#[muse tag :: augusto]

[concentratedbitterness]

Piccrew edits of (most) of the muses: [X]

From top, left to right: Mara, Ray, Malcolm, Lee, Fig, Stolas, Augusto, Santiago, Rose, Nathan

#[inspo tag :: aesthetic] #[muse tag :: mara] #[muse tag :: ray] #[muse tag :: malcolm] #[muse tag :: lee] #[muse tag :: fig] #[muse tag :: stolas] #[muse tag :: augusto] #[muse tag :: santiago] #[muse tag :: rose] #[muse tag :: nathan]

[concentratedbitterness]

The Lever

Somewhere on the North American Continent: Unknown Date in the Distant Future

“Damn it.”

A desolate wasteland spans before them in every direction, so long devoid of life that Nathan cannot help but feel the hollowness of its absence draining his soul.  His eyes burn; lungs filling with dead air that still smells faintly of ozone.  It’s hard to make out details in the dimness, and part of him is glad for that.  They’ve been here too many times before, and he already knows what he’ll find if he looks more closely.  Frigid winds whistle across the ashen landscape, numbing what skin they were careless enough to leave exposed and dampening the sound of Augusto’s voice. 

“--It’s alright.  We’ll try again.”

“We’ve tried again.  And again, and again,” Nathan replies sharply, not bothering to look back over his shoulder at the chronomancer.  “It’s always the same.  We failed.”

“In this timeline, yes,” Augusto concedes, stepping close enough to give Nathan’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  “So we’ll learn from it.  Adjust the plan.  Every failure brings us closer to getting it right.”  He forces an optimistic smile, and Nathan wonders if it’s the same one the other warlock painted onto his face for Rose as the flames consumed him all those centuries ago.  “I know we can do this.”  

The optimistic outlook isn’t contagious.  

“What if we can’t, Gus?” he asks, pushing splayed fingers back through the strands of long blonde hair that whip into his face.  “Maybe we need to consider the possibility that we aren’t gonna’ save this world, no matter how many course corrections we make.”  It’s a wasted effort; the wind keeps blowing and by the time his hand falls away it’s right back in his face again.  “Maybe it doesn’t wanna’ be saved.”

Disappointment shadows the other man’s expression.  “That isn’t true.  Zadkiel says there’s a way.”

“What way?  We’ve tried everything.��  But he knows before the declaration falls from his tongue that it is a lie.

Gently, Augusto hammers the point home.  “Not everything, Nathan.” 

He’s shaking his head on instinct, searching desperately for some retort more ironclad than the one which ultimately escapes him.  “Hm-mh, no.  No…That’s off the table.”

“Perhaps it is time we put it on the table.”

Nathan shoots his mentor a sidelong glare.  “No.”

“What choice do we have?”

What choice, indeed.  The cold is getting to him, he tells himself; his hand trembling as he reaches for the small crystal vial which hangs around his neck.  “We’re not havin’ this discussion.”

“Do you think she would choose this?” He gestures at the wasteland around them.

The question hits him like a brick to the head, and for a moment all Nathan can do is stare dumbly at his companion.  “--What?”  He quickly pivots to prickly defense, as he always does when this topic is raised.  “No.  No, of course not.  She never wanted this, you know that…”  Despite his admonishment, however, he knows the logic path the chronomancer is guiding him toward.  A frown tugs at his lips.  “We’ve been over this before, it doesn’t work.” 

Augusto’s sigh is a cloud of mist in the freezing air.  The man’s kind disposition is as genuine as anyone’s that Nathan has ever known, but his penchant for bluntness is less endearing.  “It didn’t work because you couldn’t go through with it.”

He isn’t wrong, but it still stings like an unfair accusation.  “What makes you think that’s changed?”

“What I think is that we are out of options.”  His voice softens, and Nathan can hear the old Castillian accent tugging on the end of his syllables.  “We’ve exhausted the alternative catalyst points on this branch, to no avail.  What remains is the one you refuse to consider.  I have to believe there is enough of my father’s soul inside of you to know when it’s necessary to do horrible things for the greater good.”

“Don’t trolley-problem me, Gus,” Nathan pushes back, not endeavoring to mask the bitterness in his tone.  “I can’t be the one to pull the lever.”

“Can’t, or won’t?  Look around you,” Augusto tells him, glass crunching under their feet as he tugs the younger warlock around to face him.  “If you can’t find it in yourself to pull that lever, this is the end of the line.  For everyone.”  

******

Waco, Texas: May 5, 2023

There is nothing inconspicuous about his targets, and even if he hadn’t known they would be here Nathan is certain they wouldn’t have been hard to find.  It’s a sunny spring day in Waco and the garden center is bustling with all sorts of people, but the dark-haired werewolf who looks like she could throw down with any number of the mundane rednecks in the vicinity stands out like a beacon in the crowd.  So, too, does the oversized toddler on her heels.  He grins to himself as he watches Luna tear a hibiscus flower free from a bush as she passes by and casually shove it into her mouth.  Some things never change.  The fond amusement fades from his expression when he spots the petite brunette in a powder pink sundress twirling obliviously a few dozen steps behind.

He waits until Audrey and Luna have turned the corner before he approaches and accidentally-on-purpose bumps his shoulder into the young woman’s back, interrupting her imaginary dance recital and sending her tumbling to the ground with a surprised yelp.  “Pardon me!” Nathan hurriedly supplies, reaching out to grasp her hand with a steadying one of his own before pulling her back to her feet.  “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he lies.  It all feels painfully unnatural; Rose is so much better at this sort of thing. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

The innocent laughter he receives in response breaks his heart.  “It’s okay!  I’m fine!” She insists, not the least bit perturbed by the dirt stains on her dress.

“I’m glad, but I’d like to make it up to you.  Can I maybe buy you a milkshake sometime?”

Her eyes go wide as saucers, “A milkshake?” She asks incredulously, “I love milkshakes!”

I know.  “Really?  What a coincidence, so do I…”

“Wow!  What are the chances?!” She exclaims without a hint of irony, and gives the stranger’s hand an awkward shake with her own like an overzealous child still learning the ins and outs of social norms.  “I’m Fig, what’s your name?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Fig.  You can call me Nate.”

She smiles at him, positively beaming, and he hates himself for smiling back.

#[file :: drabble] #[file :: headcanon] #[muse tag :: nathan] #[muse tag :: augusto] #[muse tag :: fig] #[relationship tag :: audrey] #[relationship tag :: luna]

[concentratedbitterness]

Beneath the Desert Sky

Toledo, Spain:  1443

A sickness of the blood, they say.  It is God’s will, they say.  

This is what they say to him–the words are different, tinged with sympathy or indifference, but this is what they say nevertheless–always the same:  The child is sick.  The child will die.  Make peace with it and move on.

Marco cannot find it in himself to do so.  

Duty has always come first for him–to God, to his family, to the magic council–and he’s lived a good life, one of piety and adherence to the council’s purpose.  Marco has buried three wives over the years, but none ever gave him an heir before their passing; the DeCastilla bloodline appeared doomed to die with him, and for his part the alchemist had all but resigned himself to this tragedy.  Almost…and then came Augusto; plump, healthy, and wailing into the world from the belly of a Bedouin paramour.  The boy had the look of his mother’s people–dark curls and a complexion sure to brand him a Moorish bastard in the courts of the Spanish aristocracy–but from the moment they’d placed the squirming bundle in his arms Marco knew it would not matter.  What he had inherited from his father was undeniable, a blood-rite more precious than appearances.  The child was his, a cradle witch from an ancient line, and the gift was strong in him.  Augusto was legitimized, baptized, and the DeCastilla legacy would be his to carry on.  

It should have been his to carry on.   

The child had fallen ill in the Winter of his fifth year, suffering from some malady no healer’s potions or doctor’s leeches could treat.  Marco sought counsel from the most renowned physicians in Europe, the mystics in the Holy lands, the practitioners in the far East.  Sorcerers of every discipline; the council’s greatest minds…They all say the same.  He turned in desperation to the Church and filled their coffers with gold in exchange for their prayers; and those, too, had failed.  By Summer’s end the sweet natured, curious little boy had withered to a sickly husk, fading a little more each day.  

He watches the Priest at his son’s bedside, whispering blessings and words of comfort before sweeping the bag of gold coins into the folds of his robe and moving to depart.  The boy will not live to see morning, he says.  It is God’s will, he says.  Marco weeps as he pulls the child’s frail body into his arms.     

“Las estrellas, Papá…” Augusto tells him, and tries to raise a hand to point to the window.  He’s always loved the stars.  The sky is dreary and cloudy over the skies of Toledo this night, and there are none to be seen.

“Vamos a ver las estrellas,  mi amado.” Marco acquiesces, for what father could deny his beloved son such a simple wish; one that very well may be his last?  He calls forth a doorway, and when it closes behind them he is standing in a sea of sand.

Above them, stars sparkle across the clear night sky.

Marco carries his son to the top of the highest dune and there they sit, huddled together in the crisp desert air, eyes turned skyward toward the pinpricks of light above.  He points out the constellations, and recites their names, and what their position in the sky means for the magic and how their spells must adjust to compensate…magic his dear boy will never grow up to know.  Augusto listens quietly, his ear pressed against his father’s chest, struggling for every breath.  Hours pass, and the tears have dried on Marco’s cheeks when he feels his son go still.  He pulls him close and prays to God to take his life instead, but spare the boy, he is only a child, please, please, Dear God in Heaven, he pleads... 

God answers.

His voice carries on the wind; distant but unmistakable.  His words are oddly foreign, a tongue that Marco recognizes vaguely from the halls of English lords, and yet the dialect is entirely unfamiliar. 

“Marco,” He says, “I will heal your son, but there will in time come a day of reckoning.  You will be called to repay this favor.  Do you accept these terms?”

Of course he does.  Emphatically.  A thousand times yes, anything, anything.

“The future depends on you both.  She is his guide, and yours,” God says, and for an instant Marco hasn’t the faintest idea to whom He is referring, until he hears the jingling of a bell.  When he pulls his gaze from the sky, he sees the black bird perched on Augusto’s knee, as if materialized from thin air; a tiny silver bell hung round her neck, and a glass vial clutched in her beak.

The bird chitters, and when Marco looks into her beady eyes he can feel in his blood that what stares back at him is more than it seems.  He reaches out his hand, and the crow drops the vial into his palm.

“He will be healed,” the wind carries God’s words across the sands, “Remember our bargain.”  Suddenly the air is still, and the silence is deafening.

A loud ‘caw’ shatters it soon enough, and an insistent thought is pushed to the forefront of Marco’s mind; you have the cure, use it.  With trembling fingers the alchemist plucks the stopper from the vial and pours its contents down Augusto’s throat.

When the sun rises over the dunes there is a little boy running on his own two feet toward the horizon to meet it, while a crow swoops overhead, her silver bell ringing.  Marco gives thanks to God, wipes the tears of joy from his eyes, and hurries to catch up.

***

Moroccan Desert; December 2022 

He lost his faith in God a long time ago, as some are wont to do when their eyes have been opened to the cruel, senseless reality of existence.  Most who know of Santiago or his reputation–blackened and tarnished as any heretics ever was–might be shocked to learn that he had ever been a pious man…even the ones who have seen the literal angels at his side.  Then again, there are very few who truly know the old sorcerer’s heart and mind, and that is just the way he prefers it.

Still, for all these centuries, he had never had cause to doubt that the bargain he had made beneath the stars of a desert sky was with anyone other than God Himself.

Until now.

Leroy had served as the unwitting messenger some weeks ago when the mysterious entity had reached out via an old ham radio in the hunter’s workshop, but Santiago has no patience for such games presently.  He may be old, his body more suited to lounging in a rocking chair by a sunny window than hiking to the top of a massive sand dune, but what he lacks in physical prowess the Spaniard more than makes up for in sheer determination.  Magdalena perches on his shoulder, her little bell jingling with every step they take, until finally there is nothing above them but desert sky.

“You called?” Santiago says to no one in particular.

“I did.” The voice replies, clear, and close.

Magdalena ‘caws’ loudly and flaps off of his shoulder.  When the old man turns around, the crow is perched on the outstretched arm of a young man.  He looks human enough; with piercing blue eyes and thick dark blond hair pulled back from his face.  Santiago can feel the magic pulsing like a torrent through his veins, eerily familiar.  “Quién eres?”, he demands.

“That’s not important right now,” The man sighs, “We had a bargain.  Are you prepared to honor it?”

“I am here, am I not?”

The stranger seems unconvinced, or perhaps it is only the expression he wears; skeptical and weary.  “What I’m about to ask of you is a great sacrifice.  Everything, from this moment on, hinges upon it.  Do you understand?”

“Tell me who you are,” Santiago insists again, wrinkled jowls firming as he purses his lips and watches the crow pick her way up the young man’s arm to nestle atop his shoulder.

There’s hesitation, and a shadow of sadness softens the gaze of the man as he reaches up to stroke the bird’s wing.  “--Don’t you know?” He asks gently.  When there is no spark of realization in the old Spaniard’s eyes, he breathes another quiet sigh.  “I’m you.”

Santiago laughs.  “You’re not.”

“Not yet.  But I will be, soon, and I need my soul.  We both do,” He glances pointedly at the crow on his shoulder, “And you are the only one who can see that it’s reborn in us.  Your life has to end for that to happen.  It’s the only way this world survives.”

“You’re out of luck, hijo, my soul hasn’t been mine for a very long time,” the old sorcerer huffs, clearly unconvinced.  “You’ll have to find it if you want it, but know that it buys you only an eternity of darkness in the Pits of Hell.”

Now it is the stranger who laughs.  “Let me worry about that.”

There’s something about the way he says it, one part cocky bravado, three parts cold hard confidence, and the Spaniard cannot shake the feeling this boy knows more than he’s letting on.  He looks to Magdalena, but her mind is closed to him.  It’s not unusual–as he’s fond of saying, sometimes she truly does have a mind of her own–but it is unlike his constant companion to do so at such a time as this.  

“She hears you,” the stranger assures him.  “So do I.  But you’re not hearing me, Marco.”

“I do, I hear,” Santiago flicks his ear, before pointing to his temple in frustration, “But I do not understand.  What are you asking of me?”

“You need to go to Purgatory.” He begins, speaking carefully, “There’s a pool beneath the palace complex; a doorway to reincarnation.  It isn’t functioning properly right now, you will need to help the Queen fix it…” he pauses, perhaps taken aback by the dark look that passes over the old man’s face at the mention of Purgatory’s regent, “...And then you need to ask her to send you through it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.  “And how, pray tell, am I to do any of that?”

The young man smiles knowingly, and reaches into the lining of his jacket to proffer forth a well-worn grimoire.  Purgatory: A Comprehensive Study of the Realm and Interplanar Function, authored by A. Nasiri-Lyon and M. Brockway.  “With this.”   

Santiago accepts the book, thumbing over the date inscribed upon the cover before flipping it open to read over the list of other contributors, of which there are many.  Two more Brockways stand out.  Realization finally sinks in.  “Are you the ‘R’, or the ‘N’?”

“Nathan,” the young man admits, his tone resigned.  It reminds the old man instantly of his apprentice’s gloomy manner, but now that he looks at the boy with fresh eyes there is no mistaking the family resemblance.  “Will you do what I have asked of you?”

“Why now?”

“Because it has to be now.” 

“Will I get to meet ‘R’ before I toss myself into a wishing well?”

Nathan huffs a quiet laugh.  “Oh, you already have.”  Magdalena ‘caws’ on his shoulder; her little silver bell jingling as she shifts and hops back over to perch upon Santiago.  “She’ll be there to help when you need her.  Our bargain?”

The old man turns his face skyward, letting his gaze sweep across the starlit blanket above them.  “Sí.  I gave my word.”

#[file :: drabble] #[file :: headcanon] #[muse tag :: santiago] #[muse tag :: augusto] #[tag :: magdalena] #[muse tag :: nathan] #[tw :: long post]