Post by Eden Morgan on Jun 30, 2018 20:56:05 GMT -5
June 25, 2018
Synergy
Eden Morgan slams into The Court locker room, the door smashing against the wall before closing forcefully behind her. Caleb looks up from his phone, unflinching.
“I assume something didn't go to your liking?” he asks dryly.
Eden shoots a glare his way.
“It's.... Jet!” she finally says the name after making multiple frenzied gestures with her hands. “He's stuck in this aboveboard nonsense, and he's dead set on dragging Gabriel and I along for the ride. I get that he has qualms, but showing them when we're supposed to be putting forth a united front is not the goddamned way!” she rants, starting to pace around the room. Eden is so focused on her rambling, she doesn't notice the screen behind her, displaying the current goings on in the ring.
Caleb watches over her shoulder as Lucy Wylde and Maggie Lockheart attack Gabriel in the ring, watches as Jet leaves him high and dry, standing on the stage, waiting for events play out. Caleb glances at Eden who is still in peak form, then gets hurriedly to his feet, moving to stand in front of the screen in a casual manner that also performs the duty of blocking Gabriel's beatdown from her sight.
Eden looks a question at Caleb who chuckles sheepishly.
“Really, he's all that, Jet, is he?” he asks.
Eden sighs and rolls her eyes before taking a seat in the chair Caleb had recently vacated.
“I just... I don't know what to do anymore. I've seen it coming for weeks now. Jet's been pulling away and being divisive, Gabriel's distant. And here I am, the one who is usually the destructive force in these groups, for once, trying to be the glue that holds everything together. I just don't know how--”
The door to the locker room opens slowly, Gabriel leaning against the door frame, blood smeared across one side of his face as he clutches his ribs. Eden stares at him in shock, getting to her feet.
“Gabriel, what-- what happened? Why are you---?” she approaches him, Gabriel holding up a warning hand. Eden wisely backs away.
Gabriel leans against the counter running along one wall, glancing briefly at the muted television that displayed the current happenings within the ring.
“As if you didn't know, I was attacked after you and then Jet left me to the devices of Lucy and Magdalena,” he says scathingly, taken aback at the ashen cast Eden's face takes from his words. Gabriel frowns. “You didn't know.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He could clearly see from her reaction that she hadn't known. Gabriel glances back at the playing screen and then looks suspiciously to Caleb.
“Do you really think I would have left you if I had any indication something like this would happen?” Eden asks, gesturing to him. “I'm-- I'm sorry. I never should have left. Jet-- I got the syringe from you, I was going to use it, but Jet had to interfere. He didn't want me using it, he didn't want either of us using it, he was so....” she trails off, looking back to Gabriel. “He left you, too?”
Gabriel starts to say something, seems to think better of it, and then speaks, obviously choosing his words carefully.
“Of the two, I'm more inclined to forgive your mistake. Yours was a crime of emotion, and while it was thoughtless and self-centered,” he looks directly at Eden who flinches at his words, “it was hardly as malevolent as I previously considered. Jet, however, is another story. His actions were quite deliberate.”
Eden rubs her forehead.
“It's my fault. I shouldn't have gotten the damned syringe, we were winning, I didn't have to--”
“Martyrdom doesn't suit you at all, love, considering your actions earlier in the night. Place the blame where it lies, at Jet Fucking Somers' doorstep!” Gabriel begins to shout, Eden getting to her feet, moving closer as she attempts to placate him.
“Gabriel, look at it, we were working so well together, and as usual, I had to take things just that much too far. I knew how Jet felt, we both did, yet I did it anyway. Just... I'm sorry. I'll fix it. Okay? I'll fix it,” she assures him.
Gabriel looks at her with a mix of wonder and scorn.
“How someone such as you can still show such naivete is beyond me,” he says before dragging himself off to the shower.
Eden reclaims her seat, placing her head in her hands.
June 26, 2018
New York
Her irritation still high, Eden slams into the private gym in Gabriel's apartment building, Jet already there, working a speed bag. She immediately stalks over to him, watching as he rotates his hands with perfect precision and speed to keep the bag moving.
Eden punches it hard, sending it swinging wildly and completely throwing off his rhythm. Jet sighs and adjusts the velcro straps on his gloves.
“Well that was a douchebag move,” he gripes.
“Oh yeah? Wanna know what else is a douchebag move? How about leaving Gabriel out there to take a beating he didn't fucking deserve!” Eden's voices rises with her words.
Jet shakes his head.
“Nah, gotta disagree with you there. If anyone deserves a beating, it's Gabriel Baal--” his eyes widen and he barely moves back in time as Eden swings on him, her fist colliding with his shoulder instead of his jaw.
“Jesus Christ, Edie-- look, I've always been a devout feminist, so I don't want to say it, but you hit like a girl,” he says, only somewhat joking, lowering his voice as though it were some huge secret.
Eden stands in front of him, hands on her hips.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“THIS! You know exactly what I'm talking about, sabotaging us, getting involved in things that you shouldn't be--”
“You're my responsibility, and I see you going down a path that I know you really don't want to go down. I'm trying to help you help yourself,” Jet says as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh sure. Says the devout feminist,” Eden snarks sarcastically.
“I'm serious. Things have gone way too far, and I know you see it, too,” Jet says pointedly.
“Do I? Do I really, considering what happened with Alan?” Eden asks, crossing her arms.
Jet grits his teeth.
“There's a difference. He handed Lucy over to her abusive father to be tortured and possibly killed. You--”
“-- stood in the ring across from a defenseless man and played with the idea of burning him to death,” Eden finishes quietly.
Jet's silent a moment.
“You wouldn't have done it. It was all mind games,” Jet says, a positive lilt to his voice.
“Are you sure about that? Are you absolutely certain that's all it was?” Eden asks, her face carefully devoid of expression.
Jet watches her and rakes a hand through his hair.
“The point is, Jet-- we've all don't dangerous and vile things for ourselves as well as each other, and we've seen each other through it,” she says, approaching him. “The three of us? We're capable of doing some incredibly terrible things, but we are also capable of forgiveness,” she smiles up at him. “There isn't one of us who can cast a stone at the other.”
Jet easily recalls all the times she'd forgiven him, the times he'd forgiven her, and she'd ultimately forgiven Gabriel. He finally looks at her and shakes his head.
“Not this time, Edie. I can't condone this. I can't stand by with this, while he stirs up wasp nests and we have a fucking secret society breathing down our necks because of him.”
“I thought you said you knew you weren't in any real danger,” Eden says quietly, a sense of foreboding settling over her.
“You're in danger. That's enough for me,” Jet says. “And it's Gabriel's fault,” he finishes stubbornly.
Eden turns and walks out.
June 30, 2018
New Orleans
Eden answers the door to her apartment on the third hesitant knock, bright blue eyes widening to see Jet Somers standing on her doorstep. He gives her a sheepish grin.
“Good to be back in New Orleans, isn't it?”
Eden smiles back at him, opening the door wide and stepping forward, hugging him tight. For days, she'd thought of all the things she'd wanted to yell at him about, this ridiculous ever-widening split between the three of them, him deliberately going off by himself and courting danger, disappearing without saying a word to any of them, but just now, seeing him like this standing on her doorstep unsure of his welcome? He was her brother.
Jet seems surprised at her gesture, hugging her back quickly. The two of them part awkwardly, Eden inviting him inside. Jet looks around as the door closes behind him, nodding to Caleb as he looks out down the hallway to see who the visitor was.
“Alright, Caleb?” he gives a friendly call, wondering at the guard's quick reply and immediate retreat after a glance at Eden. Jet shrugs, chalking it up to something that had occurred before he'd arrived.
“Can I get you something?” Eden asks, nodding in the direction of the kitchen.
“I'm alright,” Jet says, slipping onto a barstool. “I just wanted to stop by and... maybe the two of us just talk some,” he says gently, watching Eden's face as she moves around the kitchen. “And we never really got a chance to talk about what's coming. Zane and Alan--” he begins, stopping at the sound of a throat being cleared. Jet stiffens, knowing full well whose throat it had been, glancing over his shoulder to find Gabriel closing the glass door behind him, coming in from the bricked patio.
“Gabriel,” Jet says, by way of greetings. “What an unwelcome surprise.”
“Jet--” Eden begins.
“Jet. What an unsurprising welcome,” Gabriel replies smoothly with a smile. “Am I-- interrupting?” he asks, the question clearly meant for Eden.
Eden looks between the two of them a little nervously as the tension in the room skyrockets. She tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Umm, no, Jet's just stopping by to chat and talk some shop,” she says with an encouraging smile. The warmth she'd felt from Jet earlier was almost entirely dissipated, and the smile from Gabriel didn't bode of good tidings either.
“Well then, far be it for me to be the interloper in such proceedings. I'll see my way out,” Gabriel says politely, striding back toward the patio door.
“Gabriel, wait! It's fine, really. We want you to stay,” Eden rushes out, shooting Jet a meaningful look.
He rolls his eyes.
“Oh yes, by all means, stay,” Jet responds dryly.
Eden glares at him.
“He meant that as a question, with a 'please' on the end,” she amends quickly.
“Absolutely,” Jet replies in a voice dripping in sarcasm.
It was at that point, Eden truly wished she could kick Jet's shin through the bar. Instead, she settles for communicating her desire wordlessly, Jet content to sit in the face of it all as though he had no idea of her thoughts.
He did.
“Well. If you're sure, but I would hate to be the one to destroy the air of self-righteousness in the room,” Gabriel says pointedly, smiling at Jet's back.
“Gabriel... please. Can we not?” Eden asks.
Gabriel sighs as he concedes to her wishes.
“Very well, love.”
Eden presses her lips together, trying to decide where to begin.
“Gabriel's staying here while we're in New Orleans. I figured, since I still have the apartment it would be silly for him to stay in a hotel, and this way we're more-- together...” she trails off, and then brightens. “How's Sherry?”
“We probably need to talk about the match. Then I'll get out of your hair,” Jet says abruptly, Eden frowning.
“You're not in my hair, I--”
“Zane's barely recovered from his most recent injury, it should provide us with a nice advantage. And if you and Alan can keep things from getting too personal, we might be able to skate by with this,” Jet says. His voice is clear, but it's obvious his mind is racing a thousand miles away.
“'Should'. 'If'. 'Might'. Your words inspire such confidence,” Gabriel says smoothly.
“Not to worry, Gabe. Eden and I will hang on to our acquisition in our first title defense, unlike what happened when you were her partner,” Jet responds with a smile.
“At least she could trust me to be there when she needed me. Can she say the same for you, considering?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow with his question.
“Of course she can trust me, I'm practically the only one left, she can trust--” Jet begins, Gabriel cutting him off.
“Is that right? Well, if history is to be prologue, you, our self-righteous martyr, are the most rotten of the bunch. Your promise of camaraderie is as slippery as snake oil and equally as effective.”
“Alright you two, come on, please--” Eden puts in, Jet speaking over her.
“I wouldn't bother trying to shut him up, Edie, he never does. It's the one thing you can truly count on Gabriel for. He does all this talking, but he doesn't listen to a single word anyone says, not really. All he's ever doing when he stops running his mouth is waiting for you to draw a breath so he might expound anew. Or cry for help, either or,” Jet says pointedly.
“You think this is a cry for help? I'd be happy to show you what a real cry for help sounds like,” Gabriel takes a threatening step toward Jet, Jet coming off the stool he sits on. They both stop at the sharp sound of glass breaking against a wall. The two of them look over to see Eden standing there, watching them both angrily, a broken glass on the floor where she'd thrown it against the wall.
“Why can't either of you see-- I'm trying to hold this together?” she asks, her voice cracking as she storms out of the kitchen, slamming the patio door behind her.
“Wonderful precedent you've set,” Gabriel says, backing away from Jet as he follows her outside, closing the door more gently behind him.
Jet looks around the suddenly empty room, anger building inside of him. He strides toward the door he'd entered only minutes before.
“You should suggest he tuck a bit of lavender under his pillow, I hear it does wonders for stuck-up pillocks with anger issues.”
Jet stops, turning around to find Caleb standing there, just inside the main area of the apartment.
“You don't like him either, do you?” Jet asks, but it was more a statement than a question.
Caleb runs his hand over the stubble along his jaw.
“He's my employer, you see, so makes talking badly about him a bit of a danger, but I think I'm safe here,” he says, giving Jet a meaningful look.
“You can speak freely. I respect you, Caleb. What you've done for Eden, protecting her like you have,” Jet says, indicating the guard's healing leg.
Caleb nods, looking off.
“It's not so easy as my not liking the guy. I see him for what he is, what he's done. He's the reason Eden has a target on her back, he's the reason that bullet I took was meant for her. She didn't have none of this to worry about a year ago at this festival, did she?” Caleb asks, already knowing the answer.
Jet shakes his head.
“No. In fact, he was her only concern then. She'd just learned how he'd lied and manipulated his way into the treatment facility she was in--” Jet trails off, thinking back, shaking his head. “I don't even know how we got here.”
“He's not all bad for her, mate. Gabriel-- he changes her. I've seen it. He challenges her, surprises her, makes her question her life and her beliefs. But at the end of the day, Gabriel is either the best thing for her or the worst thing. It's just a matter of risk,” he says pointedly.
Jet considers his words and nods, turning toward the door once more. He pauses, barely looking over his shoulder at Caleb.
“You're the reason she didn't see what was happening on the screen in the locker room the night I left Gabriel out there,” he says.
“Maybe that was just a funny coincidence,” Caleb says, the corner of Jet's mouth lifting in a smile. Caleb returns the gesture.
“Fair enough. Good looking out, Caleb,” Jet says as he pulls open the door and steps out, closing it behind him.
“You too, Jet. You too,” Caleb says quietly, glancing out at the patio and then taking the seat Jet had vacated at the bar.
The trial that awaited had not at all been right away as the constable had implied, and so the next time John saw Elizabeth, it was with sorrow that he watched her being led to the chair sat to the side of Judge Daniel Hawkins, her dark hair matted with bits of straw and dirt sticking from it. Her hands were bound in front of her, wrists raw and red from the chafing of the coarse rope. Tears make tracks in the dirt coating her pale face.
The cell where she'd been held was entirely empty save for a pile of straw in one corner of the dirt floor. There was no window, but the rough boards let in chinks of daylight as well as drafts of cold air. She'd spent the night huddled in the corner, jumping at the nighttime sounds around her, and when she'd managed to drift off to sleep, she'd been quickly awakened by the sharp teeth of a rat gnawing at the tips of her fingers and toes. Then when the morning came once more, so did the whispered, hate-filled voices from the other side of the wall.
We're going to burn you, Elizabeth.
You'll burn this time, witch.
John stands, watching as she looks about the crowd of unfriendly faces, finally relaxing just a little when she sees him. He gives a nod of encouragement toward her, unable to stop the inner niggling of doubts. He casts an eye to the side of the room, finding the witch-hunger, Aaron Walker sat there with another witch-hunter, Zachary Smead beside him.
The small building seemed full of people, benches and chairs along the two walls crowded with men from the village, here and there a sharp-faced woman glaring at her.
“Good folk, we will proceed at once to this terrible business at hand. We have come here in order to inquire and search into the matter of Mistress Elizabeth Morton, who is accused by sundry witnesses of the practice of witchcraft! Mistress Morton will come forward.”
Prompted by the constable's elbow in her ribs, Elizabeth gets to her feet and moves haltingly to stand before the judge.
“You will listen to the charges against you,” Hawkins says importantly.
A clerk steps forth with a parchment.
“Elizabeth Morton, thou art here accused that not having the fear of God before thine eyes, thou hast had familiarity with Satan, the grand enemy of God and man, through his demons of Hell in the form of Baal, Ipos, and Naberus. It is by their instigation and help, thou hast in a preternatural way afflicted and done harm to the bodies and estates of sundry of His Majesty's subjects, for which by the law of God and the law of the Colony, thou deserve to die.”
A murmur goes up through the crowd, John sitting more stiffly. Elizabeth's hands felt icy, but she manages to keep her eyes steadily on the judge before her, keenly aware of the smile that decorates Aaron Walker's face.
“Mistress Morton, you are accused by Mistress Mercy Lockwood with the following actions. You have consorted and continue to consort with the great demon, Baal in the harm, afflictions, and near death of Mistress Lilah Wade as well as the injuries begat by Rafael Mayhew and Joshua Irons. You are accused by Keziah Dillingham of the following actions, a continued familiarity with the demon Ipos of the very name you stood accused years ago, and an acquaintance with Naberus who is believed to be responsible for the madness that afflicts Goodwife Abigail Leatherland. And finally, you are accused by the witch-hunter Aaron Walker for the destruction of a good man, and his friend, Karmine Kingsbury, as well as the destruction of his own through hellfire.”
The clerk returns to his seat.
“I'm not a witch, I swear it!” Elizabeth bursts out, her words met with hisses from the crowd.
“Silence, woman! You may speak your peace after all evidence is heard. If you may prove your innocence, you will be safe enough. We will proceed with the first accusation. Sister Mercy Lockwood,” Daniel Hawkins turns with a degree of arrogance, looking toward the young woman who rises from her seat. She clears her throat.
“My...” she hesitates, clearing her throat once again. “-- sister... Lilah Wade, as you all know, is currently... unwell. And while it was ultimately the fault of the demon, Baal, he had help in the form of this woman, this creature you see before you, Elizabeth Morton! My Lilah... she was dragged off into the shadow forest where not even the wolves dare go. She's not been the same since she's been found and continues to utter of the horrors she was exposed to. It's all I can do to convince that she is still whole. Nightmares born of a hellish terror plague her mind, convincing her that they cut out her tongue, cut off her breasts, her hands, and her feet. She is yet whole, but what thread is there to stitch back the mind?” Mercy Lockwood's frosty glare turns to Elizabeth. “She be guilty! Burn the witch!”
Elizabeth closes her eyes, another tear trailing from beneath the lids as Mercy Lockwood steps down, taking her seat. Murmurs all around the room, Aaron Walker and Zachary Smead staring intently at her.
“We will proceed with the second accusation, Sister Keziah Dillingham,” Hawkins voice rises over the whispers.
Another woman steps forward, her skirts bunching around the extra girth at her abdomen. She squeezes through the crowd to stand at the front, her chubby face glowing with her effort, extra chins trembling. The crowd breathes in, expectantly, waiting.
A fat finger points directly at Elizabeth.
“She be guilty! Burn the witch! Years ago, it was said she consorted with Ipos, but she was redeemed and begged for the forgiveness of her immortal soul. I am here to tell you, she lies through venomous teeth! I have seen her leave tribute to this Prince of Hell and he is how she is able to read the tea leaves, knowing as he is of all things past, present, and future!”
“I--” Elizabeth begins, silenced by the hisses around her and the cold look from the judge. Keziah continues.
“All know well of the torment that has befallen Goodwife Abigail Leatherland and know her tormentor to be none other than Naberius, that hoarse crow that stays perched over her house, demanding what she holds! It is likely even he who caused the own dementations and perversion of her daughter, Susan,” she trails off dramatically at this sad news before pointing a finger at Elizabeth once more. “SHE has been seen throwing bits of bread to the demon crow, feeding him, sustaining him, keeping his focus! Elizabeth Morton is a witch! Burn the witch!”
The crowd murmurs again at these charges, John Sumner visibly squirming in his seat as Keziah takes her seat and Aaron Walker gets to his feet.
“And now, the third accusation. Sir Aaron Walker!”
Elizabeth stiffens as Walker begins to move around her, looking her up and down, his eyes proclaiming his status as a witch-killer.
“Elizabeth Morton is, indeed, a witch. Not many have escaped me, but this one...” he steps away from her, looking to the crowd. He holds a hand out toward his contemporary. “Myself and Sir Smeade are very familiar with this particular witch, her games and her atrocities. It was her hand that ensorcelled by dear friend, Sir Karmine Kingsbury, and turned him against me and mine. And when I dared speak against her, when she heard the utterings on the winds, she destroyed my home through hellfire. She, with her consorting with the demon Baal, is responsible for the destruction of Rafael Mayhew and Joshua Irons,” he stops and looks directly at her. “And she will burn.”
Chants of “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” spring up through the room, John Sumner shouting over them all “No! No! She is no witch! Leave her be!”
Aaron Walker holds the eye contact of Elizabeth Morton, gesturing behind him. Zachary Smeade steps forward, passing a chipped lilac teacup to Walker, who in turn, holds the cup full of dark liquid out to Elizabeth.
“Oh, wait... I should drink first, shouldn't I, Mistress Morton?” he asks mockingly, bringing the cup to his lips.
Elizabeth's stomach churns in circles as the dark liquid dribbles down his chin in lines. He eagerly passes the cup with its saucer to her, pushing them into her bound hands. Elizabeth looks down at her wrists, wide-eyed, and then back to Walker.
“I am sure you'll work out how to perform your tricks, Mistress Morton,” Walker says blandly, a titter going up through the crowd.
“Don't do it, Elizabeth,” John begs as she moves toward a table. She drops the saucer down on top of it and manages to tip the cup directly over and then moves it as quickly right side up. She looks down inside the cup to the clusters of soggy brown and black leaves that litter the bottom in various shapes and sizes. She studies it, looking up, eyes wide, fearful.
“Well? What does it say?” Walker prompts her, moving ever closer.
Elizabeth lowers her eyes.
“The leaves say... you're going to pay,” she says, looking up once more, boldly looking over the room.
John feels his blood turn to ice.
“Pardon?” Walker questions, smiling as she steps into the trap he'd set.
“They say... you're all going to pay,” Elizabeth whispers. “And the leaves never lie.”
Silence fills the room before they all scream as one.
“Burn the witch!”
Walker's hand closes around her throat, a predatory gleam in his eye.
“I'll light your pyre myself,” he says, Elizabeth watching just over his shoulder as John Sumner gets to his feet and walks from the building without even a look back.
July 3, 2018
New Orleans
Even for a summer day in Louisiana, the heat was sweltering, the bright sun beaming down directly over them, and Gabriel had asked several times already if she weren't certain there was a magnifying glass directly over the top of them.
It had started out as a joke, but Eden wasn't sure the question remained that way after they'd taken a stroll through the park, watching as the finishing touches were placed on the festival known as WrestleStock.
Eden intentionally bumps her shoulder against his arm, getting his attention.
“Just think, this time last year we were plotting to kill each other,” she jokes.
“Beg to differ, love, I never wanted to kill you-- well, maybe there was that one time when I discovered the depths of your perfidy, but that moment was brief,” Gabriel replies in a half-joke.
“Yeah, I guess I can't blame you,” Eden says, the smile on her face dying a little when they wander into what could only be described as biker haven. Every year it was held in New Orleans, the Devil's Most Wanted motorcycle club turned out at WrestleStock, giving back to their home city and to the people within it for the sport they loved. It also helped that the club President and his wife were both members of the UGWC Hall of Fame.
Gabriel watches from behind his sunglasses, unable to see Eden's eyes behind hers, but he knew from what he could see of her face that she was sliding into the Ice Queen as several members looked their way.
“We can go another way--” he begins, stopping as they're suddenly approached by a bear of a man who picks Eden up in a big hug.
“Ohmygod, Chad! Put! Me! Down!” Eden exclaims, her icy exterior broken by the unusual show of affection from the man otherwise known as Chaos.
As requested, he immediately drops her, Eden having to catch on to Gabriel to steady herself as Chaos drops into a mocking bow.
“My apologies, Princess. You shouldn't be such a fucking stranger, Edie. It's been a while since all we've done is trade some insults on Twitter,” Chaos gripes.
Eden starts to respond, pausing at the pointed glares she receives from several other members. Her brother, Cypress, steps out, looking to the trio, shakes his head disgustedly, and walks away.
“I think you're in the minority in wanting me around, C,” Eden says softly, glad for the glasses the cover her eyes. She quickly blinks the tears away.
“He'll come around, girlie,” Chaos says, giving her a one-armed hug, glancing skeptically over Gabriel as he does so.
“Chaos,” Gabriel says awkwardly by way of greeting.
“Maybe choose better company,” Chaos mutters, loudly enough Gabriel could hear.
“C--” Eden begins.
“Charming,” Gabriel mutters, looking about.
“Edie! Hey!” Their attention is brought around to Jet, emerging from beneath one of the pavilions being erected. “Didn't know you were here, glad to see you,” he says, seeming genuinely happy to see her amid the bikers, blatantly ignoring Gabriel.
“Ah, yes. Well. I believe it may be my presence stifling the festivities. I'll catch up to you later, love,” Gabriel says, turning and walking away through another part of the festival grounds amid Eden's protests.
“It's fine, let him go,” Jet assures her, his eyes catching Caleb's standing just behind her.
“It's not fine, Jet. Why can't I get you to understand?” Eden looks up at him, Jet unable to read her from behind the shades over her eyes. She glances behind him, Cypress and Bloodhound standing together, obviously talking and watching them. Off to the side, her sister-in-law, Jezebel emerges, chasing after Eden's nephew, Dyson, her niece Havyn trailing after, her attention buried in the phone in her hands. Sherry moves up beside Jez, hurriedly whispering in Jez's ear, both of them looking to Eden and Jet, an unfriendly expression on their faces. It all happened in seconds, but it was enough.
Chaos' arm tightens around Eden's shoulders, and the tears she'd been fighting back fill her eyes, threatening to spill over.
“I don't think Gabriel's the only one not welcome here,” she says softly, shrugging out of Chaos' hold and turning away, ignoring Jet's calls to her. Caleb moves in beside her quietly as they make their way across the fair grounds in the opposite direction Gabriel had gone and away from her family, tears silently coursing down her face.
July 4, 2018
New Orleans
Eden stands in the empty office, looking around at the bare, burgundy walls and dark wood that surrounds her. A little over six months ago, these walls had been decorated, the lower level thriving and alive with the music emanating from the club. But now...
She pictures the heavy, dark wood desk that once sat before the picturesque window overlooking the French Quarter, the high-quality black leather office chair that once sat behind it, its occupant dapper and charming as ever. But now...
It was heavy, this feeling of death and finality that hovered in the air thickly around her, so palpable she should have been able to touch it, to breathe it in and suffocate within it. Here and there, the once pristinely painted walls have begun to peel from the stifling heat held within the building. Eden wipes at a bead of sweat as it drips from her forehead, studying the pale gold of the walls revealed by the peeling crimson. The gold was wrinkled and obviously lightened from its original glory, and she could imagine that at one time it had also peeled away to reveal another shade, another secret. Layer upon layer of peeling paint, hiding little tragedies.
Once the layers were stripped away, some of the homes in New Orleans would bear scorch marks from the fires and waterlines on wallpaper from the floods, remnants of a city's history etched into bones that become tombs where the living rot alongside memories of the dead. The city was congested, the buildings half-decayed corpses painted up for one last dance alongside those who have failed each other as well as themselves while they struggle with the ones they love.
And the ones they hate.
Eden looks down at the half-crumpled letter she holds in her hand, the handwriting of Killian King standing out prominently against the fine, pure white, a stark reminder to her that everything has a tipping point, even those who we think will never budge from our side. The tricky thing about tipping points is that they can only be defined in retrospect. Who's to say which choice will lead to a car crash or which cigarette will start the cancer? Who's to say what will push someone over the edge, one way or another?
It's a blind, foolhardy dance, swaying in the dark, never knowing for sure just how close to the edge we are, but knowing we grow ever closer and closer, that tipping point always looming, looming...
It's only with the benefit of hindsight do we see it all so clearly, but without that... how do we know whether we're at the end of the beginning... or the beginning of the end?
Eden raises blank eyes from the letter, its words memorized long ago, read over and over in the dark of the night until they no longer stung and dug wounds deeper than they were ever meant to go. She looks the office over once again, her eyes no longer seeing the desolate remains of the present, rather the lively and happier times of the past. With a soft smile, she exits the room, making her way down the stairs to the bar area where Caleb sits, not just a little agitated with the current mission they were on.
It was with his help that she'd managed to enter the boarded up Scarlet Letter, the few tables and furnishings left behind forgotten beneath a bed of dusty white linen. The bar had been empty, forgotten, forlorn, but was now occupied.
An effigy of Alan Wallace lies atop it.
The corner of Eden's mouth lifts in a smile when she recalls speaking with Lou-Lou about such a thing. She'd expected him to balk at such a request, but she'd underestimated the deep resentment the New Orleans native bore for the man who had almost crippled his best friend and ended her career.
No, Lou-Lou had asked no questions, had simply provided. It wasn't an exact replica of Alan, but it was a representation of him, and the intent Eden bore would form him in the creation.
Eden takes a moment, standing before the effigy, considering the coming days. It wouldn't just be Alan Wallace stood across from her, it would be Zane Scott as well. Zane, who was a threat in his own right, a one-time friend and partner who knew exactly what she could be. It was no secret that the men who had been her former mentors had turned their backs on her entirely, making their stance known as they moved firmly into Zane's corner, away from her.
She couldn't blame them, could well imagine what Colin or Spyder would have to say to her right now.
For all that Zane was, he wasn't the true danger she faced. That designation belonged entirely to Alan.
Yet another tipping point she'd been closer to than she'd ever guessed.
She'd known the ire he bore her after Killian's betrayal, the blame he placed on her for the rift between the two friends. He'd failed to accept that Killian was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions in regard to him. Had she tried to talk him out of his plans? Not really. Had she encouraged him in them? Maybe. But to lay the entire situation at her feet was ridiculous, though there were many who tried to do just that, consider her the source of all their problems and frustrations.
More often than not, they had no further to look than the mirror. She simply had the gift of seeing things like that before they did.
Alan's ire had finally spilled over a few months ago, the words he'd said leaving her in a state of shock. There was a difference between knowing that a man she had at one time considered a friend carried some well-deserved resentment toward her... it was quite another to discover that bitterness had burned itself into a fine hatred.
And so, she'd reacted as she often did when faced with anger. She'd poked the bear.
The episode in Alan's home was meant to snap him out of the blame game he'd found himself in, and despite what just about everyone seemed to believe, she'd never intended to cause the inferno that engulfed a part of the estates. She'd been shocked at the brutal attack he'd levied against her when she found herself in a steel cage against Jessica Mathis, but even that couldn't have prepared her for the nightmare that was the aftermath of No Holds Barred.
Not all of the fear she'd expressed had been a mockery despite what she'd led everyone to believe. Her nightmares attested to that, but he would never know just how far under her skin he'd dug himself. It was only after he'd set her up to be burned alive did she fully understand the depth of Alan's hatred and how long it had likely been burning there, how much he truly blamed her for, some deserved and some not.
Eden stops and breathes deeply, he acrid scent of kerosene permeating her nostrils. From the corner of her eye, she watches as Caleb leans against the wall, a toothpick clenched firmly between his teeth. His demeanor is one of complete relaxation, but in their time together, she'd come to learn differently. There was a tension there, around his eyes. It said something about her when she was even beginning to make the mercenary nervous.
Eden looks down again at the effigy atop the bar representing 'Vain' Alan Wallace, smirking at the idea of just how completely insulted he would be to see it. It was far from the bronze figures of his likeness he surrounded himself with. She trails a hand over the thing's forehead, imagining it to be tanned and smooth rather than the lumpy, prickly surface beneath her hand, the jaw chiseled and defined rather than the indefinable shape before her.
“Is it all spread?” she asks, Caleb giving a gruff nod. “And the cameras?”
“Taken care of. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks her, worry clear on his face.
Eden carefully lays the letter atop the effigy, smoothing out the edges, her face a calm, serene, mask as she pulls a box of matches from her pocket. She slides the box open and plucks one of the sticks of wood from within, looking at the red tip for a moment, considering everything around her.
This was a tipping point, but was it the end of a beginning or the beginning of the end?
“I'm tired of being a lesser man's scapegoat,” she says, her words meant for herself and the effigy before her, but the way they rang around the bar unsettling.
Eden raises the match before her before dragging it along the side of the box, the flame flaring to life.
The sun was setting behind the steeple of the church when she was led to the stake, a rough white linen cloth scratching at her sensitive skin. Elizabeth stands there, bound hands and feet, feeling the lash of the glares of all those around her. Mercy Lockwood stands front and center, a satisfied smile on her face, her arm around Lilah Wade, her haunted eyes watching the proceedings. Before them all stands Aaron Walker, bearing a torch.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he utters, moving closer to the dried wood piled around her. He smiles into her face. “Goodbye, Miss Morton,” he says with satisfaction. “You'll understand if you aren't remembered fondly at all, and are in fact, quite forgotten.”
“Do you have any final words, Mistress Elizabeth Morton?” this from Daniel Hawkins, standing beside the other witch hunter, Smeade.
Elizabeth pauses, licking dry, cracked lips.
“In fact, I do,” she says, her voice low and scratchy. She looks out at the assembled crowd. “Who will all of you look to to blame for your misfortunes when I am gone? For they won't leave with me, and then you will know that my only real crime was in being a woman. You've mistakenly considered me to be unworthy of your love and your respect. Know this-- everytime you jerk awake mid freefall, it was I who pushed you out of your dreams at the witching hour! Know that when you feel that chill creeping up and down your spine on a warm summer's day, I'm the one who has been dancing over your grave! And know that whenever you think you spot a shadow from the corner of your eye, dear witch-hunter,” she says directly unto Walker, her smile bloody from the stretched and broken cracks in her lips, “-- know that it's me. You may have gotten to walk away, but a piece of me will follow you forever.”
Wails go up through the crowd, whispers of a “witch's curse” spreading. Aaron Walker holds her stare as he lowers the the lit torch to the dried wood. The flames jump from the torch, quickly catching. He holds Elizabeth's stare, daring her to be the first to look away, Elizabeth maintaining the hold until the flames lick hungrily at her toes. She squeezes her eyes shut, bracing herself for her violent end when suddenly... the thick, smoke-filled air reverberates with whispers. Silence follows like a shroud, Elizabeth opening her eyes when the villagers' shouts and cries become distant and far away.
The smoke curls around her comfortingly, the fire only barely caressing her, doing no more than warming her flesh.
“Do not worry, Elizabeth. They will pay for this,” the voice whispers, Elizabeth smiling as her bonds fall away. Before her, the fire rises like a curtain, a man stepping out from the flames, holding a hand out to her.
“Please allow me to introduce myself,” he says with a smile. It was the same every time he came to her, and just as she had each time before, she takes his hand. The flames part before them as they step down from what was to be her funeral pyre, the two of them watching with a satisfied joy as the flames that were meant to destroy her engulf the entire village.
The villagers weren't fast enough.
Elizabeth looks over to see the final death throes of Aaron Walker, Zachary Smeade already dark ash and bone beside him. Just before he expires from the hellfire engulfing him, he looks over one last time, his eyes meeting Elizabeth's.
She smiles.
OOC: Poems by Amanda Lovelace
Synergy
Eden Morgan slams into The Court locker room, the door smashing against the wall before closing forcefully behind her. Caleb looks up from his phone, unflinching.
“I assume something didn't go to your liking?” he asks dryly.
Eden shoots a glare his way.
“It's.... Jet!” she finally says the name after making multiple frenzied gestures with her hands. “He's stuck in this aboveboard nonsense, and he's dead set on dragging Gabriel and I along for the ride. I get that he has qualms, but showing them when we're supposed to be putting forth a united front is not the goddamned way!” she rants, starting to pace around the room. Eden is so focused on her rambling, she doesn't notice the screen behind her, displaying the current goings on in the ring.
Caleb watches over her shoulder as Lucy Wylde and Maggie Lockheart attack Gabriel in the ring, watches as Jet leaves him high and dry, standing on the stage, waiting for events play out. Caleb glances at Eden who is still in peak form, then gets hurriedly to his feet, moving to stand in front of the screen in a casual manner that also performs the duty of blocking Gabriel's beatdown from her sight.
Eden looks a question at Caleb who chuckles sheepishly.
“Really, he's all that, Jet, is he?” he asks.
Eden sighs and rolls her eyes before taking a seat in the chair Caleb had recently vacated.
“I just... I don't know what to do anymore. I've seen it coming for weeks now. Jet's been pulling away and being divisive, Gabriel's distant. And here I am, the one who is usually the destructive force in these groups, for once, trying to be the glue that holds everything together. I just don't know how--”
The door to the locker room opens slowly, Gabriel leaning against the door frame, blood smeared across one side of his face as he clutches his ribs. Eden stares at him in shock, getting to her feet.
“Gabriel, what-- what happened? Why are you---?” she approaches him, Gabriel holding up a warning hand. Eden wisely backs away.
Gabriel leans against the counter running along one wall, glancing briefly at the muted television that displayed the current happenings within the ring.
“As if you didn't know, I was attacked after you and then Jet left me to the devices of Lucy and Magdalena,” he says scathingly, taken aback at the ashen cast Eden's face takes from his words. Gabriel frowns. “You didn't know.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He could clearly see from her reaction that she hadn't known. Gabriel glances back at the playing screen and then looks suspiciously to Caleb.
“Do you really think I would have left you if I had any indication something like this would happen?” Eden asks, gesturing to him. “I'm-- I'm sorry. I never should have left. Jet-- I got the syringe from you, I was going to use it, but Jet had to interfere. He didn't want me using it, he didn't want either of us using it, he was so....” she trails off, looking back to Gabriel. “He left you, too?”
Gabriel starts to say something, seems to think better of it, and then speaks, obviously choosing his words carefully.
“Of the two, I'm more inclined to forgive your mistake. Yours was a crime of emotion, and while it was thoughtless and self-centered,” he looks directly at Eden who flinches at his words, “it was hardly as malevolent as I previously considered. Jet, however, is another story. His actions were quite deliberate.”
Eden rubs her forehead.
“It's my fault. I shouldn't have gotten the damned syringe, we were winning, I didn't have to--”
“Martyrdom doesn't suit you at all, love, considering your actions earlier in the night. Place the blame where it lies, at Jet Fucking Somers' doorstep!” Gabriel begins to shout, Eden getting to her feet, moving closer as she attempts to placate him.
“Gabriel, look at it, we were working so well together, and as usual, I had to take things just that much too far. I knew how Jet felt, we both did, yet I did it anyway. Just... I'm sorry. I'll fix it. Okay? I'll fix it,” she assures him.
Gabriel looks at her with a mix of wonder and scorn.
“How someone such as you can still show such naivete is beyond me,” he says before dragging himself off to the shower.
Eden reclaims her seat, placing her head in her hands.
The First Lesson in Fire
Keep
an eye out
for
all those
quietly
reckless,
knotty-haired
girls.
you know
you can't
hold back
a wildfire,
don't you?
- trouble, trouble
an eye out
for
all those
quietly
reckless,
knotty-haired
girls.
you know
you can't
hold back
a wildfire,
don't you?
- trouble, trouble
“John, have you washed up? Dinner is almost ready.” Elizabeth Morton dries her damp hands on the stained apron that covers her day dress, reaching for the spoon to stir the stew that bubbles over the fire in the hearth. She glances behind her, smiling as her adopted brother, John, enters their home. The cottage had once been brimming with love and laughter, but gradually, it had dwindled down to just the two of them, family clinging stubbornly to one another.
“Will it be edible this time, do you think?” he jokes easily, Elizabeth looking about for something to throw at him.
“I'm improving,” she replies indignantly.
“Thankfully, though I believe the road we've traveled to get this far has at least created somewhat of an iron stomach for me,” John continues, patting his flat stomach.
“Oh, you're ridiculous!” Elizabeth swats at him with a cloth, John easily evading.
Then without warning, fear comes rushing in upon her. From without the house, there comes an approaching sound of stamping feet and murmuring voices, gathering volume in the roadway outside. A crashing knock at the door brings their merry banter to a halt, the force of the blows such that the plank of wood that serves as a lock vibrates within its iron bearings.
“Open this door at once in the name of the King!”
Elizabeth looks a question at John, fear plain on both their faces, a sense of foreboding settling over her as he quickly lifts the board and sets it to the side, the door swinging inward to admit the village constable, Robert Orwell, and the village priest, Father Jacob Kyle with numerous other villagers behind them, each of them bearing a torch.
“Elizabeth Morton, you will come with me at once to the town's center. Your trial awaits you,” Orwell spouts importantly.
Elizabeth utters a sound of terror, looking for all he world like a deer in the sights of the hunter. John moves to stand between her and the constable.
“Whose doing? What are you driving at, man?” John thunders the questions, the priest stepping forward.
“Her own doing, Brother Sumner. Sister Morton faces the charges of witchcraft, just as she did years ago. It is our hope that she will repent, just as she did then.... provided her repentance prove genuine,” Father Kyle says haltingly, looking over to the frightened young woman who had at one time been kind to him. “There is ever hope in these situations,” he says, his voice more steady, though all in the room knew the words to be a lie.
There hadn't been hope in cases such as this in quite some time.
“I've no time to listen to such foolishness,” John insists.
“Is it our foolishness or yours, Sumner? She's been a curse on this village for years with her witchcraft!” comes the cry from the faceless crowd, cheers going up throughout.
The voices sound hysterical.
“We should have run her out long ago!”
“Time and again she's been seen consorting with the demon Baal down in the meadow!”
“And everyone remembers her familiarity with Ipos from years past! It continues!”
“This is nonsense,” scoffs John impatiently. “I hold with no witch hunt.”
“You'd better hold with it, and look to the witch in your household!” comes the cry. “Ask her! Ask Elizabeth where she spends her time! Ask!”
The chants of “Ask her!” repeat over and over through the crowd, Elizabeth looking stricken, but John stood defiant.
“Begone from this house! How dare you speak the name of a good, God-fearing woman? Any man who slanders one of my family has me to reckon with!” he shouts into the crowd, even staring down the constable. The crowd begins to move about, uncertain in the face of his ire.
“I will reckon with you the, John Sumner.”
The crowd parts, the inflamed words dropping to whispers as the famed witch-hunter, Aaron Walker, steps forward, his unflinching gaze landing on Elizabeth. He points an unwavering finger at her.
“Elizabeth Morton, I name you-- witch!”
His words were all that was needed to ignite the conflagration once more, and not even John could stop her from being born from the house, the hateful cries of the villagers surrounding her.
June 26, 2018
New York
Her irritation still high, Eden slams into the private gym in Gabriel's apartment building, Jet already there, working a speed bag. She immediately stalks over to him, watching as he rotates his hands with perfect precision and speed to keep the bag moving.
Eden punches it hard, sending it swinging wildly and completely throwing off his rhythm. Jet sighs and adjusts the velcro straps on his gloves.
“Well that was a douchebag move,” he gripes.
“Oh yeah? Wanna know what else is a douchebag move? How about leaving Gabriel out there to take a beating he didn't fucking deserve!” Eden's voices rises with her words.
Jet shakes his head.
“Nah, gotta disagree with you there. If anyone deserves a beating, it's Gabriel Baal--” his eyes widen and he barely moves back in time as Eden swings on him, her fist colliding with his shoulder instead of his jaw.
“Jesus Christ, Edie-- look, I've always been a devout feminist, so I don't want to say it, but you hit like a girl,” he says, only somewhat joking, lowering his voice as though it were some huge secret.
Eden stands in front of him, hands on her hips.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“THIS! You know exactly what I'm talking about, sabotaging us, getting involved in things that you shouldn't be--”
“You're my responsibility, and I see you going down a path that I know you really don't want to go down. I'm trying to help you help yourself,” Jet says as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh sure. Says the devout feminist,” Eden snarks sarcastically.
“I'm serious. Things have gone way too far, and I know you see it, too,” Jet says pointedly.
“Do I? Do I really, considering what happened with Alan?” Eden asks, crossing her arms.
Jet grits his teeth.
“There's a difference. He handed Lucy over to her abusive father to be tortured and possibly killed. You--”
“-- stood in the ring across from a defenseless man and played with the idea of burning him to death,” Eden finishes quietly.
Jet's silent a moment.
“You wouldn't have done it. It was all mind games,” Jet says, a positive lilt to his voice.
“Are you sure about that? Are you absolutely certain that's all it was?” Eden asks, her face carefully devoid of expression.
Jet watches her and rakes a hand through his hair.
“The point is, Jet-- we've all don't dangerous and vile things for ourselves as well as each other, and we've seen each other through it,” she says, approaching him. “The three of us? We're capable of doing some incredibly terrible things, but we are also capable of forgiveness,” she smiles up at him. “There isn't one of us who can cast a stone at the other.”
Jet easily recalls all the times she'd forgiven him, the times he'd forgiven her, and she'd ultimately forgiven Gabriel. He finally looks at her and shakes his head.
“Not this time, Edie. I can't condone this. I can't stand by with this, while he stirs up wasp nests and we have a fucking secret society breathing down our necks because of him.”
“I thought you said you knew you weren't in any real danger,” Eden says quietly, a sense of foreboding settling over her.
“You're in danger. That's enough for me,” Jet says. “And it's Gabriel's fault,” he finishes stubbornly.
Eden turns and walks out.
June 30, 2018
New Orleans
Eden answers the door to her apartment on the third hesitant knock, bright blue eyes widening to see Jet Somers standing on her doorstep. He gives her a sheepish grin.
“Good to be back in New Orleans, isn't it?”
Eden smiles back at him, opening the door wide and stepping forward, hugging him tight. For days, she'd thought of all the things she'd wanted to yell at him about, this ridiculous ever-widening split between the three of them, him deliberately going off by himself and courting danger, disappearing without saying a word to any of them, but just now, seeing him like this standing on her doorstep unsure of his welcome? He was her brother.
Jet seems surprised at her gesture, hugging her back quickly. The two of them part awkwardly, Eden inviting him inside. Jet looks around as the door closes behind him, nodding to Caleb as he looks out down the hallway to see who the visitor was.
“Alright, Caleb?” he gives a friendly call, wondering at the guard's quick reply and immediate retreat after a glance at Eden. Jet shrugs, chalking it up to something that had occurred before he'd arrived.
“Can I get you something?” Eden asks, nodding in the direction of the kitchen.
“I'm alright,” Jet says, slipping onto a barstool. “I just wanted to stop by and... maybe the two of us just talk some,” he says gently, watching Eden's face as she moves around the kitchen. “And we never really got a chance to talk about what's coming. Zane and Alan--” he begins, stopping at the sound of a throat being cleared. Jet stiffens, knowing full well whose throat it had been, glancing over his shoulder to find Gabriel closing the glass door behind him, coming in from the bricked patio.
“Gabriel,” Jet says, by way of greetings. “What an unwelcome surprise.”
“Jet--” Eden begins.
“Jet. What an unsurprising welcome,” Gabriel replies smoothly with a smile. “Am I-- interrupting?” he asks, the question clearly meant for Eden.
Eden looks between the two of them a little nervously as the tension in the room skyrockets. She tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Umm, no, Jet's just stopping by to chat and talk some shop,” she says with an encouraging smile. The warmth she'd felt from Jet earlier was almost entirely dissipated, and the smile from Gabriel didn't bode of good tidings either.
“Well then, far be it for me to be the interloper in such proceedings. I'll see my way out,” Gabriel says politely, striding back toward the patio door.
“Gabriel, wait! It's fine, really. We want you to stay,” Eden rushes out, shooting Jet a meaningful look.
He rolls his eyes.
“Oh yes, by all means, stay,” Jet responds dryly.
Eden glares at him.
“He meant that as a question, with a 'please' on the end,” she amends quickly.
“Absolutely,” Jet replies in a voice dripping in sarcasm.
It was at that point, Eden truly wished she could kick Jet's shin through the bar. Instead, she settles for communicating her desire wordlessly, Jet content to sit in the face of it all as though he had no idea of her thoughts.
He did.
“Well. If you're sure, but I would hate to be the one to destroy the air of self-righteousness in the room,” Gabriel says pointedly, smiling at Jet's back.
“Gabriel... please. Can we not?” Eden asks.
Gabriel sighs as he concedes to her wishes.
“Very well, love.”
Eden presses her lips together, trying to decide where to begin.
“Gabriel's staying here while we're in New Orleans. I figured, since I still have the apartment it would be silly for him to stay in a hotel, and this way we're more-- together...” she trails off, and then brightens. “How's Sherry?”
“We probably need to talk about the match. Then I'll get out of your hair,” Jet says abruptly, Eden frowning.
“You're not in my hair, I--”
“Zane's barely recovered from his most recent injury, it should provide us with a nice advantage. And if you and Alan can keep things from getting too personal, we might be able to skate by with this,” Jet says. His voice is clear, but it's obvious his mind is racing a thousand miles away.
“'Should'. 'If'. 'Might'. Your words inspire such confidence,” Gabriel says smoothly.
“Not to worry, Gabe. Eden and I will hang on to our acquisition in our first title defense, unlike what happened when you were her partner,” Jet responds with a smile.
“At least she could trust me to be there when she needed me. Can she say the same for you, considering?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow with his question.
“Of course she can trust me, I'm practically the only one left, she can trust--” Jet begins, Gabriel cutting him off.
“Is that right? Well, if history is to be prologue, you, our self-righteous martyr, are the most rotten of the bunch. Your promise of camaraderie is as slippery as snake oil and equally as effective.”
“Alright you two, come on, please--” Eden puts in, Jet speaking over her.
“I wouldn't bother trying to shut him up, Edie, he never does. It's the one thing you can truly count on Gabriel for. He does all this talking, but he doesn't listen to a single word anyone says, not really. All he's ever doing when he stops running his mouth is waiting for you to draw a breath so he might expound anew. Or cry for help, either or,” Jet says pointedly.
“You think this is a cry for help? I'd be happy to show you what a real cry for help sounds like,” Gabriel takes a threatening step toward Jet, Jet coming off the stool he sits on. They both stop at the sharp sound of glass breaking against a wall. The two of them look over to see Eden standing there, watching them both angrily, a broken glass on the floor where she'd thrown it against the wall.
“Why can't either of you see-- I'm trying to hold this together?” she asks, her voice cracking as she storms out of the kitchen, slamming the patio door behind her.
“Wonderful precedent you've set,” Gabriel says, backing away from Jet as he follows her outside, closing the door more gently behind him.
Jet looks around the suddenly empty room, anger building inside of him. He strides toward the door he'd entered only minutes before.
“You should suggest he tuck a bit of lavender under his pillow, I hear it does wonders for stuck-up pillocks with anger issues.”
Jet stops, turning around to find Caleb standing there, just inside the main area of the apartment.
“You don't like him either, do you?” Jet asks, but it was more a statement than a question.
Caleb runs his hand over the stubble along his jaw.
“He's my employer, you see, so makes talking badly about him a bit of a danger, but I think I'm safe here,” he says, giving Jet a meaningful look.
“You can speak freely. I respect you, Caleb. What you've done for Eden, protecting her like you have,” Jet says, indicating the guard's healing leg.
Caleb nods, looking off.
“It's not so easy as my not liking the guy. I see him for what he is, what he's done. He's the reason Eden has a target on her back, he's the reason that bullet I took was meant for her. She didn't have none of this to worry about a year ago at this festival, did she?” Caleb asks, already knowing the answer.
Jet shakes his head.
“No. In fact, he was her only concern then. She'd just learned how he'd lied and manipulated his way into the treatment facility she was in--” Jet trails off, thinking back, shaking his head. “I don't even know how we got here.”
“He's not all bad for her, mate. Gabriel-- he changes her. I've seen it. He challenges her, surprises her, makes her question her life and her beliefs. But at the end of the day, Gabriel is either the best thing for her or the worst thing. It's just a matter of risk,” he says pointedly.
Jet considers his words and nods, turning toward the door once more. He pauses, barely looking over his shoulder at Caleb.
“You're the reason she didn't see what was happening on the screen in the locker room the night I left Gabriel out there,” he says.
“Maybe that was just a funny coincidence,” Caleb says, the corner of Jet's mouth lifting in a smile. Caleb returns the gesture.
“Fair enough. Good looking out, Caleb,” Jet says as he pulls open the door and steps out, closing it behind him.
“You too, Jet. You too,” Caleb says quietly, glancing out at the patio and then taking the seat Jet had vacated at the bar.
The Second Lesson in Fire
don't you know
a woman's anguish
could cause
e x p l o s i o n s
in other
dimensions?
a woman's anguish
could cause
e x p l o s i o n s
in other
dimensions?
– if you don't, you're going to find out
The trial that awaited had not at all been right away as the constable had implied, and so the next time John saw Elizabeth, it was with sorrow that he watched her being led to the chair sat to the side of Judge Daniel Hawkins, her dark hair matted with bits of straw and dirt sticking from it. Her hands were bound in front of her, wrists raw and red from the chafing of the coarse rope. Tears make tracks in the dirt coating her pale face.
The cell where she'd been held was entirely empty save for a pile of straw in one corner of the dirt floor. There was no window, but the rough boards let in chinks of daylight as well as drafts of cold air. She'd spent the night huddled in the corner, jumping at the nighttime sounds around her, and when she'd managed to drift off to sleep, she'd been quickly awakened by the sharp teeth of a rat gnawing at the tips of her fingers and toes. Then when the morning came once more, so did the whispered, hate-filled voices from the other side of the wall.
We're going to burn you, Elizabeth.
You'll burn this time, witch.
John stands, watching as she looks about the crowd of unfriendly faces, finally relaxing just a little when she sees him. He gives a nod of encouragement toward her, unable to stop the inner niggling of doubts. He casts an eye to the side of the room, finding the witch-hunger, Aaron Walker sat there with another witch-hunter, Zachary Smead beside him.
The small building seemed full of people, benches and chairs along the two walls crowded with men from the village, here and there a sharp-faced woman glaring at her.
“Good folk, we will proceed at once to this terrible business at hand. We have come here in order to inquire and search into the matter of Mistress Elizabeth Morton, who is accused by sundry witnesses of the practice of witchcraft! Mistress Morton will come forward.”
Prompted by the constable's elbow in her ribs, Elizabeth gets to her feet and moves haltingly to stand before the judge.
“You will listen to the charges against you,” Hawkins says importantly.
A clerk steps forth with a parchment.
“Elizabeth Morton, thou art here accused that not having the fear of God before thine eyes, thou hast had familiarity with Satan, the grand enemy of God and man, through his demons of Hell in the form of Baal, Ipos, and Naberus. It is by their instigation and help, thou hast in a preternatural way afflicted and done harm to the bodies and estates of sundry of His Majesty's subjects, for which by the law of God and the law of the Colony, thou deserve to die.”
A murmur goes up through the crowd, John sitting more stiffly. Elizabeth's hands felt icy, but she manages to keep her eyes steadily on the judge before her, keenly aware of the smile that decorates Aaron Walker's face.
“Mistress Morton, you are accused by Mistress Mercy Lockwood with the following actions. You have consorted and continue to consort with the great demon, Baal in the harm, afflictions, and near death of Mistress Lilah Wade as well as the injuries begat by Rafael Mayhew and Joshua Irons. You are accused by Keziah Dillingham of the following actions, a continued familiarity with the demon Ipos of the very name you stood accused years ago, and an acquaintance with Naberus who is believed to be responsible for the madness that afflicts Goodwife Abigail Leatherland. And finally, you are accused by the witch-hunter Aaron Walker for the destruction of a good man, and his friend, Karmine Kingsbury, as well as the destruction of his own through hellfire.”
The clerk returns to his seat.
“I'm not a witch, I swear it!” Elizabeth bursts out, her words met with hisses from the crowd.
“Silence, woman! You may speak your peace after all evidence is heard. If you may prove your innocence, you will be safe enough. We will proceed with the first accusation. Sister Mercy Lockwood,” Daniel Hawkins turns with a degree of arrogance, looking toward the young woman who rises from her seat. She clears her throat.
“My...” she hesitates, clearing her throat once again. “-- sister... Lilah Wade, as you all know, is currently... unwell. And while it was ultimately the fault of the demon, Baal, he had help in the form of this woman, this creature you see before you, Elizabeth Morton! My Lilah... she was dragged off into the shadow forest where not even the wolves dare go. She's not been the same since she's been found and continues to utter of the horrors she was exposed to. It's all I can do to convince that she is still whole. Nightmares born of a hellish terror plague her mind, convincing her that they cut out her tongue, cut off her breasts, her hands, and her feet. She is yet whole, but what thread is there to stitch back the mind?” Mercy Lockwood's frosty glare turns to Elizabeth. “She be guilty! Burn the witch!”
Elizabeth closes her eyes, another tear trailing from beneath the lids as Mercy Lockwood steps down, taking her seat. Murmurs all around the room, Aaron Walker and Zachary Smead staring intently at her.
“We will proceed with the second accusation, Sister Keziah Dillingham,” Hawkins voice rises over the whispers.
Another woman steps forward, her skirts bunching around the extra girth at her abdomen. She squeezes through the crowd to stand at the front, her chubby face glowing with her effort, extra chins trembling. The crowd breathes in, expectantly, waiting.
A fat finger points directly at Elizabeth.
“She be guilty! Burn the witch! Years ago, it was said she consorted with Ipos, but she was redeemed and begged for the forgiveness of her immortal soul. I am here to tell you, she lies through venomous teeth! I have seen her leave tribute to this Prince of Hell and he is how she is able to read the tea leaves, knowing as he is of all things past, present, and future!”
“I--” Elizabeth begins, silenced by the hisses around her and the cold look from the judge. Keziah continues.
“All know well of the torment that has befallen Goodwife Abigail Leatherland and know her tormentor to be none other than Naberius, that hoarse crow that stays perched over her house, demanding what she holds! It is likely even he who caused the own dementations and perversion of her daughter, Susan,” she trails off dramatically at this sad news before pointing a finger at Elizabeth once more. “SHE has been seen throwing bits of bread to the demon crow, feeding him, sustaining him, keeping his focus! Elizabeth Morton is a witch! Burn the witch!”
The crowd murmurs again at these charges, John Sumner visibly squirming in his seat as Keziah takes her seat and Aaron Walker gets to his feet.
“And now, the third accusation. Sir Aaron Walker!”
Elizabeth stiffens as Walker begins to move around her, looking her up and down, his eyes proclaiming his status as a witch-killer.
“Elizabeth Morton is, indeed, a witch. Not many have escaped me, but this one...” he steps away from her, looking to the crowd. He holds a hand out toward his contemporary. “Myself and Sir Smeade are very familiar with this particular witch, her games and her atrocities. It was her hand that ensorcelled by dear friend, Sir Karmine Kingsbury, and turned him against me and mine. And when I dared speak against her, when she heard the utterings on the winds, she destroyed my home through hellfire. She, with her consorting with the demon Baal, is responsible for the destruction of Rafael Mayhew and Joshua Irons,” he stops and looks directly at her. “And she will burn.”
Chants of “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” spring up through the room, John Sumner shouting over them all “No! No! She is no witch! Leave her be!”
Aaron Walker holds the eye contact of Elizabeth Morton, gesturing behind him. Zachary Smeade steps forward, passing a chipped lilac teacup to Walker, who in turn, holds the cup full of dark liquid out to Elizabeth.
“Oh, wait... I should drink first, shouldn't I, Mistress Morton?” he asks mockingly, bringing the cup to his lips.
Elizabeth's stomach churns in circles as the dark liquid dribbles down his chin in lines. He eagerly passes the cup with its saucer to her, pushing them into her bound hands. Elizabeth looks down at her wrists, wide-eyed, and then back to Walker.
“I am sure you'll work out how to perform your tricks, Mistress Morton,” Walker says blandly, a titter going up through the crowd.
“Don't do it, Elizabeth,” John begs as she moves toward a table. She drops the saucer down on top of it and manages to tip the cup directly over and then moves it as quickly right side up. She looks down inside the cup to the clusters of soggy brown and black leaves that litter the bottom in various shapes and sizes. She studies it, looking up, eyes wide, fearful.
“Well? What does it say?” Walker prompts her, moving ever closer.
Elizabeth lowers her eyes.
“The leaves say... you're going to pay,” she says, looking up once more, boldly looking over the room.
John feels his blood turn to ice.
“Pardon?” Walker questions, smiling as she steps into the trap he'd set.
“They say... you're all going to pay,” Elizabeth whispers. “And the leaves never lie.”
Silence fills the room before they all scream as one.
“Burn the witch!”
Walker's hand closes around her throat, a predatory gleam in his eye.
“I'll light your pyre myself,” he says, Elizabeth watching just over his shoulder as John Sumner gets to his feet and walks from the building without even a look back.
July 3, 2018
New Orleans
Even for a summer day in Louisiana, the heat was sweltering, the bright sun beaming down directly over them, and Gabriel had asked several times already if she weren't certain there was a magnifying glass directly over the top of them.
It had started out as a joke, but Eden wasn't sure the question remained that way after they'd taken a stroll through the park, watching as the finishing touches were placed on the festival known as WrestleStock.
Eden intentionally bumps her shoulder against his arm, getting his attention.
“Just think, this time last year we were plotting to kill each other,” she jokes.
“Beg to differ, love, I never wanted to kill you-- well, maybe there was that one time when I discovered the depths of your perfidy, but that moment was brief,” Gabriel replies in a half-joke.
“Yeah, I guess I can't blame you,” Eden says, the smile on her face dying a little when they wander into what could only be described as biker haven. Every year it was held in New Orleans, the Devil's Most Wanted motorcycle club turned out at WrestleStock, giving back to their home city and to the people within it for the sport they loved. It also helped that the club President and his wife were both members of the UGWC Hall of Fame.
Gabriel watches from behind his sunglasses, unable to see Eden's eyes behind hers, but he knew from what he could see of her face that she was sliding into the Ice Queen as several members looked their way.
“We can go another way--” he begins, stopping as they're suddenly approached by a bear of a man who picks Eden up in a big hug.
“Ohmygod, Chad! Put! Me! Down!” Eden exclaims, her icy exterior broken by the unusual show of affection from the man otherwise known as Chaos.
As requested, he immediately drops her, Eden having to catch on to Gabriel to steady herself as Chaos drops into a mocking bow.
“My apologies, Princess. You shouldn't be such a fucking stranger, Edie. It's been a while since all we've done is trade some insults on Twitter,” Chaos gripes.
Eden starts to respond, pausing at the pointed glares she receives from several other members. Her brother, Cypress, steps out, looking to the trio, shakes his head disgustedly, and walks away.
“I think you're in the minority in wanting me around, C,” Eden says softly, glad for the glasses the cover her eyes. She quickly blinks the tears away.
“He'll come around, girlie,” Chaos says, giving her a one-armed hug, glancing skeptically over Gabriel as he does so.
“Chaos,” Gabriel says awkwardly by way of greeting.
“Maybe choose better company,” Chaos mutters, loudly enough Gabriel could hear.
“C--” Eden begins.
“Charming,” Gabriel mutters, looking about.
“Edie! Hey!” Their attention is brought around to Jet, emerging from beneath one of the pavilions being erected. “Didn't know you were here, glad to see you,” he says, seeming genuinely happy to see her amid the bikers, blatantly ignoring Gabriel.
“Ah, yes. Well. I believe it may be my presence stifling the festivities. I'll catch up to you later, love,” Gabriel says, turning and walking away through another part of the festival grounds amid Eden's protests.
“It's fine, let him go,” Jet assures her, his eyes catching Caleb's standing just behind her.
“It's not fine, Jet. Why can't I get you to understand?” Eden looks up at him, Jet unable to read her from behind the shades over her eyes. She glances behind him, Cypress and Bloodhound standing together, obviously talking and watching them. Off to the side, her sister-in-law, Jezebel emerges, chasing after Eden's nephew, Dyson, her niece Havyn trailing after, her attention buried in the phone in her hands. Sherry moves up beside Jez, hurriedly whispering in Jez's ear, both of them looking to Eden and Jet, an unfriendly expression on their faces. It all happened in seconds, but it was enough.
Chaos' arm tightens around Eden's shoulders, and the tears she'd been fighting back fill her eyes, threatening to spill over.
“I don't think Gabriel's the only one not welcome here,” she says softly, shrugging out of Chaos' hold and turning away, ignoring Jet's calls to her. Caleb moves in beside her quietly as they make their way across the fair grounds in the opposite direction Gabriel had gone and away from her family, tears silently coursing down her face.
July 4, 2018
New Orleans
Eden stands in the empty office, looking around at the bare, burgundy walls and dark wood that surrounds her. A little over six months ago, these walls had been decorated, the lower level thriving and alive with the music emanating from the club. But now...
She pictures the heavy, dark wood desk that once sat before the picturesque window overlooking the French Quarter, the high-quality black leather office chair that once sat behind it, its occupant dapper and charming as ever. But now...
It was heavy, this feeling of death and finality that hovered in the air thickly around her, so palpable she should have been able to touch it, to breathe it in and suffocate within it. Here and there, the once pristinely painted walls have begun to peel from the stifling heat held within the building. Eden wipes at a bead of sweat as it drips from her forehead, studying the pale gold of the walls revealed by the peeling crimson. The gold was wrinkled and obviously lightened from its original glory, and she could imagine that at one time it had also peeled away to reveal another shade, another secret. Layer upon layer of peeling paint, hiding little tragedies.
Once the layers were stripped away, some of the homes in New Orleans would bear scorch marks from the fires and waterlines on wallpaper from the floods, remnants of a city's history etched into bones that become tombs where the living rot alongside memories of the dead. The city was congested, the buildings half-decayed corpses painted up for one last dance alongside those who have failed each other as well as themselves while they struggle with the ones they love.
And the ones they hate.
Eden looks down at the half-crumpled letter she holds in her hand, the handwriting of Killian King standing out prominently against the fine, pure white, a stark reminder to her that everything has a tipping point, even those who we think will never budge from our side. The tricky thing about tipping points is that they can only be defined in retrospect. Who's to say which choice will lead to a car crash or which cigarette will start the cancer? Who's to say what will push someone over the edge, one way or another?
It's a blind, foolhardy dance, swaying in the dark, never knowing for sure just how close to the edge we are, but knowing we grow ever closer and closer, that tipping point always looming, looming...
It's only with the benefit of hindsight do we see it all so clearly, but without that... how do we know whether we're at the end of the beginning... or the beginning of the end?
Eden raises blank eyes from the letter, its words memorized long ago, read over and over in the dark of the night until they no longer stung and dug wounds deeper than they were ever meant to go. She looks the office over once again, her eyes no longer seeing the desolate remains of the present, rather the lively and happier times of the past. With a soft smile, she exits the room, making her way down the stairs to the bar area where Caleb sits, not just a little agitated with the current mission they were on.
It was with his help that she'd managed to enter the boarded up Scarlet Letter, the few tables and furnishings left behind forgotten beneath a bed of dusty white linen. The bar had been empty, forgotten, forlorn, but was now occupied.
An effigy of Alan Wallace lies atop it.
The corner of Eden's mouth lifts in a smile when she recalls speaking with Lou-Lou about such a thing. She'd expected him to balk at such a request, but she'd underestimated the deep resentment the New Orleans native bore for the man who had almost crippled his best friend and ended her career.
No, Lou-Lou had asked no questions, had simply provided. It wasn't an exact replica of Alan, but it was a representation of him, and the intent Eden bore would form him in the creation.
Eden takes a moment, standing before the effigy, considering the coming days. It wouldn't just be Alan Wallace stood across from her, it would be Zane Scott as well. Zane, who was a threat in his own right, a one-time friend and partner who knew exactly what she could be. It was no secret that the men who had been her former mentors had turned their backs on her entirely, making their stance known as they moved firmly into Zane's corner, away from her.
She couldn't blame them, could well imagine what Colin or Spyder would have to say to her right now.
For all that Zane was, he wasn't the true danger she faced. That designation belonged entirely to Alan.
Yet another tipping point she'd been closer to than she'd ever guessed.
She'd known the ire he bore her after Killian's betrayal, the blame he placed on her for the rift between the two friends. He'd failed to accept that Killian was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions in regard to him. Had she tried to talk him out of his plans? Not really. Had she encouraged him in them? Maybe. But to lay the entire situation at her feet was ridiculous, though there were many who tried to do just that, consider her the source of all their problems and frustrations.
More often than not, they had no further to look than the mirror. She simply had the gift of seeing things like that before they did.
Alan's ire had finally spilled over a few months ago, the words he'd said leaving her in a state of shock. There was a difference between knowing that a man she had at one time considered a friend carried some well-deserved resentment toward her... it was quite another to discover that bitterness had burned itself into a fine hatred.
And so, she'd reacted as she often did when faced with anger. She'd poked the bear.
The episode in Alan's home was meant to snap him out of the blame game he'd found himself in, and despite what just about everyone seemed to believe, she'd never intended to cause the inferno that engulfed a part of the estates. She'd been shocked at the brutal attack he'd levied against her when she found herself in a steel cage against Jessica Mathis, but even that couldn't have prepared her for the nightmare that was the aftermath of No Holds Barred.
Not all of the fear she'd expressed had been a mockery despite what she'd led everyone to believe. Her nightmares attested to that, but he would never know just how far under her skin he'd dug himself. It was only after he'd set her up to be burned alive did she fully understand the depth of Alan's hatred and how long it had likely been burning there, how much he truly blamed her for, some deserved and some not.
Eden stops and breathes deeply, he acrid scent of kerosene permeating her nostrils. From the corner of her eye, she watches as Caleb leans against the wall, a toothpick clenched firmly between his teeth. His demeanor is one of complete relaxation, but in their time together, she'd come to learn differently. There was a tension there, around his eyes. It said something about her when she was even beginning to make the mercenary nervous.
Eden looks down again at the effigy atop the bar representing 'Vain' Alan Wallace, smirking at the idea of just how completely insulted he would be to see it. It was far from the bronze figures of his likeness he surrounded himself with. She trails a hand over the thing's forehead, imagining it to be tanned and smooth rather than the lumpy, prickly surface beneath her hand, the jaw chiseled and defined rather than the indefinable shape before her.
“Is it all spread?” she asks, Caleb giving a gruff nod. “And the cameras?”
“Taken care of. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks her, worry clear on his face.
Eden carefully lays the letter atop the effigy, smoothing out the edges, her face a calm, serene, mask as she pulls a box of matches from her pocket. She slides the box open and plucks one of the sticks of wood from within, looking at the red tip for a moment, considering everything around her.
This was a tipping point, but was it the end of a beginning or the beginning of the end?
“I'm tired of being a lesser man's scapegoat,” she says, her words meant for herself and the effigy before her, but the way they rang around the bar unsettling.
Eden raises the match before her before dragging it along the side of the box, the flame flaring to life.
The Third Lesson in Fire
why yes,
i am
the girl
with the
arsonist heart
all your fathers
warned you
about
&
once
one tree
catches,
it's not long
before
the whole
forest
lights up.
- gods, i hope i terrify you
i am
the girl
with the
arsonist heart
all your fathers
warned you
about
&
once
one tree
catches,
it's not long
before
the whole
forest
lights up.
- gods, i hope i terrify you
The sun was setting behind the steeple of the church when she was led to the stake, a rough white linen cloth scratching at her sensitive skin. Elizabeth stands there, bound hands and feet, feeling the lash of the glares of all those around her. Mercy Lockwood stands front and center, a satisfied smile on her face, her arm around Lilah Wade, her haunted eyes watching the proceedings. Before them all stands Aaron Walker, bearing a torch.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he utters, moving closer to the dried wood piled around her. He smiles into her face. “Goodbye, Miss Morton,” he says with satisfaction. “You'll understand if you aren't remembered fondly at all, and are in fact, quite forgotten.”
“Do you have any final words, Mistress Elizabeth Morton?” this from Daniel Hawkins, standing beside the other witch hunter, Smeade.
Elizabeth pauses, licking dry, cracked lips.
“In fact, I do,” she says, her voice low and scratchy. She looks out at the assembled crowd. “Who will all of you look to to blame for your misfortunes when I am gone? For they won't leave with me, and then you will know that my only real crime was in being a woman. You've mistakenly considered me to be unworthy of your love and your respect. Know this-- everytime you jerk awake mid freefall, it was I who pushed you out of your dreams at the witching hour! Know that when you feel that chill creeping up and down your spine on a warm summer's day, I'm the one who has been dancing over your grave! And know that whenever you think you spot a shadow from the corner of your eye, dear witch-hunter,” she says directly unto Walker, her smile bloody from the stretched and broken cracks in her lips, “-- know that it's me. You may have gotten to walk away, but a piece of me will follow you forever.”
Wails go up through the crowd, whispers of a “witch's curse” spreading. Aaron Walker holds her stare as he lowers the the lit torch to the dried wood. The flames jump from the torch, quickly catching. He holds Elizabeth's stare, daring her to be the first to look away, Elizabeth maintaining the hold until the flames lick hungrily at her toes. She squeezes her eyes shut, bracing herself for her violent end when suddenly... the thick, smoke-filled air reverberates with whispers. Silence follows like a shroud, Elizabeth opening her eyes when the villagers' shouts and cries become distant and far away.
The smoke curls around her comfortingly, the fire only barely caressing her, doing no more than warming her flesh.
“Do not worry, Elizabeth. They will pay for this,” the voice whispers, Elizabeth smiling as her bonds fall away. Before her, the fire rises like a curtain, a man stepping out from the flames, holding a hand out to her.
“Please allow me to introduce myself,” he says with a smile. It was the same every time he came to her, and just as she had each time before, she takes his hand. The flames part before them as they step down from what was to be her funeral pyre, the two of them watching with a satisfied joy as the flames that were meant to destroy her engulf the entire village.
The villagers weren't fast enough.
Elizabeth looks over to see the final death throes of Aaron Walker, Zachary Smeade already dark ash and bone beside him. Just before he expires from the hellfire engulfing him, he looks over one last time, his eyes meeting Elizabeth's.
She smiles.
call me
bitch.
call me
villain.
call me
she-wolf.
call me
bad omen.
call me
your worst nightmare
wearing a
red-lipped smile.
- even better, call me by my name.
bitch.
call me
villain.
call me
she-wolf.
call me
bad omen.
call me
your worst nightmare
wearing a
red-lipped smile.
- even better, call me by my name.
OOC: Poems by Amanda Lovelace
x1