Just because someone holds you close, and swears to you they love you, doesn't mean their words are true. Lies are so simple, sweet little words that slide off the tongue like mercury; just as pretty, just as toxic, yet with so many uses.

My boy bought right into them. My second born may fancy himself a renegade, a black sheep, but it's my oldest darling who is a lamb to slaughter. Sweet, ash blond curls like newborn wool and his mother's trusting eyes, looking at me with such reverence…yes, just like his mother. Elizabeth also let herself pretend I offered sanctuary. And how did she end up? A stone-blue corpse, an anatomy lesson under her only sons' scalpel. Practice your lessons, Jizabel. You've been studying the arteries. Show them to father.

Yes, my Jizabel was such a good boy that day, stoically gliding his slim blade across his own mother's dead, unbreathing throat. I almost lament how easy it seemed to him, then, dissecting the very womb he was carried in 17 years prior, but by then, he simply didn't care much, it seemed. His sisters gone, mother dead, it made no difference. He'd already learned that I was the only pillar he needed in his life.

Such a good boy. So obedient. Jizabel always does as he's told, unlike that unruly brat I sired afterwards. Although Cain carries his own…delight. Where his older brother is silent and willing, Cain is fiery and something of an ass. Like vaudeville following an opera; refreshing, for a different pace, and not altogether unpleasant, but certainly jarring.

I know, however, that a few more years and I'd have had another pretty puppet held on corded strings. Jizabel's a wonderful marionette; not a thought of its own, just follows my every tug and order, no matter what it feels about it. Had I not misjudged the weight of Riffael's words? Cain would be nestled on the same toy shelf as my firstborn.

The smell of aged tobacco is already strongly stained into the wallpaper and rugs of my study, but I found its staleness repugnant, and lit a fresh pipe. Immediately I saw the striped wallpaper and handsome fireplace through a dull haze of smoke, blurring and wafting the edges of the room, as though trying purposefully to guard my eyes against some detail; an undusted mantel, perhaps, or a bit of mud staining the carpet?

I squinted behind my glasses, narrowing my vision appraisingly at the smoke already starting to lift for a moment. I didn't much care for anything being veiled from me. I didn't care for secrets, or half truths, and I certainly didn't appreciate being made to feel like a child who needed shielding from something unpleasant, even if it was only a little soot that may or may not be there.

Another puff, the gentle hiss of a low smoldering flame, and more smoke to mute my senses. Again I glared into the gossamer; no, this wouldn't do, not tonight. The sound of Jizabel's whimpers, trying not to scream with each whip snap was too deliciously fresh in my head to be made aware of such uncomfortable truths as this! Fine. If I couldn't enjoy a good pipe, a bit of wine would serve as a pleasant nightcap. It would take far more than the one glass I intended to have to recreate another isolating fog.

Already feeling my good mood starting to fade, I poured myself a generous glass, savoring the rich, tangy smell before taking a pull. Dry, tart, and enjoyable. Definitely the perk I needed.

However, despite being a strong wine and half downed in a matter of minutes, I felt my previously high spirits sliding further downwards, and I knew I couldn't blame it on the effects of alcohol.

A thin, wafting curtain still hung in the air. Holding my glass in one hand, I raised the other to clear the air, hoping to waft the suffocating smoke away. But it seemed to cling before me, not disturbed in the least, though it should have been carried about by the currents. Ah. Not smoke, then.

"Augusta…"

I hadn't noticed how chilled the room had grown until now, though the fire at the hearth needed no tending. That was simply how she was; a cold hearted woman in life could make nothing but an ice-skinned spirit.

I grinned, wafting the air towards me, now, instead of attempted to brush it aside.

Though she did not speak to me this night, I could feel her all the same. My beloved Augusta…how much closer to her I could be now, with her dead and dry and nothing but a half-lifed ghost clinging to me. Although I desperately craved a body to give to her, born anew, I couldn't deny the thrill of intimacy this brought me. With no skin to find her, I could feel her so close against me.

Generally, I could loose myself in this, a perverse lovemaking to rival what happened on nights I drug Jizabel into my own bed. For hours I'd find myself sitting here, listening to a dying fire, and savoring the chills up my spine as she seemed to never be able to creep close enough. But tonight, her persistent need to coddle and sooth only served to fuel my irritation.

Not even able to enjoy this simple pleasure, something that so often calmed me from nights like these…my last hopes of a cheerful evening soured. I knocked back the last of my wine, and waved her off, hoping for once she'd obey my wishes and take leave, as my bastard firstborn would.

I cringed, almost able to feel the wine turning acrid in my stomach. Of all things, tonight, I DON'T need those thoughts creeping through, again…

The fog was clearing; a good thing, surely? I despised knowing something was being kept from me! I've beat my sons for far less-!

Another turn of bile in my stomach. Yes…I hated knowing that smoky curtain was again hanging between me and some unpleasant truth. In the same way, though, that one grows accustom to a crick in the leg or the noxious smell of a gas light, so had I long grown use to this metaphorical vapor swaddling me, protecting me from my own thoughts just as the physical smoke from my pipe did earlier, shielding the room from my view. I rarely noticed it now, and was fine with this. The powerful, lucid lull Augusta's presence set me into was intoxicating, far more so than my usual drugs of choice.

It was, however, on the short occasions that she withdrew where I felt the full pain of my addiction.

I suddenly wished to beckon her close again, but she was in a teasing humor, and left me be, with my own thoughts now absolutely my own.

'They're always your own!' I could practically hear her giggle, a girlish habit that had never suited her true, dominating nature. Of course, she spoke truth.

'I've never made you do anything, Alexis!' he could feel her continue, skidding fleetingly along the edges of her mind. 'I merely suggest! I gently lead. I plant the seeds, my love, but it's you who tends and nurtures them!'

Another glass, then!

I sipped; every bit as palatable as the first. I tried to loose myself in this small pleasure, and ease my mind, not really caring if she stayed or disappeared as she sometimes did. I knew, though, if she left, then my night would continue in the manner it always did without her soft beauty around to remind me of my larger needs in life. When not here to remind me how I dedicated my life to her, how I loved her above any other being, it was so easy to slip and remember the two others I was suppose to make that vow to.

No more smoke. No more haze, fog, no passion-induced morphine to block the splattering sound of Jizabel's blood hitting the floor from resounding in my ears. There was no filter now, to allow me to gain pleasure from his sweat and pained groaning; when Augusta was not near me, everything became painfully real. I felt no remorse, no guilt, no pity for my boys when she was around to remind me of who I loved dearest of all. All for a greater purpose, I knew then. Cain and Jizabel were nothing but my bastards when I could remember that, and I felt nothing for them, in comparison to the almost painful way I loved HER.

…Now, though, without her influence, I couldn't say I felt true guilt. An honest sense of remorse required knowledge that one would never commit their chosen sin again, and that was nowhere near a truth for me. I've beaten my boys, I've left scars upon their backs, as well as their minds. Jizabel could barely function a day without seeing me...and I knew tomorrow, I'd do more.

Even with her so painfully far away, by focusing on her lovely face, her light eyes, I could almost gain my former pleasure, knowing my oldest would be lying awake all night, bleeding into his sheets, and yet still worship me in the morning. But it wasn't easy, to convince myself that. Perhaps it was because my own will for it wasn't as strong as August'as, or, maybe it was the knowledge that I seemed to be loosing Jizabel's complete devotion.

Another sip. Yes, he seemed to be wavering, as of late. That Cassian boy…man…was having rather a great influence over him. Though I rarely saw those two do anything in each other's presence but bicker and bitch, I could tell my son seemed to be over thinking; not a safe activity for my doll.

I…couldn't deny though, on nights like these, that I was almost relieved. Perhaps now Jizabel could have a chance. He could run, he could leave, pack up and disappear into the city, or as far away from it as his spindly legs could carry him.

Yes. Nights with Augusta spurning me, there was little I ached for worse than for Jizabel to run. My rare, free minded hours, without the constant reminder that I was devoted to another, I burned for want of him running away from me, to be somewhere safe. Cain did…though how much longer I'd be able t stay away from him directly, I couldn't say.

I knew it wouldn't be tomorrow, though, or the next. In fact, I had no reason to believe Jizabel's flight was anything but a folly, and one I wouldn't want anymore very soon.

If hatred and a love of their suffering was my norm, would these brief moments of compassion be my delusions, my lunacy? Or is that merely myself raising another isolating curtain of fog?

Jizabel. He adored me once. He thanked me for each whip stroke; he knelt at my feet adoringly, and hung on every words I spoke to him. Recently, though, I see a hesitance in his devotions. I still see the love in his eyes, yes, and the desperate need to be near me, but there's also resentment. Borne mostly from his idea that Cain escaped and is loved and was the favored son, but also from what little sanity he has left finally speaking to him. He knows this is no way to live, but is also convinced that he can live no other way.

He resents me, I know, for making him what he is, but I know all it takes is a smile, or a stroke to his cheek, and his hope springs anew. I can see it in his face for weeks after I offer even the smallest morsel of affection; he lights up, and doubles his efforts to please. Cain was the same way in his childhood; he too would often look at me with fear in his eyes, but he never questioned, not out loud, anyway. At least Cain never looked at me with the defiance and hatred Jizabel sometimes does now.

I scowl; I didn't want my thoughts to be dominated by their faces tonight. But between this, and welcoming back the numbing fog? I…I don't know when I'll next see this way. It's often months between…

Jizabel might be asleep by now. Or passed out, more like. I was particularly harsh on the boy. He deserved it, with that newfound cocky attitude of his. Heh. And he likes to imagine he bares no familiar resemblance to Cain!

…They aren't going away, tonight. Not with Augusta seeming to be spurning me for some reason. Sometimes I can focus enough on her even in her absence to smother these feelings, but tonight, no. I don't want to say I wanted to feel them, but some hours, that is the case.

My sons. My two boys. Brainwashed to love me, to be devoted to me, and yet still so convinced I care in some way, at least in Jizabel's eyes.

He has no idea how almost right he was.

Another glass? Yes…I think.

Augusta was right, of course, when she reminded me that my actions are my own. I am under no spell. She keeps no enchantments over me. The haze that clouds me from the truth isn't some witchcraft of hers; it's my own love for her, making everything else seem so much less important, and I could at any time deny the compulsions she put in my heart.

But I don't. I don't want to. To deny her what she wants would be to turn away her love, and I am far to heartsick to her to even harbor that idea. My older sister was always beautiful to me, and I knew always that I wanted no one in this life but her. I had no moral restrictions to keep me from committing any atrocity for her, or for my own benefit, if that was the case. I enjoyed being free from societal restrictions.

It was an unfortunate and unplanned circumstance, to learn that the young woman I'd taken to keeping my bed warm had fallen pregnant with my bastard. I loath to admit, though, that the crying, blond thing she produced had a certain charm to it. What little I saw of him as an infant was bemusing, and I can't deny I felt a small ounce of fondness for it.

I think perhaps I could have grown to love him. But there was no room in my life to devote my heart to another; Augusta was my world, and she wouldn't' stand to be misplaced for anyone, not even a boy who shared my blood.

My actions were my own. She wanted to be everything to me, and I was only too happy to comply. To demean my firstborn to a status hardly above a pet made it all too easy to bring my whip across his back. And to say I didn't enjoy the screams he made would be a boldfaced lie. It was sickenly delightful, the surge I got with the fear in his eyes, how easily he was to control. After all, if this was how it was going to have to be to please my beloved, I might as well enjoy it myself, make him and his brother a game to me, and a heartily entertaining one at that!

Then the fogs lift. The veils raise and clarity (insanity?) dawns across me for passing moments, and I feel the bile rise in my throat, seeing my child broken and naked at my feet.

I never before considered myself a monster. I had no room in my life for petty laws, and a little blood spill for what I deemed a worthy cause never bothered me. Yet moments like tonight, it's brazenly clear to me that something inside me is broken, that it isn't suppose to be like this. It's at times all I can do to keep from dropping my whip, and pulling my child unto my chest to hold…that's what I'm suppose to do, what God intended a father to do. But that's not an option available to me, even on the frighteningly rare occasions that I actually give a damn.

Yet if my son would look a little closer, perhaps he's see the kernels of truth in his delusion. Had ne never wondered why it is I spread the seemingly meaningless lie that he was an orphan I graciously fostered? Perhaps he assumed it's merely to better my own public image for those on the outside who are aware of our relation. Considering the fierceness to which he's clung to that story, seeming to almost believe it himself at times, I wouldn't be surprised if he feels it was concocted to protect me. In reality, though, it was quite the opposite. I could do so little for my sons; to at least cover the shame and stigma he'd carry for being a child born out of wedlock was only a small mercy I could offer. No one would look down upon him for being a legitimately born orphan.

I wonder if he ever wishes it were true, and there was another family out there somewhere, who wouldn't have forced this life upon him. Just the same as I sometimes wish he would run…

I know he won't, though. He'll stay with me; I've made sure of that years ago. Twisted his mind to know he can't live without me. Though I've made it known that he's a filthy, unwanted, hideous beast, he knows no one else could ever see him as more. I'm his father, after all. If I can't love him, who could? My desires for him to run came far too late.

…I don't love my sons. I can lie to myself, and say I sometimes do, but my actions rarely speak of true affection. I wish they did, some days, though. I want to love them. It's easiest to pretend with Cain; he's meddlesome and in my way and I know if he keeps this up I'll kill him without a second thought, just like I know I will Jizabel some day…

Until then, though, I can let Cain think he's getting somewhere. I can allow him more days with Riff, to live in a small bit of happiness before I later shatter the façade. To Jizabel, I can push him higher into Delilah's ranks; he'll be safer, as Death, a card with power. He'll outrank many of those who now use him, who use their own elevated status to hurt him. Yes, I know he's expressed his displeasure at the idea, but it's for his own good.

There's scarcely a drag left in the bottle; I might as well drain it, and welcome to fog of alcohol to blur my senses. Augusta is still taunting me, laughing at me. She could leave me for years and still I couldn't turn against her. I love her too much. Enough to beat my sons, to crush the things they love, to give my oldest to others like some brothel whore.

And every drop of blood is worth it, to please my beautiful Augusta. She owns me, my heart, and I'm willing to do anything to make her happy. Could I destroy her? Could I turn away? Perhaps, in theory I could. No magic is preventing me from doing so. But I know I never would. My beautiful Jizabel; you have no idea how much like your daddy you really are.

Yes, my boys. Even if someone holds you close and swears they love you, it doesn't mean their words are true. But then again, you can never be sure they don't wish they were.

)o(

Well…there you have it ladies and gents. My self challenge; take THE fandom plot hole and nonsensical twist ending, and try to make it logical. Make Alexis a deeper character. Let me know how you think I did.

Written by me, inspired by my own thoughts, and Suni La Moons.