Post by Deleted on Oct 3, 2018 11:35:38 GMT -5
hail to the victor
Another kill, another drug
Another touch, another taste
Oh, oh, oh
Another night, another war
Another "what are we fighting for?"
Another lost to bitter pain
Another touch, another taste
Oh, oh, oh
Another night, another war
Another "what are we fighting for?"
Another lost to bitter pain
Judea, 66 BC
It was not easy - it would never be easy - to walk places he'd once known as a mortal not that he no longer was so. He'd look the buildings, the structures, the people- nothing was the same anymore. In a way, he preferred it to be so. After all, the world was not what he remembered and to pretend it was would only bring him more heartbreak. Marcus wondered, sometimes, how could a heart that did not beat hurt so much, so sharply. His did, constantly, even though there'd been a century or so since it stopped. His family was dead, his friends. There was none that had known him as a mortal, as a legionnaire of Caesar. All they knew was the vampire that the Shadow Cohort had in their power, the one not to be seen or heard. To be known only by the body count he left behind, the scarlet trail of fresh blood and the stench of death that dogged his footsteps. It was...lonely. Marcus was lonely and he could not even deny that he was so. A century was a long time and yet none, things passed by so fast and yet crawled. Duty kept him afloat, kept him on his feet. It would be so easy to give into the despair that clouded the edges of his visions, to turn into the horrid creatures of his kind that he'd seen before. To step into the embrace of Apollo and burn - ascend, in a way. Or sink, for he was no longer sure place was there in the halls of Pluto for monsters such as him.
Judea was hot during the day and he could not leave. No powers of his own to bend the weather to his will and he hadn't wanted to bring the attention of his fellow legionnaires to this place by asking them to do so. Besides, it was a dangerous thing to play with the weather, very noticeable. Those of no magic would take notice of overcast skies and storms in a place such as Judea and the last thing Marcus wanted was to place their operation here in jeopardy because of personal reasons. It wasn't even time sensitive, there was absolutely no reason for him to insist on it. He could wait until night fell and that was what he did, in the end. Once Diana rose into the sky, the temperature sunk considerably - which was good, since it meant people were more likely to be in their homes and not watching someone stalk into the night. It did not bother Marcus, the cold. The heat didn't either. He was dead, after all, and so were all the sensibilities he once had. He could feel it, the change in temperature. But it was no more important than a speck of dust in the desert, as far as he was concerned.
His brother's grave was nor marked beyond a stone on top of a patch of dirt, the symbol of the Ferrata carved upon it and his name. Date of birth, date of death. There was nothing of him there, of Tiberius Antonius. He was gone, had been gone for too long already. Marcus sat on the cooling sand, brushing a pale hand over the stone, feeling the deep markings. Someone had grieved, as they carved it. There was pain and anger in the lines, a feeling that Marcus was very familiar with by now. He felt it every day, with every legionnaire that fell in battle, every time he remembered the sweet scent of Primilla's hair, whenever the laughter of Julia, his wife, haunted his dreams. It had been so rare, that he'd made her laugh. They hadn't got along, for all that he'd always been rather mesmerised by her very being. At the same time, he'd been unwilling to give her anything - for she was not Roma and would've never been.
There was no noise to alert him of it, as it was normal, but Marcus had dealt with Lares before - enough that his skin prickled when one was close by. There were other graves here, all marked with the names of the fallen, but Marcus did not believe in coincidences. He did not believe in random chances. He didn't turn. "Tiberius. You were not someone I expected to linger," his voice was low in the silence of the empty plains, only the howling wind for company.
For a long time, there was only that. Marcus almost wondered whether he'd been hallucinating. And then- "Brother. You have not aged." A pause. "You are dead."
Marcus nodded, still not turning around. "I am."
"Is there any hope for our line?"
"Primilla lived a full life and her descendants serve Roma as we once did."
His brother made a noise of disgust from the back of his throat and Marcus had to smile. That was very similar to what he'd done back when they'd lived in the same house. "Roma can rot, brother. Mark my words, the flame has been extinguished."
Even if that hadn't echoed with Marcus' biggest fears, he'd not have argued. To argue with one's older brother was a mark of disrespect. To do so with one of the family Lares was unthinkable. Tiberius was both. "Luckily for you, then, that ghosts have no worries, only regrets."
There was only silence. Marcus left.
It was not easy - it would never be easy - to walk places he'd once known as a mortal not that he no longer was so. He'd look the buildings, the structures, the people- nothing was the same anymore. In a way, he preferred it to be so. After all, the world was not what he remembered and to pretend it was would only bring him more heartbreak. Marcus wondered, sometimes, how could a heart that did not beat hurt so much, so sharply. His did, constantly, even though there'd been a century or so since it stopped. His family was dead, his friends. There was none that had known him as a mortal, as a legionnaire of Caesar. All they knew was the vampire that the Shadow Cohort had in their power, the one not to be seen or heard. To be known only by the body count he left behind, the scarlet trail of fresh blood and the stench of death that dogged his footsteps. It was...lonely. Marcus was lonely and he could not even deny that he was so. A century was a long time and yet none, things passed by so fast and yet crawled. Duty kept him afloat, kept him on his feet. It would be so easy to give into the despair that clouded the edges of his visions, to turn into the horrid creatures of his kind that he'd seen before. To step into the embrace of Apollo and burn - ascend, in a way. Or sink, for he was no longer sure place was there in the halls of Pluto for monsters such as him.
Judea was hot during the day and he could not leave. No powers of his own to bend the weather to his will and he hadn't wanted to bring the attention of his fellow legionnaires to this place by asking them to do so. Besides, it was a dangerous thing to play with the weather, very noticeable. Those of no magic would take notice of overcast skies and storms in a place such as Judea and the last thing Marcus wanted was to place their operation here in jeopardy because of personal reasons. It wasn't even time sensitive, there was absolutely no reason for him to insist on it. He could wait until night fell and that was what he did, in the end. Once Diana rose into the sky, the temperature sunk considerably - which was good, since it meant people were more likely to be in their homes and not watching someone stalk into the night. It did not bother Marcus, the cold. The heat didn't either. He was dead, after all, and so were all the sensibilities he once had. He could feel it, the change in temperature. But it was no more important than a speck of dust in the desert, as far as he was concerned.
His brother's grave was nor marked beyond a stone on top of a patch of dirt, the symbol of the Ferrata carved upon it and his name. Date of birth, date of death. There was nothing of him there, of Tiberius Antonius. He was gone, had been gone for too long already. Marcus sat on the cooling sand, brushing a pale hand over the stone, feeling the deep markings. Someone had grieved, as they carved it. There was pain and anger in the lines, a feeling that Marcus was very familiar with by now. He felt it every day, with every legionnaire that fell in battle, every time he remembered the sweet scent of Primilla's hair, whenever the laughter of Julia, his wife, haunted his dreams. It had been so rare, that he'd made her laugh. They hadn't got along, for all that he'd always been rather mesmerised by her very being. At the same time, he'd been unwilling to give her anything - for she was not Roma and would've never been.
There was no noise to alert him of it, as it was normal, but Marcus had dealt with Lares before - enough that his skin prickled when one was close by. There were other graves here, all marked with the names of the fallen, but Marcus did not believe in coincidences. He did not believe in random chances. He didn't turn. "Tiberius. You were not someone I expected to linger," his voice was low in the silence of the empty plains, only the howling wind for company.
For a long time, there was only that. Marcus almost wondered whether he'd been hallucinating. And then- "Brother. You have not aged." A pause. "You are dead."
Marcus nodded, still not turning around. "I am."
"Is there any hope for our line?"
"Primilla lived a full life and her descendants serve Roma as we once did."
His brother made a noise of disgust from the back of his throat and Marcus had to smile. That was very similar to what he'd done back when they'd lived in the same house. "Roma can rot, brother. Mark my words, the flame has been extinguished."
Even if that hadn't echoed with Marcus' biggest fears, he'd not have argued. To argue with one's older brother was a mark of disrespect. To do so with one of the family Lares was unthinkable. Tiberius was both. "Luckily for you, then, that ghosts have no worries, only regrets."
There was only silence. Marcus left.
tags: none
outfit
words: 896
