Work Text:
The night is a time of peace. Quiet. Every soul fast asleep, hopefully dreaming of good things… Lit only by the moon and stars embroidered into the blanket of comforting, deep, and cold darkness hovering above the Earth… It was a time that Alastor Creed prayed his eternal gratefulness for when he witnessed it. It was a time where, for once, in an entirely too long day of duties to the High Court, the young man could rest his ever-weary bones from the constant weight of the Jury’s work and relax. His nights were often spent staring off into the starry sky from an armchair near a window, tucked underneath a work desk when not in use: not usually for his sleeping behaviors. He did not find much need in it, most evenings. Insomniacs never usually do, no matter how they try to rest.
His quarters within the High Courthouse are quite well-off. It is a wide-open space, decorated with elegant fixtures: wall sconces holding flickering candles; a chandelier hanging from the ceiling that brought up into a large pointed arch; even a lit fireplace attached to the outside wall, next to decently-sized pointed windows. They open up to the landscape that surrounds the cathedral-like, many-roomed courthouse. His walls, grey in color, hold little decor other than a couple of assorted paintings; but the dainty details engraved and textured into the wood make up for its simplicity. Being a part of an efficient group of blessed witch hunters certainly pays well. Though Alastor is a man who feels no need to own luxurious things, nor a huge sleeping space in the first place— He finds himself enjoying the room on rare occasions, occurring on nights such as these: When his windows open up to the cloud-free starry sky above nearly take his breath away. Then, he uses the private space to truly appreciate the peace of the night.
In his bouts of staring towards the stars outside, he often requested for a pot of hot tea to be brought to him so he could soothe his body and mind... After a hard day’s work, it was a welcome habit. He now indulges in that habit, enjoying the simple peace of the night, with the faint chirping of wild crickets living in the woods nearby barely reaching his ears. The full moon beams down upon the Earth, illuminating carefully cared-for lawns of grass and trimmed shrubbery below…
No, Alastor Creed dare not disturb the night, in his appreciation. But it often seemed that he was the only man who would in the High Courthouse.
That is made apparent by an odd reoccurring sound Alastor notices outside his doorway, though it is muffled… The young man perks up from his slouched demeanor to get a better grasp of where it is coming from. The sound, most likely belonging to a person walking down the hallway, is faint; though it sounds an awful lot like wheezing. It does not give him a sense of sympathy. His annoyance towards this individual, with them being the root cause behind his peace being disrupted and all, is apparent in the quirk of his brow and his eyes darkening. He sighs, exasperated, and sets down the dainty teacup he has been holding on an extravagant piece of furniture nearby…
As he stands shakily from his armchair, he nearly falls over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath his weight. Alastor grunts in response to his frailty, and shuffles a bit to grab a nearby walking cane leaning against the desk so he would be able to support himself in his trudge towards the quarters’ doors— only to find that they were just about to be opened by an unexpected visitor when he pulls on the handles. His heart nearly drops at the sight of the woman in front of him, though his mind is still in the process of absorbing what he is seeing. An… old friend. At the least… a mere shadow of her.
“Lorelei?”
At first, his mind tries to rationalize her abnormal appearance as some type of elaborate costume… Like one she would wear in light of an upcoming performance in her flowering opera career, secretly sponsored by the Jury themselves. But… Nothing that is out of the ordinary has the mark of a costume maker’s hands. It all looks far too real. Her hair was bleached bright white. Unnatural black feathers sprout sporadically from her wrists, face, and shoulders. The sclera of her eyes are black as if they are ink-stained scrolls. Hands normally soft and untouched by strife, are now leathery and end in elongated, sharp black nails resembling a bird of prey’s talons. With a tortured look and running makeup on her face, to boot…
“What happened to you? It’s the middle of the night!” He manages to hiss out a whisper.
She tries to say a couple of words as he stands there. They only came out in a series of pitiful croaks— though barely comprehensible, Alastor can recognize a few of the words:
Help.
Curse.
Alastor felt a chill run down his spine at the second word she uttered. He tries not to be too panicked as he leads her in through the doors, barely managing a glance through the hallways to see if anyone has seen her— He promptly shuts and locks them with one hand, the other still using the walking cane for support. His mind races, sorting through possible solutions to the problem at hand…
“Uhm. I can help. Just… Go sit down.” He motions over to another armchair in the room. Lorelei opens her mouth to reply— Alastor subconsciously noted that this cursed form of hers also gave her fangs, like some sort of carnivorous animal— but he does not let her. “No. You’ll only make it worse.”
She doesn’t seem fond enough of her lost voice to argue with him, unlike her usual self. At least, the usual self he knew before.
He knows what to do. He sighs, quickly, as a way to relieve his rising stress— before briskly walking towards the curtains on his windows and shutting them with as much haste as he can muster.
She is surely in great pain, with how intensely this curse is affecting her. But, oddly enough, Lorelei seemed unphased to him; that does not entirely surprise him, considering the young woman’s skill in her ability to wear any mask in favor of hiding her true face. In spite of the masking, she looks at him quizzically for his paranoid behavior.
“I can’t let anyone see me use it. You never know who’s watching.”
She seems to realize what he means, as there is a light of recognition in her silver irises when he looks back at her with his words. She shakes her head with a fervor: But Alastor can’t possibly let her stay like this! He knows the pain of having a curse. No matter what purpose she had received it for… It is deadly to be affected by one with such intensity. Based on her physical state alone, it’s nearly taking over— Staying in such a way for too long of a period without reprieve can very possibly kill her. He walks back towards her, pulling the armchair he was sitting in just moments ago near the window next to where she sat. He sits across from her.
“Look. You know the risks, from observing. I know the risks, from experience. It’s only logical for me to use my curse to help.”
She shakes her head again, with a greater fervor. That isn’t the help she needed?
“Why would you come to me, then?”
She makes a gesture towards the man’s right arm, and Alastor quickly realizes she had pointed to his curse’s mark. It is a line of ten individual four-pointed stars on his skin, running from his shoulder to his forearm, hidden underneath his shirt sleeve. He subconsciously reaches over with his left hand to cradle the affected arm, suddenly becoming more aware of the subtle buzz of his nerves under the tattoo-like markings.
“I… I do know how it feels to carry this type of burden. But using it is no issue for me, not after all these years. And this may be the only way I can help you if it’s successful.”
She huffs through her nose, still seeming particularly defiant about his using the Curse of the Hollow for her well-being. He groans in an irritated fashion, and says,
“You’re still as stubborn as ever… Fine. Let me speak in a language you understand, then. If you refuse my help, you’ll continue to look like a harpy. You can’t simply walk around, seeming as if you stepped directly out of mythological text! Especially one with such a negative image. You have a reputation. And if that is tarnished due to a lack of control over your curse, The High Court will never appoint you higher up. You cannot prove that you are an essential asset to them if you’re letting it take over, Lorelei.”
She looks incredulously at him.
“And I believe it is fair to apply that logic elsewhere, too, if you plan on going into the Wonders division.”
Lorelei then frowns, but the feathers on her cheeks seem to twinge, and it briefly turns into a wince before she lets her face stay neutral.
“Let me help you.”
Lorelei looks even more conflicted, and in light of her emotional state, more feathers start to grow. She notices with a reeled-in panic and looks back up at him to meet his dull, dark eyes.
“Please, Lorelei.”
She still does not seem to like the idea, visible through her quirked brow and deeper frown, but she eventually looks to concede with her thoughts and straightens up: facing him fully. She nods begrudgingly.
Alastor nods in return, his concerned expression softening just slightly at the confirmation. He briefly pushes up the pure white linen sleeve of his right arm, riddled with the black four-pointed stars of a curse’s mark. He then holds out the respective hand to call upon the dark void that is his curse…
He hated, yet also relished, the process of calling upon this power.
From the moment his curse awakens from its slumber, the void it takes up in his body loosens and starts to overtake him, almost, as he feels the air itself start to chill in the act of something very dangerous, yet beautiful, drained out of it: magic. At the least, it would be now, if there was any magic in the air.
He and his companion watch with bated breath as his fingertips start to glow white-hot, yet still reverberate a dark energy... The nerves in his hand spike in a familiar tingle as the skin starts to pool with the twisted magic of his curse. Alastor looks back to Lorelei.
“I will need to reverse it by draining the curse from the source. It won’t… take it away. It will... at the least reduce your curse’s current effects. In theory. I’m… not sure if this will be successful.”
Lorelei shakes her head once more, but she looks desperate for anything that would relieve her of the burden of the feathers and scaly talons at this point.
“Okay… I’ll have to lay my palm on the curse’s mark. Where is it?”
The harpy woman sighs soundlessly, turning around in the chair: only to reach up with a shaky claw to brush away bleached hair from her back, revealing a line of black four-pointed stars running aligned with her spine, peeking from behind the bare-back stage outfit she wears. They match the ten along his arm... Only, he can’t tell how many of the cursed stars there are. Only that there is enough to be concerned for how powerful Lorelei’s new curse truly is… Alastor nods, and hesitates for only a moment, before pressing his cursed hand against the curse’s mark on her back. She tenses. He does as well, immediately feeling in his void-like nerves the force of the two curses colliding with each other. He almost pulls away for that resistance, but soon after the force gives way; now he can feel some essence of the twisted magic of the feathery curse being drained from his friend. Its energy feels rather… enticing, or alluring. He notes that within his mind for later, focusing more closely on the hallowing process.
With the draining finally commencing, he watches Lorelei closely to make sure he doesn’t go too far and accidentally drains more than just the curse… He watches as the glistening black feathers embedded in her skin wither away to nothing, though they seem to simply grow backward, reverting to a position underneath the surface… Watches as her hands shift, the leathery scales and deadly nails of bird’s feet smoothing out to pale skin once more… Watches as the inky black of her sclera washes out… Watches as she reverts to normal. At least, not entirely, to the young man… Her hair remains stark white.
The pull of his curse to her energy is magnetic, almost, but with a little effort he pulls his palm away before he can siphon more than needed. Lorelei takes a deep breath once it is all over, looking at herself and turning her palms over. Once she realizes the touches of the curse are gone, and no pricks of sharp feathers plague her anymore, she visibly relaxes.
She looks him in the eye guiltily but still seems grateful. The woman clears her throat, the mere action sounding as grating as nails on a professor’s chalkboard.
“Than…k you..”
“Don’t use your voice. Uhm.. Here.” He looks around swiftly for a scroll of parchment and a quill, or something similar.
Once he finds with his eyes what he needs, he lifts himself from his seat with a huff and snatches the paper and pen with some kind of swift aggression: Though he hands it over to his friend gently.
“But… you’re welcome. I wouldn’t want you to have continued suffering…” He looks up to make eye contact with the young woman, only to find her staring horrified at his neck.
“What?”
She reaches up with a shaky, well-manicured hand to brush against the right side of his jaw.
“A mark?”
She nods, her expression immediately turning into a far deeper guilt, turning up her pale brows in a matching impression. Then she blinks, her eyes darting between her hands and the parchment paper. She picks up the quill and writes a simple message:
Your veins. Stained black. Reaching up from your curse marks.
“Oh.”
She looks worried at his look of shock.
Is that new?
“Ahem. The stains never reached up that far before.”
Her expression now holds notes of incredulous concern towards him.
That’s a detail one should mention in their monthly letters, you know.
He shoots her a small glare in response: Now that his concern could recede, he could focus on confronting other feelings…
“Really? You have a curse, and that’s certainly news to me. How long have you had it and failed to mention it to me?”
She visibly deflates at that retort, the guilty quirk in her eyebrows coming back again. She averts her eyes, making Alastor raise an eyebrow.
“You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”
She shakes her head, then thinks for a moment, the remorse not yet faltering. Lorelei scratches something down onto the parchment.
I’m sorry. I was forbidden to tell anyone.
Alastor could not deny the slight pang of grief he felt for his friend having to go through this, just as he did before. Then he feels a similar sensation of guilt as he realizes he just snapped at her for something he should have figured out for himself.
“Ugh. I’m... Apologies. How long ago did it happen?”
He thinks ahead about the curse’s effects themselves as Lorelei, with a solemn expression, scribbles more cursive onto the scroll.
Just about a month and a half ago.
“The feathers… talons… voice abilities, based on how hoarse your voice box is… and that energy it gave off. You must have been afflicted with the Curse of the Siren, like from the stories… Am I correct in assuming that?”
Lorelei tenses at the name, nearly looking as if she is going to ruffle up with feathers again, but writes another response all the same.
Yes.
“Is the curse… The reason your hair is…?”
She points to the message she just wrote.
“Why…? Was it of your own volition?”
She seems conflicted and makes a non-affirming gesture.
“Yes… and no? Don’t tell me…”
She scribbles another message below the previous one.
I was more than willing if it meant I could be more useful to the Jury, Al. Much like you.
He has no response.
Mother and father also felt it was necessary. They noted it would be wonderful to be able to bring crowds upon crowds of uneducated people to the Jury’s aid using the Siren’s curse… Albeit dishonestly.
Alastor reads that paragraph without surprise. His parents, dedicated to the Jury’s ways, also pushed him toward the light of their teachings in the past, and that was one of many reasons that fueled him to accept having the Curse of the Hollow.
But.. On the other hand, I knew what this would do to me. It would be a permanent blight on my soul.
She pauses her writing to process the words for just a moment.
I just failed to see that it would have such potent after-affects for using it in excess…
He doesn’t break the silence, leaving Lorelei and himself to their thoughts for only a few moments.
“I.. will make you some tea, with a soothing draught from the Healing division. Thankfully I have some left over. I won’t have to request more so late at night… But, that should help you recover your voice…”
She nods again, appearing a bit distraught.
“Now, it might very well make you drowsy. Are you alright staying here for the night? I can keep an eye on your recovery, too, that way no one else has to know.”
Lorelei acknowledges the offering with another affirmative signal, writing a quick note:
Yes, I don’t mind. I trust you. Thank you.
Alastor can’t help but smile. He takes her nod as a cue, and shakily pushes himself up from his chair once more, while the young woman starts to scribble more words onto the paper using the quill. He walks back over to the tea set he was using just minutes before and busies himself with pouring a fresh serving in a second teacup, including a dosage of the vial of soothing draught. When he came back with the hot beverage, she had finished a rather large paragraph… it read:
I’m sorry, Alastor. I couldn’t think of anyone else to visit for help. You might as well be the only one in the Courthouse I trust other than the High Inquisitor. But he is certainly not the type for such controversial matters, as you know.
He scans the cursive words with a troubled look, setting down the spot of tea next to her.
Besides. I know how much you prefer your lonesome time in the night. I knew you’d be here.
“I… I’m aware. But there is no need for you to apologize to me. We are in very similar positions, you and I. And.. I don’t mind helping you.”
She shakes her head but lowers it once more as she writes again.
I appreciate it, Al. Truly. I believe it will become easier once we become members of the Wonders. By that time, we will not have to hide the curses. We will be able to use them as much as we wish, freely, for the good of humanity’s purity. Right?
He sits down and smiles, one just small enough to be invisible to anyone else. It is tired, unbearably so. That nickname brought back some type of nostalgic, bittersweet memory back to the front of his mind…
“Yes. Just as we’ve always wished. It will be easier then.”
Her expression turns into something sentimental. Almost as quickly as her face changed, she set aside the parchment paper and quill to throw her arms around his neck in a tight embrace: resting her chin on his frail shoulder.
“I… hope so.”
Her voice is weak, but the words being right next to his ear lets him hear them clear as the night sky. He embraces her in return, upon some forethought, gently resting his arms around her. He can soon feel her shaking with silent sobs. He takes a bit of time before he speaks again, pushing down any surfacing emotion that wasn’t needed in the situation: but he makes sure his tone of voice going forward holds a steady resolve in it.
“Our suffering will count for something. I’m sure of it. The High Inquisitor knows exactly what he’s doing, Lori.”
She only nods in response.
“It’ll be okay.”
After a moment, she gives one final squeeze and sniffs, pulling away. He motions towards the delicate teacup and saucer and pulls out a handkerchief for her teary eyes.
“Now. Drink the tea while it’s still hot. It’ll do its best work then.”
Lorelei visibly disagrees, a troubled look still plaguing her face, but she does shove that away to take the saucer with a tiny smile. She makes sure to dab at her eyes with the handkerchief as well. As she lifts the cup, Alastor stands shakily: And earns a question shot at him from her eyes.
“I’m... cleaning up a little. You left some feathers. And that parchment should be burnt.”
She almost makes a move to put the cup down, but the young man holds up the hand not leaning on his cane to wave her off.
“No. I’ll take care of it.”
She huffs through her nose but starts to drink the tea anyway. After the first sip, she can’t help but cough, the sound grating to anyone’s ears, but upon the second, third, and fourth… the coughing sounds better: much smoother. As much as they were a blight on the world, magical remedies certainly worked wonders. Alastor nods to himself, then snatches the paper first, leaving the inkwell and quill on the nearby table.
He lets a comfortable silence fall between them, save for the sound of fine china clicking together, hoarse coughs growing softer and less frequent, and the crackling of paper being crumpled and tossed into live flames. Then, he busies himself using his cane to gather stray feathers into a pile on the floor. There weren’t many, but there was enough to make any onlookers concerned if the young man had a pet crow or something of the sort… Not upon the assumption that people often poke through his quarters. Then comes the problem of figuring out how to pick up the damned things, without ending up on the floor unable to force himself back up. He stares down at the ugly-looking feathers with his dark eyes, and in turn earns yet another look from Lorelei.. His brows crease in frustration at the ache in his bones.
“My... Joints. They’ve become rather frail in recent years.”
She looked far more sympathetic and indicated to the cane he was leaning on for dear life in an unspoken question.
“Yes. Though.. if you don’t mind?”
He motions with a nod toward the pile of feathers. Lorelei reassures him with a smile and leans down to her left to pick them up: effortlessly balancing the tea in her right hand at the same time. Alastor takes the feathers from her hand with a grateful gesture.
Soon they are burning with the parchment.
The young man settles back down in his seat previous, though not without protest from his knees...
“Now. If I may ask. Why did you go overboard?”
She sighs, the sound visibly better than anything he had heard come from her throughout their “happy reunion”. With glimmering silver eyes staring down at the rim of the teacup, she does answer the question: Though not without caution. She keeps her voice low, at a crackling whisper.
“I… I couldn’t stop, Al.”
Her tone is heartbreakingly afraid.
“That curse, it.. it takes over my mind. It wants control. Not just over me, but.. over the crowds. Anything and everything it can get its talons on.”
“I can sympathize.”
He knows what it is like to feel as if an insatiable black hole lives inside you: one that will never be satisfied.
She shifts uncomfortably as she murmurs further, taking precautions and choosing her words carefully: looking particularly distressed as she does so. The remaining tea left in the dainty teacup held in her hand is shaking, too.
“Yes, but… it’s such an oddly satisfying feeling, to use its power… It makes me feel as if I finally have control over... everything. It tells me I do have control over everything. Everyone. All those who have wronged me… All those who will… All those who stand in my way…”
Alastor flexes his right hand subconsciously as he listens. Its nerves still tingled in a fuzzy kind of distance from using the curse moments ago… He looks up from his hand to note her expression: and he can’t tell if she looks horrified or satisfied with what she’s about to affirm next.
“The siren speaks directly to my heart and soul. It knows how I wish to take my destiny into my own hands… And gives me the means to do so. That is what was making it impossible to stop using its power..”
She pauses to let him create a reply and takes it as an opportunity to finish the rest of the tea.
“So. You don’t know whether to be happy about the opportunities it could give you, or be utterly terrified of it and what it could do?”
Her face lights up in a somber recognition. She clears her throat, the tone becoming a bit clearer.
“Exactly that.”
“That’s how I felt.”
She gives the impression through her shoulders decompressing and her expression softening that she feels a bit more put at ease after that admittance.
“.. How did you rid yourself of that feeling?”
He sighs, looking at his cursed hand.
“I reassured myself that all was possible and assured under the Jury’s wishes: and that once I gained more control over the curse, I would be able to more effectively and efficiently carry out their will. And control would come with time.”
“That isn’t exactly reassuring.”
“No. But it’s the best you can do.”
She falls silent, if only for a moment, thinking.
“Do you believe in it?”
“Yes. What other choice do I have?”
Lorelei sighs herself, finally appearing to let the strain in her posture cease: looking off to the side and watching the stars.
“Then I suppose I don’t have one either…“
She trails off, but what she doesn’t finish with her words, she says in her eyes.
There’s no room to doubt the Jury’s will, after all.
Alastor makes a noncommittal grunt in response.
“Do you want any more tea?”
“I feel fine now. Just drowsy. Thank you.”
“Then feel free to make yourself comfortable whenever you wish. The sheets are clean.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“The floor.”
She winces, her gaze looking to Alastor’s knees and then back to his face to emphasize her following point.
“That will be awful for your joints.”
He simply raises his eyebrows and shrugs nonchalantly.
“Chair, then.”
“You take the bed, it’s yours. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t you have a performance scheduled for tomorrow?”
“What does that matter?”
“Everything to your career, from what I gather?”
She raises an eyebrow.
“What about yours?”
“Good point. But another bad night of sleep won’t make much difference in the obvious eye bags or my already sickly complexion. No one will notice. You, however…”
She crosses her arms and scoffs.
“Please. I can brainwash anyone who notices into seeing differently.”
“Are you truly willing to use the siren’s powers left and right for everything imaginable after what happened tonight?”
She goes quiet after that point, and Alastor raises his eyebrows toward her, waiting for a response. She then sighs and mutters,
“Fine. But only because I don’t have any more energy to argue further on the matter.”
She stands from the armchair, seeming to start blinking sleep out of her eyes.
“Or you see the sense in just sleeping in the bed.”
Lorelei makes a noncommittal noise on the matter to conclude her argument. She then turns over to the canopied bed, takes off the heeled “dancing” shoes she wears, and slips under the covers with no questions asked. Alastor almost smirks upon winning the silly argument.
But, instead, he busies himself with putting his quarters back to order, including setting aside the armchairs and the teacup and saucer where they belong instead, though not without setting one of the chairs off its usual placement, moving it to the foot of the bed, but still facing the windows. That way he can be near Lorelei in case of an emergency. He was always the more paranoid of the two.
He is perfectly content in sitting back down to watch the stars once more as his friend starts to fall into the realm of sleep, but he hears her murmuring his nickname as he lowers himself onto the chair.
“Al?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you… For everything.”
Alastor can’t fight the soft smile forming on his face.
“Anytime, Lori.”
“… Goodnight.”
“Have pleasant dreams.”
Now he can settle. He lets the tension melt off his body, his weary bones tucking into the comfort of the seat’s cushions, and rests his head on his fisted left hand, gazing lazily upwards to the stars yet again. They glittered against the deep, beautiful indigo of the heavens. And something simply miraculous happens as his mind settles into the quiet. Somehow, the soft breathing of a companion nearby, the comfort of the night sky, and the time of night alone are an atmosphere that can induce even the most powerful sleep disorders that cannot cause another sleepless night. The young man can’t seem to keep his eyes open, no matter how hard he tries.
As his eyes flutter shut and his breathing slows, Alastor Creed can’t help but hope that perhaps things can stay this comfortable. Maybe he can always have allies like Lorelei by his side.
All that remains in the sweet quiet of the night fell over the High Courthouse is quiet, slow breathing and the faint sound of wind brushing gently against the tall windows of the building. Peace, as it should be.