happy new year whf enjoyers !

sorry for the eight month break LMFAO

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"So you've gone through this whole thing."

"Right."

"Four months of chaos and new leases and moving all your things —,"

"Closer to five, I should think."

"Does that really make a difference?"

"About four week's worth."

An eye roll. "Hilarious. Five months, then. And all of that, only to end up in the exact same building, one block east? And all for the sake of… 'better light in the mornings'?"

"Well," said Olumide, smiling placidly at him. "When you put it like that."

Artem Tkachenko turned away from the window that overlooked the eastern side of Sacred-Palm with a look of distinct annoyance on his very lovely face.

He was wearing his official coat, though it was different from the one Olumide recalled him wearing the last time. From what he recalled of Artem's letters, it had been commissioned a little over a year ago. It suited him well; where the last one had been ornamented in all manner of shiny things — golden thread and pearls and little mirrors — this one was far more humble. A clean, sleek silhouette cut from the truest crimson wool, with a black satin lining and plain ebony buttons.

Of course, in true Artem fashion, the lack of ostentation on his coat was simply compensated for with the flashing rings and stacked rosaries he had adorned himself with, enough so that with every move he made, he caught the light. Olumide regarded this fact most fondly — himself able to recall in vivid detail the first time he and Artem had met as adults and how summarily he had discovered that his most austere friend from the Abbey had been concealing a magpie tendency all those years.

"What," said Artem, eyeing him. The crossness in his voice might have fooled a stranger, but Olumide could tell it lacked conviction. "You've got a look about you."

"I'm glad to see you," Olumide said quite honestly. "I'm grateful to have an hour to spare with you."

"An hour only," Artem pointed out, but he looked decently pleased by the candor, and the furrow between his brows dissolved away. He was far too beautiful in face, Olumide had always thought, to waste on those sour, grave expressions he wore all the time. At a certain point in his life, it had been his great honor to banish them almost entirely, and though now there was distance and loss and vows that had made it so much harder, he still felt a small private victory every time Artem softened and came right to the brink of smiling like that. Or un-frowning, anyway.

"There will be hours to come," Olumide replied, undeterred. "Now that you are here."

Artem shrugged one elegant shoulder and turned away to give the dazzling effect of his face in the side-profile. "I never said I'd be here long, you know. Perhaps they only mean to tell us about new tax rules and then send us home."

Olumide chuckled and rose to join his old friend at the window. He placed a gloved hand on Artem's shoulder and smiled at him.

"Was it not you, our eschatologist, who always knew the scripture best in school?" he teased, head tilting. "Don't you recognize the end of days when you see it, Artie?"

There was no river in Sacred-Palm, a fact that Artem was reluctant to admit disarmed him. It wasn't as though he had any real attachment to the Serpent's Belly, but it often provided some structure on where to walk when one needed the appearance of having a destination in mind. When Olumide had come to visit him in Hallowclave last, they had done that very thing: walked along the river as far as they could, until they came upon Cathedral of the Star of Saint Swanhilde, and then slipped inside to catch the midday sermons. In his memory, Olumide had sat in rapt attention, hands folded chastely in his lap. Artem, too, had been a picture of devotion, but in the corner of his eye, he had not been able to help stealing glances at the earring that glittered in Olumide's lobe, an artifact of a long-shed past.

"Shall we just wander, then?" Olumide suggested now, holding the gate for Artem to stride through. He was wearing earrings now, too, slim silver hoops that shone like slices of pure light against his dark skin. "It's been a while since you've had time to see Sacred-Palm. Usually you're so quick to leave after your Order meetings."

Artem scoffed as Olumide fell into comfortable step with him. "Those things. Pointless. It's a waste to summon me up here to begin with, much less to dally any longer than necessary."

"Pointless, my goodness," Olumide said, amused. "Dare you blaspheme the Church's orders?"

"It's not blasphemy," Artem said swiftly, sharply. He knew blasphemy — this was not the sort he was guilty of. "I do not question the Church. It is the current High Exorcist I cannot stand. A stupid man giving stupid orders."

"Infighting in the Order of Exorcists?" Olumide's eyebrows rose just slightly. "Or just your critical eye at work? I say, Artie, you never did embody the virtue of mercy as you should."

"Not all of us can match your infinite generosity, Brother Forgive-All." Artem shot him a rankled look. "Anyway, he's one of those bloody Triomer-Pasks."

"Ah." After a pause, Olumide chuckled and shook his head. "I suppose some things even I cannot forgive. I do not envy you, then, to be under his command."

"Exactly."

They were passing into a neighborhood Artem now recognized from many, many years ago. He studied the storefronts as they passed, and remembered how they had done so before, as children and then as young men. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of himself in a window, such a tall, milk-white figure, starkly robed in red. He did not look much different than when he'd been a child, merely grown taller and reedier over the years. But the same wasting frame, the same fall of sungold hair, the same severe expression.

Olumide looked different. As a child, he'd been the tallest of the three of them, every inch of him long and strong like a colt ready to run. He'd been so very beautiful, too, in a way only a boy is — bright-eyed, bright-smiled. Now he was handsome as only a man could be, broad-shouldered, steady-gazed, sure-handed. He picked his way across the cobblestones with such a calm. And he still did that thing he'd always done, kept Artem on his right side, closer to the buildings so that he stood between him and the road. Ridiculous, thought Artem. If anyone was more apt to protect the other, it should have been him and his arsenal of holy weaponry, not a doctor who'd taken oaths to never do harm.

The third presence was no more than a blown-out candle, and Artem did not allow himself to dwell on the shape and gape of that particular absence.

"You know, The Pail and Rope was sold?" Olumide remarked as they passed the familiar blue awning. "Lannfrid passed away, and his son didn't care to take things up. It's called the Blue Ribbon now."

"Imbibement is a nasty habit, and the enemy of virtue," Artem replied sourly. "I hope you don't waste any of your free time there, Olumide."

His friend shrugged, unfazed. "Alcohol in moderation is not a sin, old friend. Not even you can claim the scriptures forbid it. I go out for drinks, now and then, with my colleagues."

"Your colleagues," Artem repeated, and then looked away so that his face would give nothing away. "And I suppose you must like them very much. Naturally."

Olumide laughed then, and walked a little closer so the backs of their hands brushed. This was not teasing, he knew, for Olumide was never cruel if he could help it, but Artem still snatched his hand away like it had been burned.

"I'll always like you best, Artie," Olumide said, smiling sideways at him. "Don't worry too much about it."

Artem found himself scowling, and saying, "Not best."

Olumide looked at him for a long moment, his smile wicking away. Artem found himself feeling very sorry for the sadness that crossed onto his face then, and wished he hadn't said anything at all. He would do penance for it later, he resolved bitterly. Sorriness was not a feeling he liked being acquainted with — it didn't suit his character.

"No," Olumide agreed. "But just as much."

Just as much, Artem thought. That had always been the trick with the three of them, hadn't it?

At the end of the world, Miriam Hope-Still calculated her life in numbers. Day in, day out, figures flashed through her head, the beads on the imaginary abacus in her head sliding constantly back and forth.

She'd liked arithmetic while at the Abbey; she'd been charmed by the simplicity of the thing. Once she'd graduated, she'd clung to mathematics to summarize her daily tragedy, condensing the reality of survival into simple figures. Number of hours left in the day. Number of days left in the year. Number of years left to live. Number of districts left to patrol, number of breaches in a week. Number of breaches in a month.

Number of bodies in the street, in the hospital. Number of Blister-stricken, moaning and turning, in the hospital beds. Number of hellmouths she'd sealed — number she hadn't.

How many minutes had she wasted, weaving through Cruorsolis' uneven streets? How many lives had been lost at her hands? How much money could she send to the hospital this month, and still have food to eat? How much money did her family still owe? Over and over, up and down the numbers went, flashing in her mind's eye, spinning like an endless roulette wheel.

On the day of Emetalia, the numbers were smaller. Days since she'd arrived at Sacred-Palm: two. Hours she'd slept: six. Number of her fellow exorcists currently in the briefing room: ten.

Ten. That was the lot, as far as she knew. Miriam had never seen them all in one place before, and now she looked around at them curiously, drinking in the sight of unfamiliar faces. She was not the only one. Although she was sandwiched between Priam Kill-Sin and a very tall fellow she reckoned must be the one they called the Beast of Belhaven (certainly, he looked beastly), she could see most of the others shooting semi-suspicious glances at one another.

All the regulars she knew: Leda and Dom and Artem and Ariel. The five of them had usually composed the bulk of the usual meetings, give or take a few martyrs that had come and gone over the years. Then, sitting together on the other side of the Beast were Abilene Mourn-Much and a newly white-haired Haniel Servant-of-Justice, whom she recalled from the Abbey. They both certainly looked a good deal more haggard these days, but it was nice to see they were still stuck to each other's sides after all these years.

Based on the way Dominik was pointedly ignoring the fierce glare from the masked exorcist on Haniel's right, Miriam could guess that was the infamous Calyx Ever-Devout, about whom she'd listened to many hours of bitter complaints from Dominik. She'd never spoken much to them at the Abbey, though they'd been in the same year, and now she could not quite conjure a memory of how their face might have looked. Certainly the blank china of their mask betrayed nothing.

And then, right on the end of the table, a slight wisp of a girl tucked into Calyx's shadow. Miriam did not stare, so as not to frighten her — Elisheba never seemed to take kindly to being looked at for too long. But she was so difficult to ignore, with her darting black eyes and the satin spread of burn scars, all warped and bubbled, spoiling her otherwise pretty face. Miriam had never seen them in daylight like this before.

Ordinarily, on the rare occasion that they met to discuss the goings-on of Cruorsolis, Elisheba preferred to meet in the evening. In the half-light of dying candles, it had been difficult to make out the extent of the damage, which Miriam could now see wrapped up the right side of her face. She wanted a number for it, and guessed about forty percent of her face was lost to scarring.

She had not been subtle enough — Elisheba's gaze flickered to hers suddenly, wide and frightened like a rabbit, or a spooked cat. There was something perpetually horrified about her gaze, as though she were accusing her onlooker with some crime only she knew, and Miriam found herself coloring guiltily in embarrassment. What she was guilty of, she knew not, but she looked hurriedly away and fixed her eyes on the table in front of her instead.

"Your little partner seems very shy," came a low, silken voice in her ear, accompanied by the soft intensifying of rich cologne as Priam Grimmalt leaned closer to Miriam. She did not startle at being addressed so suddenly, but it was a near thing. "The way she looks at me, I almost wondered if I'd been the one to give her those scars. Tell me, what happened to her, do you know?"

"You inquire very boldly," Miriam said, frowning slightly. She kept her voice very low, for reluctance of altering Elisheba to the fact they were discussing her. "I don't think it would be very becoming of me to spread idle gossip."

"Don't be so haughty, Sister Hope-Still," Priam purred, narrowing his yellowy eyes at her as if they were in on some sort of joke. "I'm not gossiping. Only curious. I thought as her partner, you might know."

That was a reasonable thing to think, wasn't it? She looked back to Elisheba and wished she did know, suddenly. She wished she'd spent the time to know her when she'd first arrived — it was so easy to feel busy out in Cruorsolis. To forget to make time for anything but her duty.

Miriam turned to Priam, arranging her face into something solemn and impenetrable. "Sorry to disappoint you. I'm afraid we are partners in name alone. Elisheba is as much a stranger to me as you are, Grimmalt."

Priam smiled at her, a charming, toothy thing. "My, my, you don't know how it wounds me to hear that. Let us not be strangers any longer, hm? Now that you're all here to stay."

"To stay?" Miriam echoed uncertainly, but Priam had no chance to deliver the information he was so clearly eager to, for it was then that the door to the briefing room opened with a great flourish, and in streamed the procession of the Council Corpus.

They were a formidable group all together — she'd never seen them so. First came Father Adelhelm, with his proud, austere face, his hawk-like nose, his billowing robes like an ink cloud in water. Mother Clementis was right on his heels, her tall frame unmistakably familiar as she cast her icy gaze across their numbers. Then, looking comparatively quite unsubstantial, Sister Liutlinde Perpetua slipped in, offering a small smile to the room. The Steward of the Library was no young woman, but there was a bright clarity to her calm grey gaze that Miriam had always found comforting.

Bringing up the rear was the indomitable Nadya Novipax, First General of the Order of Angels. She was a tall, wide-shouldered woman, with a steely expression and a squarish jaw. Something about her, perhaps the fierce knit of her brows, perhaps the breadth of rough-knuckled hands, always made Miriam want to sit a little taller in her seat. To be worthy of her gaze.

Finally, almost an afterthought in General Novipax's long shadow, the High Exorcist waltzed in, hands slipped nonchalantly into the pockets of his smart crimson coat. Although he was well into his mid-forties, Raphael Hold-Pure's coiffed blond hair shone as golden as it had when he was a young man. His eyes still flashed bottle-green behind his spectacles, and Miriam reckoned his smile was as rakish as it ever had been. He was an anomaly among his kind, simultaneously looking untouched by the strain of sacred duty while having been permitted to outlive all of them. Miriam thought to herself that he could have looked just the same age as Dominik, though she knew he was more than a decade his senior.

"Blessed Emetalia to you all," Raphael said, smiling sunnily as he took his seat at the end of the long table at the front of the room beside the other Corpus members. "Why so glum, dearest colleagues?"

There was an uncomfortable shift all around her. Miriam found herself exchanging a glance with Dominik, whose narrowed blue eyes brightened incredulously. Her own mouth twisted into something wry and disbelieving in response and she cast her eyes down so she did not grin.

"I'm sorry," said the Beast of Belhaven slowly, and everyone seemed to stiffen in surprise at the shock of the sound, though his voice was certainly not unpleasant to the ear. "...Who are you?"

"Ah," Raphael regarded the Beast down the slope of his beautifully-straight nose. "It seems there are some in attendance who I've not been able to introduce myself to. Raphael Triomer-Pask, of House Triomer-Pask. High Exorcist in service to His Holiness."

"Who made you so?" the Beast asked, frowning. "I thought all the senior exorcists had been martyred. I was not informed there was still a High Exorcist. You do not serve in the provinces?"

"Yr, there are certain politics," Ariel spoke up carefully, his visible eye darting over. She'd never heard him sound so ginger when he spoke, but the way the Beast — Yr — was regarding him in return made her wonder if it was even a good idea for him to have said anything at all. "Perhaps now isn't the best time to discuss."

"Not the best time indeed," Mother Clementis interjected sharply, her voice cracking like a whip through the air, and Miriam jumped to attention in her seat. "And we'll thank you to be silent, Yr Love-Well, about matters which you have not been in proper attendance to hear of. Your penchant for avoidance is none of Brother Hold-Pure's concern, nor is it an excuse to be so blatantly adversarial to a member of the Council Corpus."

Yr's face was almost inscrutable behind the thick scars that twisted their countenance into something hideous, but Miriam could see the way their shoulders relaxed, almost deliberately, at Mother Clementis' scolding. If she hadn't known better, she almost would have thought that little glint of teeth was something like a smile, though that of course would have made no sense.

"There are several orders of business to address," Father Adelhelm began, once they'd all gone obediently quiet. "Recently, His Holiness has seen fit to declare a state of emergency now that we are now in our final countdown until the Great Homecoming. You have been gathered together in the totality of your remaining number to prepare for the Great Homecoming and defend the heart of our kingdom until Her Ladyship arrives. As such, some changes are to be made."

Once more, Miriam found herself locking eyes with Dominik, and she saw her confusion reflected in his gaze. Dom looked sideways at Ariel, so she followed his gaze, but if the oldest in their number had known anything of this, his face was as blank as the rest of them. Even Leda's brows were drawn together, and she usually had the latest updates earlier than the rest of them.

"Based on recent developments from the Order of Scholars, it has been determined that your talents are best utilized with a different strategy from the current division of labor," Father Adelhelm continued. "We will cover the details of that later in the meeting. But first, it is beholden upon me to welcome one more member to this meeting."

Right on cue, there was a polite knock at the door, which then it swung open to reveal the most peculiar figure.

The man was tall, but lopsided, leaning heavily on a jackal-headed cane in a way that made him look rickety, like his bones were a crooked stack of books off which his lean frame hung. His suit, although somewhat threadbare in places, was smart. Not the latest fashion, but well-tailored, and of what looked like good fabrics. He wore no red coat. What Miriam could see of his face was shadowy, obscured by the blueish stubble at his sharp jaw and the deep hollows of his skull. His pale skin did a poor job of masking the spidery veins under his eyes, which were the color of brackish water and averted slightly down. And there was something just vaguely familiar about him, though Miriam could not place what, no matter how she wracked her brain.

"Hello," said the newcomer, and his voice was so soft and sweet so as to hardly be there, just the faintest kiss of sound in the silence. He bowed slightly at the waist, not enough to be deferential. Miriam squinted at him as she tried to place his allegiance. A Scholar perhaps?

"Doctor Kosta has been requested specially by decision of the Corpus in the best interest of our kingdom's continued survival," Father Adelhelm said sternly. "There is to be no negotiation about —,"

"My," Priam drawled, leaning forward in his seat. All of his usual smarm had drained away — when she looked over at him, there was only ice in his stare. "Times are desperate indeed if the Corpus has invited Dorian Kosta back to our ranks."

The gasp of realization escaped Miriam before she could help it, and her hand shot to cover her mouth in surprise. She looked back to the slope-shouldered figure before her, searching him with new eyes for lingering resemblance. It couldn't be him. Could it?

"Fucking Bone-Weaver?" Calyx snarled, standing up in a hurry and causing their chair to fly back with a screech.

"Oath-Breaker, I believe we called him," Priam agreed, his lips pulling into a mirthless smile. "Ward-Cleaver. Child-Butcher. Death-Bringer."

Dorian Kosta did not flinch at each hurled epithet, but merely continued to look politely downward, his hands folded calmly on the head of his cane. Miriam tried to dissect his look — was that guilt? Was it amusement? How could he seem so collected when he had — he had —

"Kosta completed all of his training, before his... regrettable errors," Adelhelm cut in firmly. "Perhpas you have not noticed, Brothers and Sisters, but we are in a shortage of exorcists, and he has been brought back to make use of that training. The kingdom cannot afford to be picky about those we enlist if we hope to survive until the Homecoming."

"This is disgraceful," Artem Martyr-Must proclaimed with cool disapproval. It was the first time he'd spoken all meeting, but his voice was ever the same — that flat, mutinous sneer ever-present in the particular arch and drag of his vowels. Miriam watched as he swung an elegant shoulder forward so that his waterfall of golden-blonde hair swung prettily out of his face. "Kosta was excommunicated. He committed the highest level of treason against the kingdom, and, thus, against Her Ladyship. He cannot be absolved in so cavalier a manner."

"Furthermore," Dominik interjected quickly, "— he never graduated or served. Even without his transgressions, he's not qualified to assist. He'd only get in the way during a breach."

Raphael glowered ineffectually at both of them. "Be seated, brothers. Your opinions —,"

"I think you'll find that we did not request any of your assessments of Kosta's qualifications!" Mother Clementis barked, slamming her hand down with a deafening crack as she rose to her full, terrifying height. "This meeting is not a town hall, it is a briefing! You are to be silent when the Corpus is speaking! Am I understood?"

"Oh, you're understood perfectly," Calyx growled back. "But tell me, what will you do to us, Mother? We are your precious eleven, the kingdom's last hope. How will you punish your saviors, then? Have us flogged so we can't patrol? Make us do penance and let innocents die in the provinces?"

"Caution, Friend Calyx," Miriam tried to urge them, and went ignored.

"Calyx is right. You cannot touch us," Haniel said, crossing their arms. "What the Corpus has decided is wrong. It needs to reconsider."

Abilene nodded fiercely. "We can't be expected to work with someone we can't trust. Our lives depend on oaths — he is oath-breaker."

And surrounded by protests, Mother Clementis' austere face went so violently purple that Miriam feared perhaps they would all simply be struck down by a bolt from the heavens, because it was that exact look, flint-eyed and furious, which had always promised the most vicious of retribution in the days of the Abbey. Her jaw locked in fear as Mother Clementis' lips pulled back over her teeth like a mean dog about to bite, and then —

"Stand down, Calyx Stemenos," General Novipax announced calmly, her voice ringing against the back walls effortlessly. "All of you, stand down."

She had risen silently to standing and at once her presence seemed to swell to fill all the empty air in the room like a held breath. Without a word, she searched each face in the room with that relentless stare. When it was Miriam's turn, she felt every last hair on her body stand on end (how many? She didn't have a number large enough), and she felt as a carcass must feel when it is picked over by vultures, reduced down to the last morsel of meat on bones, until even that was stripped from her. She did not breathe until the General moved on to study Priam, who looked back with ill-concealed contempt.

"It has been many years since I have witnessed the Order of Exorcists firsthand," the General said at last. "I knew your numbers had dwindled — now I see your honor has, too. This is not how you have been trained, soldiers. If you were mine to command, I would not stand for this show of foolishness."

No one spoke, not even Calyx.

"Dorian Kosta was excommunicated, yes," she continued firmly. "Eleven years ago, his mistake needlessly cost many young lives. Young lives who would be here today, among your ranks, had it not been for him. But if you do not accept the help he offers now, there are countless more to be lost. View this as his atonement if you must, but your comfort with the idea is not the Council's concern. This is a direct order from the highest governing body of this great kingdom, and it is not negotiable. Do you understand what has been asked of you, exorcists?"

"Yes, sir," Miriam found herself saying, in unison with the rest of her order.

The General's gaze hardened. "And do you understand, Priam Grimmalt? What atonement means?"

There was a tense silence as those poison-green eyes flickered sideways. Then Priam said, "Certainly, General."

Seemingly satisfied, General Novipax took her seat once more, and looked back to Adelhelm with a nod. "Good."

"Honored to be among you," Dorian Kosta murmured, when no one had any more to say.

With a bit of effort, he made his way to the empty seat at the end of the table, beside a clearly petrified Elisheba. His stride was limited, its limping rhythm distinctly off-kilter. It sounded almost like a little waltz; an awkward shuffle, a long drag, then a click of his gold-tipped cane on the marble tile. Shuffle, drag, click. Shuffle, drag, click.

"Right," Father Adelhelm said, when Kosta had settled into his seat. "Let us continue onto the rest."

Eleven pairs of eyes turned back to the front as Adelhelm resumed speaking, but Miriam watched a little longer

Kosta was smiling a little bit, just down at his hands. It was not, by Miriam's interpretation, a display of smugness, but rather had a shimmering quality of mania that sent a chill down her spine. Everyone had always said he'd gone a little mad after the tragedy. Some of them said he'd been mad even before, and she could not help but agree. Oh, he'd always seemed normal enough, aside from being quiet, and a bit prone to sickliness. But all along, madness must have cultured in the flesh, in the bones.

After all, what drove a man to do as he'd done? To unpick the threads of the kingdom's oldest wards, those sealed in the walls of the Abbey itself? Wards that had been drawn by Her Ladyship's own hands, woven with magic far stronger than any exorcist had wielded since her death. Had he planned for it, the hellmouth which then yawned open in the bedchambers of the Abbey's youngest students as they slumbered? Had he wanted that precious blood spilt as it had been? Had he premeditated the butchering?

And what had happened, in those precious few moments after which the surviving witnesses had said he'd been dragged, screaming, through the veil, into the belly of hell?

Miriam looked at the profile of a man who seemed half-corpse, half-wax statue, and wondered how a monster lived to see his sins forgiven, when her own seemed to weigh so heavily on her still.

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introductions introductions, my perpetual downfall! theres so goddamn many of these guys!