knightsoflegend | CHAPTER FOUR ♔ does it run in your blood to betray the ones you love

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CHAPTER FOUR ♔ does it run in your blood to betray the ones you love

WHO || Failboat, Rafael, Isabella, Nadia [Closed]
WHAT || After an exciting Grammy night, the Knights meet up with Nadia to hear what she has to say
WHERE || Staples Center, LA --> Warehouse
WHEN || Feb 8th, 2015 [back dated]
HOW || Actionspam

[ The Knights' mission to stop the signal and prevent Draken's cult from spreading whatever subliminal message was lurking beneath Keijen Blade's performance was a success. It didn't come without its bumps in the road, however: Alexander Anderson showed up, and the Knights ran afoul of the Mind Master. Buffy nearly died fighting Anderson, but in the end, he was defeated, beheaded, and hopefully put to death forever. Finnick, though, found himself thrust into a mental illusion that convinced him he might still be in the Hunger Games, and left him uncertain about whether any of his life here was real.

Another surprise came in the form of an announcement by Nadia Reichenov, an artist working with Crombe and company, that she was changing her band name and taking things in a 'new direction'. This direction was perhaps revealed when after her performance, she approached the Knights in Rafael's dressing room - and handed them the necklace that connects her to the Nightmare God Malaak'a, saying she was willing to tell them everything. ]

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[ She moves with him, nestling against him as they lay down, allowing herself to take comfort in him. He's right, of course. Their similarities are what make it so easy to talk to him, what draw them together, but apparently they're also what push them apart. Too wrapped up in their own thoughts and demons to reach out, they'd sabotaged themselves.

But he's here now. It doesn't have to be that way. So she settles in to look up at him, searching his face and trying to convince herself to take the acceptance she finds there, even if she still doesn't believe she deserves it. There are a million reasons to believe she's nothing but a monster, but even hearing about it, Rafael doesn't flinch away. The opposite, in fact, he pulls her closer. She doesn't want to deny herself that, even if every part of her screams that it's impossible.

In fact.

For one more lingering moment of silence, she studies him. She touches one hand lightly to his jaw, gratitude in her eyes, but that's what gives way for the tears to fall. She crumbles, a choking sound in the back of her throat. Not the first time she's cried this night, but these have been a long time coming. This is the defeat that she'd been trying to stave off more than any. After Andres, she did feel alone, even surrounded by friends who loved her. If she's not now, then— ]

I don't know what's wrong with me. Every time I fight, I feel like I'm losing it, sinking deeper into the dark, and I can't scream, or find help, or get out on my own. [ The tears make her chest heave and her shoulders shake, and she enfolds herself in his arms more insistently, clinging onto him. ] What if Anderson was right? What if all I am is a monster?

[ Sam convinced her to see herself as more than that—not on Andres, when he'd done his part to help when she didn't believe she deserved it or even know what she needed, but in Chicago. If Sam had gone through what she did, believed he had to fight against his nature to not be something dark and monstrous, and if she still saw the good in him and hoped that he would keep that light, how could she choose not to recognize the good in herself?

But if there is good in her, despite what she is, it wasn't winning tonight. Anderson, maybe, forced her hand—if not tonight, then another time, he wouldn't have stopped until he was dead or Rafael was, and she simply couldn't accept that. But the people who followed them? Dominated, probably. Helpless to the Mind Master and Blade, just as the rest of them were. ]

[ his grip on her never wavers, his body pressed to hers, solid and reassuring, a mast offered to cling to. one hand never stills in caressing her back, raking hair away from the tear-tracks littering her cheeks, granting what consolation there is to be found in simple touches. ]

Buffy... [ the way he murmurs her name is every bit as much a caress. ] I cannot claim to understand what it is like to possess the abilities you have... And I do not know what this Robin told you of them, or where they came from. Of what they make you.

[ his palm strokes back her hair and settles against her cheek, drawing her attention to the levity in his gaze ] But I do not need to.

I see you. Even these parts of you that you were so hesitant to share with me, that you think make you something other than human.

[ his lips part, and his next words hover there for a moment, before he resolves himself to say them, selecting each one carefully, the weight of admission hanging off them. ] I do not possess your powers - or your curses, as you see them, of nature - and yet I know what you speak of. Know it, because I have felt it, tasted that same ... exhilaration more than I would ever care to admit. Jade and Isabella both had cautioned me against the cold killer within, but they did not understand that he was born of necessity. That if I did not force myself to shut things off, to feel nothing, then--

[ his hand stills, fingers clutching together into a fist that lies atop her skin ] There have been times when shedding blood, taking a life of those I had decided were unrighteous in some way, even flaying the flesh of an already dead evil man to mark him as such awakened some dark chorus in every fiber of my heart. Felt good, Buffy. Threatened to take over who I was, who I wanted to be.

[ he drags his gaze back to hers, an anxious pain there at speaking the words aloud to her, the vulnerability they've both exposed themselves to in doing so a live wire thrumming in the air ] It was you who convinced me that I was not a monster, once. That the light in me outweighed the dark, even when this ... part of me could be attributed to no one but me. To my own choices. To no dark secret in my blood, to no powers granted to me on high. To nothing but my own faults.

If such a man is not a monster in your eyes, if he can be well and truly good, then how much better is the woman who did not nurture these feelings by choice, was born to them somehow, and yet fights so hard against them when they rear their head?

You and I both know that not every battle can be won. But what is important is that you do not stop fighting the war. That you do not let this side of you claim victory for knocking you down once. Even twice.

Your better self will win, carina. I know this, because I have seen her strength so many times. Because she has lent some of it to me when I had none left of my own.

[ Some traitorous, self-aggrandizing part of her won't hear it. Forgiving and believing the best of people like Sam and Rafael is one ting: the standards she holds herself to are higher, perhaps out of some inherent egotism, or perhaps something more profound—an understanding of the responsibilities of her calling. Whatever the case, Rafael's words cannot soothe her heart entirely.

But that's not to say his words aren't still a balm of sorts, easing her suffering, staying the hand she raises to whip herself. Lost in his eyes, she allows the words to wash over her, a cool relief taking her in wave on wave. The tears dry on her face, but her eyes still shine with timorous vulnerability.

The depth of his understanding shakes her to her core and shines a light into the darkest parts of herself that she would never give words to, proving the truth of his words by their mere existence. The ugliness that she tries to scrub out of her own heart is a match set for his.

Though her expression remains dolorous, she stills, steadier for the way the warmth of his faith swells in her chest and the way light and hope break through the haunted darkness in her eyes. It floors her, how he undermines every reason she'd feared to come to him after Andres in one fell swoop. The way she'd worried that his own attitudes might make him myopically incapable of understanding, or feared that he might internalize it as some food for his own self-loathing. If anything, it smoothes the rough edges of her frantic fear, allowing him to interpret the things she leaves unsaid.

She leans into him, foreheads pressed together, slowly shutting her eyes while she takes his remarks in. Gratitude dies on her lips; it feels too small in the face of all he's said and done for her. ]

I think I'm beginning to see why you retired.

[ Her wry tone tries to take the edge off, lessen the gravity of the barrel they're both staring down. If Des knows what Hell is like, there's every possibility they should start asking for vacation tips now. Sooner or later, this battle they're fighting is going to kill them, and when it does, it won't be pretty. For either of them.

(She belligerently avoids thinking, then, that he'd still be safely retired in Venice had he never met her.)

A part of her remains incredulous that she has him here like this, wonders if she even deserves it, or if that even matters when push comes to shove. Her eyes flash open, examining his face from only a few inches away. With only the heavy sounds of their breath to fill the silence that spans, his lips catch her gaze.

A bad decision waiting to be made, given every reason she came here with him instead of remaining in the suite the other Knights secured.

Her fingertips brush against the underneath of his jaw, curling forward as if to quietly draw him in. But she catches herself, breath short in her throat, green eyes darting upward to level on his dark gaze. ] Rafael, I — [ She drops her chin, taking a heavy moment to search for words, then steadies her hand against his chest. ] We should get some sleep. After a long night of almost dying, tomorrow seems like as good a time as any for more talking.

[ with his sense motive of seven, a note of uncertainty creeps into his eyes at her words, a momentary fear that he has not helped matters - or even made them worse. But, either way, he nods, so slightly that she can only see it on account of their proximity. ]

You are right. I think we could both... do with some rest.

[ That awkward moment when your girl's sense motive is half your bluff check. Too exhausted by the night's even and worn down by the heavy topic of conversation and her own tears, Buffy misreads his slight movements as hesitation and discomfort at what she'd almost done.

A good decision, then, to sleep before either of them makes a mistake. She pulls away from him, sitting up to go kill the lights. ] You sure you have to finish your tour? [ She mumbles it as she crawls back onto the bed, settling under the fresh white sheets in her torn and bloodied dress and pulling the covers back for him to join her. ] What if you just got kidnapped by a super secret international organization? [ A yawn as she settles her head back against the pillow. ] I bet Burt could find a way to make money off of that.

[ he swings himself to sitting when she gets up, so that he can lean down and take his shoes off, and then remove at least his suit jacket, slinging it over the arm of a nearby chair. ] If only.

[ he turns to her with a little smile, and crawls in beside her, extending his arm as an invitation for her to curl back against him ] We will have Italia now, to look forward to.

Edited 2015-04-18 02:17 (UTC)

[ Quick to accept the invitation, she presses herself in against him, turning her back to him so she can actually settle in for sleep. She reaches for his hand to pull his arm around her middle, rubbing at her cheeks with her other hand so she can get rid of the puffy feeling of tears. ]

Mm. Just let me know if I should bring the scary men in dark suits to disappear you early. You never know how you'll feel in a week or two. [ She turns to offer a groggy look past her shoulder at him, a lazy smile on her lips. ] You must be missing it like crazy.

Edited (makes the weirdest edit) 2015-04-18 02:25 (UTC)

[ when she glances back, she'd catch him staring at her with affection, even wistfulness, swimming in his gaze, and at her words, his expression warms only further. He turns his face, so that his lips brush a lingering kiss against her cheek, close enough to her lips to feel remarkably intimate, the heat of his breath unmistakable against her skin, before he slides his mouth closer to her ear to muse: ] Si, however... [ the words hang there a moment, before he confesses in an appealing murmur: ] There were things I missed much more.

[ The look in his eyes is a riptide that tows her under as soon as she thinks she's in still water. Dizzied by the closeness, she draws a deep breath and heat spreads under her skin, starting in the back of her neck and flooding through her. Her lips part, and the light, guiding touch of her hand closes into a steadying grip as she threads her fingers in his. ]

Things? [ Hope lilts her voice upward, but she doesn't appear to want an answer, because she shifts to turn slightly more towards him, barely speaking above a murmur. ] Or people?

[ Her free hand crosses over her body to cup his cheek; then, it slides back into his hair, and she leans up to brush her lips over his in a light but lingering kiss. Fire smolders just below its surface, belied by the gratitude her gentleness insists upon conveying with it. That he's here, that he knows just what to say, that they're not pulling away from this anymore.

Shame whips up in the back of her mind, scolding her for taking this without stopping to ask, to make sure it was okay, particularly in the wake of what has happened to him in her absence, but she feels helpless to keep holding off what's felt so inevitable for so long. ]

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he doesn't recoil from the touch, realization sparking in his eyes just before she kisses him, but still not prompting him to stop her. his eyes fall closed instead, his tired, even breathing catching as his hand tightens around her reflexively, palm sliding slightly across her lower back as he accepts the simple kiss, seems to grasp the intention behind it. but his mouth also tilts further towards hers for a few heartbeats, rendering the kiss warm and solid, an indulgence that lingers under the safe excuse of her gratitude. her 16 wisdom check is enough to sense how close to the edge the kiss is balanced on his end as well, that fire burning from both ends, threatening to meet in the middle and ignite a spark that could spread like wildfire.

for just a second, things could tip either way, they could fall into each other so easily and try to drown the scarred emotions of the evening in passion. but those things would still be there, would leave something hollow at the heart of it, and maybe it's a recognition of that that makes him finally draw away. his eyes are gentle when they open, but dark in a way she's never seen them - that fire so close to the surface now that she can see it smoldering there as clear as day.

but as he pulls back, searching her face, the look dims into an apology of sorts, the pain of so many things that still hover over them clearly an unforgettable reality to him. it's not a rejection, but it is a quiet request. still, she's never heard his voice shaded with as much unintentional allure as it is when he speaks in a hushed whisper: ] ... Person, perhaps.

[ Intuition leads her to slip deeper into the kiss with him, taking his steadiness as approval. Her hand curls in his hair, closing around a fistful of thick curls. A moment later, he breaks the kiss, and she draws in a sudden, heavy breath. In it lies all the longing and possibility that her gaze matches when she opens her eyes. Desire blows her pupils wide, darkening the green of her eyes as his magnetism holds her in.

The space between them is short yet; it would be easy to close with another kiss, to let the fire burn them up and sift through the ashes their desire left behind in the morning. But she's leapt into these things from a place of hurt and fear before, when she was low and lost and needed solace, and she knows now that it's not something to give into unless she wants to find a charred wasteland in passion's wake.

More now, when she sees the still-lingering pain in his eyes. The past months have left them both battered; easy as it would be to fall prey to that, Buffy steels herself instead, battling against her compulsion towards the flames. For his sake as well as hers, she summons up the strength he'd recognized in her—she fights, knowing exactly what the right choice is, even if it's not the one she wants to make on an instinctive level, something dark and primal warring within against her reason. ]

I missed you too. [ It's not simply a confession, but a balm, spoken as if what she means to say is, "It's okay" and "We should wait." Her hand loosens in his hair, soothingly gliding across his cheek. It's an answer to his unspoken apology: she loves him, and that's why she knows this can't happen now. That doesn't require an apology.

Her hand drops, a conscious choice to pull back so they might not fall into something they'll regret, but the coals burn still behind her eyes. ]

[ his little smile reaches his eyes at her understanding, at her acceptance, relief there as he lays his head down against the pillow, his body relaxing easily towards the sleep it craves so much right now, even as he keeps her securely encircled with his arm. ] Buonanotte, mia carina.

Good night.

[ She concludes, interpreting smoothly. Turning away again, she presses her back flush against his chest and settles in to drift off to sleep. She readily falls asleep, but the night is interrupted—restless and plagued by nightmares.

It starts with the disfigured, demonic shift of Spike's true face. She runs through darkness, heels splashing through puddles of rain, but it's all obscure and ephemeral. Somewhere far away, a subway rattles on tracks.

The sharp stab of a blessed bayonet through her gut brings her to what feels more real, and she looks up to Alexander Anderson's smiling visage reminding her of what she is. What she's done.

No small amount of tossing, turning—thrashing, even—accompanies the horrors that rise up to strike against her unconscious mind. ]

[ ♬ shout about it - the vamps

cries b/c he got a nat 20 listen check that drags him out of sleep in the middle of the night. he tries to wake her gently at first, but more insistently if necessary, his hand curved around her shoulder as he leans over her, dark brows knitted together in concern, as he tries to rouse her with comforting words, to pull her out of herself (diplomacy 25). ] Buffy...

Buffy, it is alright. Come back to me here.

[ The process of waking her briefly worsens it, a physical component to an abstract mental fear. She wrenches her arm free from him (str 18), but catches herself in time to stop from lashing out at him (ref 19), sitting up quickly. A shout bubbles out of her throat as she comes to with such suddenness that she doesn't realize where she is immediately.

Glancing around, she lets out a few panicked breaths, adrenaline spiking. She reaches out for him, anchoring herself by gripping his arm even as she doesn't look at him right away. Sweat forms a thin sheen on her chest and face, frizzing her hair.

Slowly, realizing her safety, she disarms, then glances down towards him. An apology starts forming when she's still looking through him, eyes out of focus, but it doesn't come out until she fixes her gaze on his tired face. ] Sorry.

[ Reaching up, she pushes hair out of her face. ] It was— I thought … [ He's dead. She killed him, they decapitated him, his body is rotting in Alainn's vault. Jerky movements help her back down to his level. ] Are you okay?

[ he waves off her concern for him with a small gesture ] I am fine, carina. It is you I was worried about. [ his fingers curve bravely through her hair, studying her face intently ] It is not enough that we face such perils in the day, it seems, but they must also haunt us at night. [ he grimaces a bit, meeting her eyes ] Perhaps we should expect nothing less, when we deal with a god of nightmares.

[ his voice softens as he asks: ] Is it something you wish to talk about?

[ She continues working to catch her breath, holding his gaze. Confusion mingles with concern as she affirms that it's not real, that it's behind her. One hand rubs the slope of her neck, working out the tension that built up. A quick glance over at the window tells her it's still not light out. ]

It wasn't — [ wis 19, she remembers to stop herself from the name. ] Him. It was … It was Anderson. [ And she sounds put-out by the admission. ] He was alive. And I think Spike was there. [ The crease of her forehead says she's not quite sure what the progression of that was or what was happening. She shakes her head to dismiss it, leveling her eyes on Rafael's again. ] He's really gone.

He is, si. He will never trouble us again, Buffy. [ except he knows it's not as easy as that, that he'll be troubling her heart and mind for a long time, and that's why he lifts a hand gently to her temple now, as if he can soothe her thoughts with a grounding touch ] That fear is over.

[ Though she nods, her eyes still look faintly lost. But she trusts him in affirming what she herself began to doubt when her dreams tried to deceive her into fear; she lets her faith in Rafael be her anchor, and she settles back in beside him, staring off at the wall for a long moment as she processes his words and works through the panic.

Her breath evens out, and she seems to accept the assessment. That fear might be over, but there will be others. That thought plagues her yet. It won't do her any good to dwell on Keijen and the Mind Master now, though; she's not going to swing out at 4 in the morning to do battle barefoot in shredded formalwear.

She holds onto his hand, squeezing it to show how important it is to her that he's there. If she'd woken up from that alone, it— It wouldn't have been good. But she's not alone anymore. ]

[ he's content to hold her in silence for a bit, settling his chin on top of her head as he does so. finally, he says quietly: ] Is this often? These dreams?

[ Brushing her thumb over the back of his hand, she lulls herself into a more peaceful repose. His question doesn't startle her out of it, but she does take her time in answering. There's real thought there. The metronome of touch sweeping across his hand carries on in the silence. ]

Not all the time. And they're always different. Different places, different demons, even I'm different in them. But it's always me, and they always end bloody.

[ Just like she will. She gets it now, now that Faith and Robin have explained. ]

Do you know? What this means. [ he's clearly straining to understand, puzzle it out through the haze of sleep still half clouding his mind. ]

Other than chronic insomnia?

[ The humor in her voice is dry. ]

Not really. [ She turns to glance up at him briefly, expression soft. ] It's okay. I'm used to it, and … It's not usually this bad. [ There's the added murder-guilt component. She's quietly hoping that it's not setting a new trend of some kind. ]

Still... I wish there was something more I could do. [ there's a precious earnest quality to his words, like he's really thinking about how he could possibly help, even if it's really not in his power. finally, he seems to admit defeat for now, and buries his lips against her hair with a soft hum. ] Do you want me to wake you, if they return?

[ She snuggles against him, her thoughtful sigh hardly a hum through pursed lips. ]

Only if I keep you up. [ It wouldn't be the first time she's suffered through it to morning. Sharing a room with Myri for some time has led her to believe that it's not often the case that she keeps anyone up with it. ] I'll be okay. [ She raises his hand to her lips, a quick kiss. ] Go back to sleep.

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