Title: Cup of Poison
Author: Adrienne
Rating: R, MATURE, whatever the hell you want to call it. It's not for the kiddies, that's for sure.
Fandom/Pairing: Carnivale. Justin/Iris.
Warnings: See the pairing right up there? That means incest, people. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Spoilers: "The River", and big ones for "New Canaan, CA".
Disclaimer: Dan Knauf is way more talented than I am, and thought up this world. He created the toybox, HBO in all its awesomeness owns the toybox, and I'm just playing around with the toybox. I'll clean up when I'm done, I promise.
Notes: Thanks to Vorona, for the prodding, poking, and support. She assures me that I haven't completely screwed up Justin's character, and she was nice enough to provide me with a beta at 2 am. For which, she gets hugs, brownie points, and a share in my immortal soul. Also, this is a companion piece to "With Innocent Blood", though you don't need to read them in order. This actually takes place before WIB, the morning of the battle between Ben and Justin.
Summary: Justin knows he must walk the road to Calvary, but that doesn't stop him from praying to God to be spared the coming battle.
I never pictured this. I was supposed to be a good man. A servant of God, here on earth. Tuus in terra servus, nuntius fui. He had plans for me - for us. Because where I am, so will you be. Didn't you always tell me we were children of God? Suffer the little children. And we did suffer, Irina. But so did the innocent lambs you led to slaughter.
I never wanted to believe you capable of murder. How could you? How did you do it? Was it all too easy for you, like when I snapped my predecessor's neck from the back of a car? Or did you hesitate? Did your hands - strong, capable, with your squared off nails - shake as you struck that match? Did it take only one tiny spark, or did you leave a pile at your feet? Did you weep, Irina?
I know you must have wept before you got home. The salt trails on your cheeks as you woke me that night betrayed you. Salt of the earth, just like the soil I knelt in as I watched my dreams burn by your hand. Did my sorrow mean anything to you then? I know it most likely means nothing now. You have forsaken me, just as God has forsaken me.
Eloi, eloi, lama sabbathani?
This is my Gethsemane. The wheel of the carnival my cross to bear, and a dark cornfield my road to Calvary. The boy - the arrogant manchild whom I see in both my waking and sleeping hours - is my adversary, and the workers some hellish mockery of Pharisees. The High Priest, brought so low, is the owner of the Carnivale. And you, Irina, my betrayer.
I give you credit, sister of mine. I never saw it coming. I suppose I should have taken my cue from Scripture, but I was foolish enough to never suspect you of any plotting against me. Not until I opened the curtains of our bedroom and saw my cross being constructed. I know their High Priest did not pay you, as he did your predecessor. How much, Irina? What did you offer in place of those thirty pieces of silver?
It is blood money, you know. Bloody like your hands when you set that fire. Like the stained glass woven into your knees. You prayed so hard for deliverance from evil - the edge of your slip transforming from pure white into crimson. The color of sin. The same red as your kiss-stolen lips. As the scarlet letters you carve into my skin with your touch. As the flames of the ministry you set alight, as well as those you set alight in me. Sin, Irina. One we most certainly will be thoroughly damned for.
Thou shalt not.
But how can I not? How can I not love you, want you, need you, beyond all imagining of sin and redemption? And I have always had you, until now. Until a fire, suspicion, and a destiny neither of us wanted tore you away. Took you by unstoppable force. And while you were always the unmovable object, my sister, this time you swayed where the winds of fate took you.
You were so stubborn. Ever-fixed. You could look upon the tempest and row for shore. Now you have thrown me into the waves, and I cannot find your hand. The tide beats against me, relentless as the roll of your hips under me, and I want to scream in fright instead of passion. Why can't I stop it? It never ceases . . . Irina, help me!
She cannot hear me, but you can. If you still listen to a condemned man, Lord, I want to tell you I don't want this. Turn it back! What could I have done to deserve this? I was your servant, your child. Why would you consign me to the darkness?
Was it verification? You knew I would be able to find my way through the wilderness. I am not Christ . . . I am not alone in my temptation. I am never alone while my Irina still draws breath. While I can still find peace, I am never alone.
So if it was not verification, was it a challenge? Thou shalt not put the Lord your God to the test. You have tested and tempted me three times, and I have three times failed. But would I not have failed you more without the temptation? If I am to be your left hand, reaper of Man's sins, I should be able to have experienced sin, should I not? Is it not my destiny to fall from grace? And oh Lord, how I have fallen!
I fell upon Apollonia, eclipsing her with my lust. I took her by force, and so her mind was forcibly taken. But she bore me a second light - my Sofie. My wisdom, and so she has been. She is her father's daughter, is she not? Even her darkness cannot shut away her light. She is the light of my world, and the light of yours as well, Lord. Is the world not better because of her? How can I be punished for something so pure, even if the act that produced her was a perversion of love?
When I was young, I fell through the air, and was caught by a rainbow. Raduga, vy vidite? Irina will always break my fall, whether from the wreckage of a train, or from heaven itself. When you cast me out, Lord, she welcomed me with an embrace. And I will never stop loving her, even as it further seals my perdition. The closest I have ever come to real communion with the divine is her body, her blood. Crimson to my cerulean. Fire to water.
And I have fallen finally into madness as well. This battle with your champion of light is drawing near. In just a few hours' time, I will deliver myself to my destiny, and Irina will be at my side. One more trial by fire, which she must endure as penance for her betrayal. We will prevail. The fire without cannot match the fire within. Red for passion, red for war - and Alexei means "warrior". Red for the forbidden spill of her hair across my pillow.
I defied you this morning when I fell upon her one last time. A consecration, of sorts. A benediction, acknowledging the trials to come. And a confession to her - that I will die if it is your wish. You have all things predetermined, and I could just as easily draw the Death card and fall with ten swords in my back as I could exercise Temperance and return triumphantly to my queen of swords. It is in your hands I leave my spirit, but it was in hers that I left my love.
Not my will, but thine, be done.
Even to the edge of doom.
So I walk now my road to Calvary, and all I can see is her. My Irina. Mother and sister, lover and killer. The woman who whispered the name of a child into my ear as she gave me a Judas kiss. She must have faith, Lord. She must not follow me into hell. We will rule there, yes, but not until our work on earth is finished. She must survive to finish the work you and I have started.
Irina, I wish it was not so. But unfortunately, the condition of being a martyr for your God is that you have to die.
Prostite men'a.
THE END.