUNTING
At night, at dusk and dawn, it's different. He's hunting. He paces up and down the darkest alleys and the edges of the world. He looks for children. Sometimes he does this with his sister. Together, they never come home empty-handed.
CHURCH
He drifts to different churches, preferring the larger ones or the cathedral, with broad stained glass and deep shadows and air streaming with dust. Not Dust, of course; this is just the ordinary kind, but when Zane kneels, when he bows his head, he imagines that it is the other sort, that it is sin that sparkles in the air around him, sin that he breathes in, sin that illuminates the shafts of color from the stained glass.
Here, he prays, fervently, straining for even a hint of the Authority's voice. Riona paces patiently beside him, and watches, ever-attentive, when his eyes are closed and he has no more will to watch for himself.
He stays in here too long, in the near-emptiness, as handfuls of worshippers drift in and out.
THE PARTIES OF THE RICH
But he is, after all, a member of the society of Oxford. His isn't just to hunt, and to listen to informants on the street. Sometimes, what one hears in a party is a thousand times more important.
So at the events of the rich, of the high-class, he can be found in rich and fine clothes, a glass of drink in his hand, dancing and conversing and making connections as is demanded of him.
He thinks of this as another mask.
AT HOME
After dawn, he returns home, perhaps after sweeping up another child in the net of captives, perhaps empty-handed. He slips into the narrow apartment that he holds on his own, though his father owns other places in the building. His daemon steps up on a couch by the window, and Zane is hard-pressed, always, to stay away from the knives perpetually laid out on the table.
OTHER
Write me a thing, we'll do a thing. ]
He slips through the crowds, among them but not touched by them, his panther daemon pacing patiently by his side. He checks with his contacts and listens to how the world is moving, what people are saying, what they are thinking. He skirts the market and the docks, dipping into them to pause on the quay and watch the water move. He's scouting.
NIGHT: HUNTING
At night, at dusk and dawn, it's different. He's hunting. He paces up and down the darkest alleys and the edges of the world. He looks for children. Sometimes he does this with his sister. Together, they never come home empty-handed.
CHURCH
He drifts to different churches, preferring the larger ones or the cathedral, with broad stained glass and deep shadows and air streaming with dust. Not Dust, of course; this is just the ordinary kind, but when Zane kneels, when he bows his head, he imagines that it is the other sort, that it is sin that sparkles in the air around him, sin that he breathes in, sin that illuminates the shafts of color from the stained glass.
Here, he prays, fervently, straining for even a hint of the Authority's voice. Riona paces patiently beside him, and watches, ever-attentive, when his eyes are closed and he has no more will to watch for himself.
He stays in here too long, in the near-emptiness, as handfuls of worshippers drift in and out.
THE PARTIES OF THE RICH
But he is, after all, a member of the society of Oxford. His isn't just to hunt, and to listen to informants on the street. Sometimes, what one hears in a party is a thousand times more important.
So at the events of the rich, of the high-class, he can be found in rich and fine clothes, a glass of drink in his hand, dancing and conversing and making connections as is demanded of him.
He thinks of this as another mask.
AT HOME
After dawn, he returns home, perhaps after sweeping up another child in the net of captives, perhaps empty-handed. He slips into the narrow apartment that he holds on his own, though his father owns other places in the building. His daemon steps up on a couch by the window, and Zane is hard-pressed, always, to stay away from the knives perpetually laid out on the table.
OTHER
Write me a thing, we'll do a thing. ]
no subject
[ His eyes lift to his father's now, and the defiance there is flat and cold. He is a weapon, but he is the finest kind, and he is good - most of the time - at what he does. He will not lie at his father's feet. He will not relent easily to a leash. ]
no subject
[He leans forward, laces his hands on the table, holds those defiant eyes as if they do not bother him. He is still water in the face of Zane's anger.]
It is my job to look after you, and your sister. Murdering a man needlessly puts you in danger. Puts us all in danger. Do you understand that, Zane?
no subject
Not unacceptable danger.
[ Anyway, once he stabbed the man once, he had to finish it.
His hand creeps forward with his fingertips resting on one handle. ]
no subject
An unnecessary one. God's will is not for you to discern, my son. Let me help you.
cw: self-harm
The sting of pain brings him back to himself. ]
I pray more than you.
[ But it's weak. Zane's faith has boundaries, ends, beyond which there are only shadows. He prays because he is afraid of what else is within him. ]
no subject
He doesn't even shift uncomfortably, but when Zane finishes, he exhales quietly, an almost-sigh.]
You pray with flesh and knives, because you are afraid. You've been afraid all your life, but I'm here. And I will protect you, whether from your own hand or God Himself.
[He unlaces his fingers, holds one hand out for the knife, insistent but not invasive.]
no subject
But he wants it.
And the thought of being saved is too much to resist.
The fingertips holding the knife have been bloodied from resting on his forearm. Blood is dripping. He cut deep this time.
He reaches out tentative as a bird, and places the knife in his father's hand. Smears fingerprints of blood across clean, unmarked skin. ]
no subject
He knows with certainty that his son will never be fully healed. He will hear voices, interpret them as God, he will cut himself - but he will also obey. He'll make certain of it, with these small kindnesses, these little gestures of fatherhood. He closes his hand over the cut, bloodies his fingers and holds tight, protecting his starved son.]
Good boy.
[He murmurs quietly, and with his free hand cradles the back of Zane's head, kisses its crown.] We'll find a towel.
no subject
By the bath.
[ There are no others. The servants take them away when they're cleaned. ]
no subject
By the bath, he lets go of Zane's shoulders to grab a towel, wrapping white linen around the wound tightly, his hand leaving smears along its outside. He guides Zane to sit on the edge of the tub.]
Hold this, [he says, placing Zane's free hand over the towel, showing him how to press hard. Then he turns to search out bandages, still playing the concerned father.]
no subject
I don't think he was joking.
[ About marrying Abigail. He thinks there was a part of that man that wanted to save her. ]
no subject
Perhaps not. But he would not have pursued it. [Not after her father spoke with him, not after he made the consequences clear.]
This will sting.
[It's even a touch sympathetic, and he pulls Zane's arm over the tub, unwinds the towel and pours the liquid over the cut.]
no subject
no subject
Good.
[He murmurs it, and sets the bottle aside, grabbing for the gauze and the bandaging. He's quick, skilled; he could have been a surgeon, has his pursuits not led him elsewhere. Bandage in place, he takes the towel and dries Zane's arm off, all the while watching his son's face.]
You must resist the urge next time it rises, my son.
no subject
[ Why resist it. Why not just let it take him. ]
no subject
But you can claim mine. I will guide you. All I ask is that you consult me before you act rashly.
no subject
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