[ P ] the flood

sun's blood on my hands
some see a pen, i see a harpoon
take this weapon forged in darkness

After a brief apology to Alessa and a promise to find her again before he leaves the city, Murrough had headed down the street in pursuit of his friend. Malachi isn't difficult to follow. He knows that it's for his own benefit, a habit picked up in the year and some months since he'd lost his vision—if Malachi didn't want to make any sound, he wouldn't. Murrough's mind is a mess, split between relief and frustration, and while a large part of him would like to bang Malachi's head against a brick wall, he doesn't say anything when he catches up and falls into step beside him. He doesn't drag Malachi into an embrace tight enough to strangle him, either.

He just cocks an ear inward and tips his head slightly, listening to the familiar sound of Malachi's footfalls, and the soft rush of his breathing. The manor they share on the vineyard had been hauntingly quiet in the weeks that stretched without his presence, and Murrough hadn't been inclined to host any guests in his absence, despite the fact that visitors are a frequent normality. It seemed wrong to carry on like life was perfectly fine without Malachi, and he hasn't allowed himself to spend any time overanalyzing the can of worms that houses his co-dependency on the man.

There are a thousand things Murrough wants to say, but none of them greet the evening air. He thinks that it gets loud, sometimes, in Malachi's head; right now, Murrough thinks that he'll just be a fly buzzing against a closed window, and there's a roaring on the other side of the glass. Rather than add to the noise, he becomes an anchor against the maelstrom, patiently waiting out the storm.

code // art

there's no above or under or around it
we're surrounded
and we're hounded
for "above" is blind belief
and "under" is sword to sleeve

Malachi didn’t need to cast even a sideways glance at his companion to know that Murrough’s mind was a tempest of turmoil. Despite Murrough’s many qualities, silence was never one of them. Malachi understood precisely why Murrough chose to remain mute now, even after months of confinement where not a word was spoken. You would think Murrough would have something—anything—to say, but the silence was far from inconsequential. As his companion drew near, deliberately avoiding a touch of his fur, Malachi knew he had struck a nerve. Although their lives paralleled in many ways, their existences were strikingly different.

“If you’ve got something to say, just say it, Murrough,” Malachi finally cut through the silence. His voice was firm but carefully restrained, maintaining a line of respect even when addressing his friend.

Malachi, despite his frequent outbursts and lapses in judgment, was far from a fool. He knew the exact moment he had provoked Murrough—when his teeth had sunk into the lawyer's snout. She had brought it upon herself, Malachi insisted to himself, and he was steadfast in that belief. She had been a persistent tormentor, poking a cornered beast one too many times. What had she expected?

Despite his simmering frustration, Malachi chose to wait for his friend’s response. The Vineyard loomed ahead, its shadow cast by the manor, a sanctuary of sorts for him. He refused to let this brewing conflict infiltrate their haven. To prevent that, Malachi halted, his piercing orange eyes locked on Murrough, waiting for the inevitable confrontation to unfold.

code

sun's blood on my hands
some see a pen, i see a harpoon
take this weapon forged in darkness

Malachi stews in the silence for as long as he can, evidently, before he's huffing a demand for Murrough to stop sitting on his thoughts. His lips twitch slightly, but Murrough doesn't smile, swinging his head in his friend's direction when the sound of footfalls stop. "Well," he starts casually, quirking a scarred brow, "you owe me for the extra coin I'll have to give Alessa now." If he'd been in her position, he might've turned right back around, walked back into that courthouse, and demand they drag Malachi down into the dungeons again. Maybe she'll get around to it, which would be rather unfortunate; she's the most effective lawyer he knows, and it would be a pain in the ass to find another one.

He could bitch at Malachi until he's blue in the face, but honestly, Murrough's anger has a tendency to fizzle and die more quickly than most, and in the heavy quiet in the street, it seems pointless to start an argument. Malachi could no doubt guess every half-hearted chastisement he'd give, and after the months spent living alone in a cold and colossal manor, there's only one question he really wants an answer to: "why'd you do it?" Even if he's certain he already knows the answer, he wants to hear it from Malachi. He has to know why, in that moment, it was worth risking his freedom and his life.

Revenge won't give Murrough back what he lost. Malachi could spill the blood of a thousand wolves, and it won't restore his sight. Murrough has made his stance on the matter clear before, and Malachi knows it; he'd rather let his assailant go free than hear that his head has been mounted on a spike right alongside Mal's. A shudder ripples invisibly down his spine at the thought, but Murrough just stares evenly back at Malachi, whose eyes he can feel on him without his sight—even before he'd lost it.

code // art

there's no above or under or around it
we're surrounded
and we're hounded
for "above" is blind belief
and "under" is sword to sleeve

"Money? I'd have doubled it to shut her the fuck up," he snarled, dismissing the mention of coin entirely. He never cared much for it anyway. If it mattered to Murrough, he'd deliver it to Alessa personally, but there would be no apologies. Something else gnawed at his friend though, something he saw clear as day through the walls Murrough tried to build between them in these instances. Alessa was worth less than Malachi to him, he knew this. There would never be a choice between the two.

"Why'd you do it?"

"There it is," Malachi's voice held a cold edge, a reminder of the rage that still simmered beneath the surface. Every time he thought of what happened to Murrough, it ignited within him. He inhaled deeply, trying to quell the fire, but his gaze remained fixed on Murrough. The answer was simple, something he'd said a million times and would say again, even knowing it wouldn't change anything. He was acutely aware of his friend's feelings on the subject, how he wanted to handle things differently. How he wouldn't have chosen for Malachi to take this path of violence.

"He deserved it," his voice was cold, his breath heated. "He almost took you from me, and for what? Because you didn't want to let him in on a cut of the business?" His skin crawled at the memory, anger bubbling up like a volcano. "And I know what you're going to say, Murrough. I don't regret it. Let it stand as a testament to anyone else who wants to fucking try it." He knew this wouldn't be enough. He already knew what his friend would say – it wasn't worth it, he'd rather see his abuser free. But that was no justice, and the system had failed Murrough from the start.

"Where was your stupid lawyer friend when he went to trial? How could he get away with what he did to you?" His fur bristled, his veins throbbed with fire. "She failed you then. Getting me out was her self-proclaimed redemption, and she expected me to grovel for it." His temper was a smoldering fire, fueled by the injustice of it all.

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