[ P ] Pour your heart out

As if his teeth held her noose, the word murder seemed to yank her toward him. Her paw jerked as her body shivered, clumsily knocking over the cracked clay. It rolled aimlessly on its side whilst the scent of mint and ginger filled the air. Oh so close it came to covering the aroma of alcohol. Belfast would have flinched if not for a sincerely numbing childhood. Something about learning to wait for the lottery days—those precious mornings when his mother would be alert—and handling the fallout from her crashes had given him a strange sense of stability. It was as if the ocean's waves could not perturb him anymore, as if he floated above those swirling, crashing emotional states. At times, such a trait was useful. Though at times he wondered what it was like to still feel strongly about something. Anything. Xandria shivered, but not from the cold. Her eyes dilated, nostrils flaring as adrenaline poured through her veins. Belfast, by contrast, was calm. Cool. As unphased as the pail of tea that he left to brew in the son each morning. There was, however, a note of intensity in teal eyes. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he moved toward her, his steps deliberately slow. "I'm not a cold blooded killer," Xandria asserted, catching his gaze. Belfast paused as he stooped to grab the cup and set it right. "He killed my dad. He took him away from us… He deserved it," came the quick support of her argument and he nodded slowly. Another parent murdered. A dark brown ear flicked. “I know,” he answered calmly, carefully compartmentalizing all of his questions. He pressed them down as he would fresh leaves. Later, perhaps, he would air them out to dry. Or, they'd just be pressed to powder and one day he would forget. Oh well. Turning, he moved—slowly as ever, deliberately as ever—to the little pail to refill the cup again. Normalcy was nature's mental medicine. Returning, he set the cup down—only he did not retreat back to his little spot two feet away. Instead, he leaned forward to inspect her eyes, to see if she was calmer now (and possibly more confused than defensive). “We can talk about it if you want,” he'd indulge her in that. “But you're still sobering up Xan. I wouldn't wish that on you while you're still tipsy.” Though in some strange way, maybe the alcohol made it easier (albeit more disorienting). At least it'd numb some of the broken pieces that came from killing another wolf. “my sin, my soul.”

STOCK ➤Dawnthieves CODE.ART➤ amphi

@Xandria

Her fire surged inside, warming her as hot as the alcohol in her blood. It blazed in her golden eyes, body tense and rigid as she waited for the inevitable rejection. She steeled herself for a look of disgust, fear or anger. Why would he be any different? He didn't owe her anything, certainly not the loyalty of blood. Her mouth opened, prepared to cut him off before he could ask her to leave. The words announcing her departure died in her throat in a confused grumble. I know, his answer was calm as if she had just told him that it was raining.

Her confusion made her feel vulnerable. She didn't know how to react to his calm acceptance when her mind was a chaotic storm of emotion totally unprepared for acceptance. She should have been pleased, but she wasn't. She was full of doubt. What if he was lying to her? A long and heavy silence filled the air as she struggled to comprehend that Belfast knew what she had done and accepted it. “We can talk about it if you want,” he offered and she continued to stare at him, confusion and uncertainty obvious in her gaze.

“But you're still sobering up Xan. I wouldn't wish that on you while you're still tipsy.”

I hunted him for weeks, like an animal, I didn't stop until he gave up running. I thought I might die at his fangs.. when he grabbed hold of me. I felt such rage.. I screamed and tore at his throat, biting whatever I could reach. I didn't stop...Bel…until he wasn't moving .. I kept ripping into him, she informed him, golden gaze hard as she locked eyes with him. It was a test. She was pushing to see if his resolve was weak. If he would still accept her knowing what darkness lay inside of her. Then I left him for the crows, she added, a final insult to the man who had killed her father.

Art by Ashon

And perhaps the wolf he was really protecting was himself. As she straightened, the fire in yellow eyes was as bright as ever despite the confusion and raw vulnerability that appeared. She was raw, the wound of her crime all too visible despite the low light. He was surprised he hadn't seen it before, for it actively wept, bleeding over the hay that lined Alphonse's tiny apothecary. For a moment, his heart constricted. The calm exterior cracked if only barely, for the hint of a frown appeared at the corner of his lips. ... An ear flicked back as she started, almost as if she sensed his fear. "I hunted him for weeks, like an animal, I didn't stop until he gave up running." ... Belfast swallowed, trying like mad to look unbothered. Somber, but not revolted. And yet... his stomach twisted. Not because she disgusted him but because his mother's story was overlayed with a sepia hue. Nostrils flared and he drank in air greedily. "I thought I might die at his fangs.. when he grabbed hold of me. I felt such rage.. I screamed and tore at his throat, biting whatever I could reach..." But who was his mother in this retelling? Had she sought out her murderer? Begged him to kill her? Or had he merely found her deserving of death? "...I didn't stop...Bel…until he wasn't moving .. I kept ripping into him..." Belfast felt a wave of nausea wash over him and he sat, closing his eyes. In. Out. In. Out. When his eyes finally did open, she did not allow him to look away. She was threatening him to rip the wound open wider. “And was it worth it?” He finally croaked, his voice wavering for a second before he forced calm back into it. “His ghost, and the piece of yourself that you left back there. Was it worth losing?” And part of him desperately wanted to know. Who was the victim, then? Her? His mother? The man that had killed Sinead or the one that had killed Kohl? Or all of them? “my sin, my soul.”

STOCK ➤Dawnthieves CODE.ART➤ amphi

@Xandria

Under the heavy fog of alcohol Xandria watched him listen to the horrifying details and try to process them. Was a mistake. Can't handle it. The scattered thoughts trampled through the mush that was left of her brain. She had felt the wild rampant rage call to her, a war cry screaming inside of her. It had flashed before her eyes like a blanket of red and she had charged after it. A willing puppet strung along by her own volatile emotions in the aftermath of her father's death. It was a hunger that gnawed at her, that left her empty and desperate to feed. And she had, she had hunted him. The blissful silence and rush of euphoria that filled her once she felt him stop moving. How could anyone understand it? It was so wrong, but it felt so right.

"Was it worth it?" Blue faded to yellow, brown to gold. It was Sethos' face that stared back at her. She blinked and Belfast was back where he belonged. His ghost, and the piece of yourself that you left back there. Was it worth losing?"

What… What if I didn't lose anything? What if I found something that was always there? she whispered as if unable to bring herself to speak the words any louder. If someone harmed her mother or siblings… would the same happen again? Could she stop herself? Would she want to?

Fuck, Xandria hissed shakily, unable to supress a shudder from running through her. I'm messed up, aren't I? she looked to Belfast, wondering what he saw when he looked at her. A killer? Someone damaged beyond repair? She dared not ask and risk the slither of hope she had that he still might see her as she had been before she had confessed her darkest secret and dumped all her ugliness on him.

Art by Ashon

What if I found something that was always there? At this, Belfast's eyes narrowed somewhat. His skin had grown so thick that he had forgotten what it felt like to be perturbed, to feel a barb sink beneath all those layers and draw blood. The young man's brow furrowed, subconsciously thinking of his sister wherever she was. Her hatred of their mother, her righteous fury and her craving for resolution. To her, their mother had been a monster. A wayward hurricane that left them stranded and destitute—and maybe that story held a pound of truth. But their mother was also sick. There was only so much blame he could lay upon her frail soldiers before he had to turn and stare at the dominos that had toppled down on top of her. Poor parents, vicious vanity, the wolves that had sold her into sex slavery at a young age. He had gone hunting for details and had found them in the worst places—the story so revolting that he had left Cyrileth for good. It was a shame that his mother's body had been left behind. But what little that was still hers—his and Anaca's beating hearts—had moved on, free of the cage. They had gone beyond the mountains like she'd always wanted... "Fuck, I'm messed up, aren't I?" Belfast's eyes refocused and he realized that he had been silent for far too long. Xandria had folded in on herself, losing all of the righteous rage that had held her up mere moments before. “No,” Belfast said, finally leaving his post before her and slowly joining her at her side. “Just sick... and sad. So sad that every piece of you shattered.” If she allowed it, he'd lay his chin on the back of her neck. “If you didn't leave a part of you behind,” he mused softly. “then I have to wonder why you're here, drunk and on the verge of tears." A wane smile curved on his lips and he let out a breathy laugh. He imagined he wasn't her first shoulder to cry on. And even though some part of her had changed irreversibly, he needed more time to digest it. To understand, to conceptualize. But as he always did, he compartmentalized and moved on. Swallowed it, because putting up a wall and locking out Xandria was as good as losing Kohl and his last shred of family in this world. It didn't matter if he abhorred what she'd done. In a way, he was the same. He'd do anything to keep holding on. “my sin, my soul.”

STOCK ➤Dawnthieves CODE.ART➤ amphi

@Xandria

The heat of shame and self loathing crawled beneath her skin. Was she such a coward that she couldn’t face who she was and accept it? Xandria was at peace with the fact that her father’s killer was dead. What she struggled with was the fact that she was capable of such violence and hatred. Even now she felt its fire spreading through her soul and she couldn’t stop it. Cairo’s words had sent her tailspinning out of control.

She had given herself permission to act as judge, jury and executioner. The fear that her father’s killer would escape justice and live on happily like many of the highlander rebels that King Adamh had pardoned had consumed her. The truth was she didn’t trust Rionnach’s laws to give her family the peace they deserved. It wouldn’t have been murder. Her father would be counted as another casualty of war.

”No,” Belfast disagreed, dragging her unwillingly from her inner turmoil. Then as suddenly as he’d spoken he was a warm presence at her side, offering connection and comfort. She tensed when his chin softly rested on the back of her neck. Part of her, the stubborn prideful part, wanted to push him away and insist she didn’t need coddling like some child. “Just sick... and sad. So sad that every piece of you shattered.”

She wanted to protest that she wasn’t sad. She was angry. But she knew that under the anger was hurt, beneath the hurt was sadness. “If you didn't leave a part of you behind then I have to wonder why you're here, drunk and on the verge of tears."

Finally she protested. I’m not- she began indignantly, trying her best to hold back the tears as if Belfast merely mentioning them had summoned them. Tiamats don’t cry, she insisted, but was unable to stop the sniff that followed.

Art by Ashon

She was rather warm, not just from the heat but the alcohol and shame as well. The underside of his throat rested against the back of her neck, his side along her own. If his words could not offer her comfort, then he hoped that this gentle pressure would. It was all that he could give immediately, for his tongue could only voice sweet nothings. Anything of greater weight would have required knocking a shovel against the chest of emotions he'd buried as a boy. He'd have to reconcile his mother's murder with Xandria's. Victim and villain, two sides of the same coin. Could he love both simultaneously? It was a question he did not want to dwell on for fear of the answer. At her pouty rebuttal, Belfast couldn't help but snort. “Oh, they don't?” He reached up a paw to scruff up her ears as he leaned back to stare down at her forlorn little face. She seemed smaller here, tinier. “They also don't help little orphans or deviate from the rule of law.” A chocolatey ear flicked. “So perhaps you are more like your father than your mother,” Belfast mused softly, hoping it would be a comfort to her. The Tiamat name was matrlineal was it not? “my sin, my soul.”

STOCK ➤Dawnthieves CODE.ART➤ amphi

@Xandria

Her eyes narrowed in an effort to keep the tears from escaping. A single tear rolled down her dark cheek and she subtly wiped it away on Belfast's fur. Another sniff followed, but it was swallowed down by a woof of surprise in response to his paw ruffling over her ears. Golden eyes glared at him and his offending paw, placing her own over her crown to protect her sensitive ears. We don't, she harrumphed. It's your stinky herbs messing with me, Xandria quipped back, feeling a little more like herself.

They also don't help little orphans or deviate from the rule of law. So perhaps you are more like your father than your mother,

At the suggestion that was more like Kohl than Nassar she frowned. Her mother was who she had tried to emulate as a child. She still wanted to be like her, worthy of her name and her blood. Kohl's distance had acted as a wall between father and daughter. She hadn't had that breakthrough moment of understanding with him like she'd always wanted and now she never would.

Tell me about the day you met, she requested, shifting her paws so she could rest her head comfortably upon them. Maybe through Belfast she could understand him better.

Art by Ashon

She was adamant that Tiamats didn't cry—unless drugged, apparently. At this, Belfast felt a lopsided smile begin to take hold of his face. “You are ever so stubborn,” he mused, not attempting to put up much more of a fight. While he was a fond lover of banter, he was happy to let her win after only a prod or two—at least while she was drunk. The moment that she was back on all four paws without a single wobble, though, he'd be sure to start nagging and jesting again. Blue eyes widened slightly when she suddenly asked for a story. Or, rather than ask, demanded really with that classic Tiamat entitlement. He felt a haughty no form upon his tongue but that sense of childish defiance withered as soon as it had been born. Why keep the last shreds of her father's memory from her? There would be no more new stories in the future. All she'd ever have were these snippets from the past. “The story will bore you,” Belfast warned, unable to sweetly lean into the story without some sort of quip. Then, he adjusted his paws and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he thought back to his childhood. Back to a time when his mom was alive, his father was alive, and everyone was... happy? No, that wasn't right. Still surviving. Which to him, in hindsight, had become an idyllic era of his life. “He had helped my mom once,” Belfast began. The story was a tad distorted by his youthful memory, but he did his best to recount Kohl's sense of duty to his then-pregnant mother. He left out some of the darker bits—about how she'd sleep with several poppyseeds each night and occasionally not be lucid much at all—and instead focused on Kohl's impeccable ability to watch over them and teach them small things: wrestling moves or hunting stances. It made his heart hurt, but perhaps that was good. exit “my sin, my soul.”

STOCK ➤Dawnthieves CODE.ART➤ amphi

@Xandria

Her quips were met with a simple statement, an observation that was so glaringly obvious she let out an unrestrained ha of laughter before she tightened the reins of her self control and the lines of amusement faded away from her features. It was nice to feel normal again, unburdened by the guilt of the crime she had committed in her father’s name. She could feel the pressure of it threatening to rise to the surface again. It was always there and it always would be. It was up to her to decide if it would define her, but she was not ready to commit to an answer. For now she hid within the sea of drunken euphoria and lost herself within the waves. That’ll be your fault. Borefast, she teased him, grinning wide enough for her canines to show through.

Then respectfully she grew silent, waiting for him to begin the story. It painted another side to the father she had known so little about. One who cared about a stranger enough to involve himself in her life and help care for children that weren’t his kin. It helped her understand why he might have seemed so distant because he was torn between two families. It eased the sting of his neglect and helped her find something she never knew she needed. Forgiveness. She forgave him for his absences because Belfast had needed him more than she had.

Sometime during the tale her head had slumped against Belfast’s shoulder and she found herself falling asleep to the low timbre of his voice.

Fade to sleep

Art by Ashon