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[Mikhaeil]

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Mikhaeil pressed his eyes tight shut as if it would in some way obscure the daemon's sight. For all the savagery of centuries past, this one being stood alone as the obstacle beneath the surface of his tranquility. The flames that raged a constant reminder of Apollyon's power now seared with consumate ferocity, threatening to breach the transcendental wall he'd built to keep their scorching heat at bay. Apparently the reason the beast had come to Stonegate feigning ignorance as to 'his stolen slave's whereabouts' was to evolve his silent statement of discovery into a game of cat and mouse. The Oracle's abduction seemed meant to create a sense of desolate impotence that would lure his slave back to the underworld burdened by guilt, willing to place himself in the path of ultimate surrender. It was obvious where the sensible course lay . . . and it was far from a game they were about to engage in.

[Mikhaeil]

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Mikhaeil watched Xoriah work the needle with delicate touch, her concentration centered upon perfection of the intricacies of the design. "Have you ever marked a man as your own before tonight?" His voice quiet, deep, seemed to touch a vibrating chord inside her as much as his words. He smiled, lowering his head in attempt to conceal the obvious desire that smoldered in his molten emerald gaze.

"Never," she paused. Moonlight slanted over the succubus' pure features and outlined the graceful symmetry of her form, accentuating her alluring combination of ethereal divinity and wanton carnality.

Her answer sang softly over his thoughts. While his damnation prevented him from taking up his sword and fighting Apollyon himself, nothing stood in the way of his using alternative methods to meet the daemon's challenge. There was another, one personally trained, quite capable and willing to the test. Success would earn him his brotherhood. Failure would bring destruction to them both.

"Soon Agostino, too, will bear the mark of this ludus."

It was then Xoriah who lowered her head. "And so our fate rests in the hands of this gypsy."

[Xoriah]

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“Have you ever marked a man as your own before tonight?” His voice was soft and intent. The question caught her offguard.

“Never.” Xoriah paused and smiled thoughtfully, the very concept resonating richly within her. She took the cloth from her lap and cleaned the excess ink from the inside of his forearm to continue the design. She knew the symbol as well as she knew her own heart – she had worn it for decades.

“Courage in the face of adversity,” she had explained a few nights before, as Mikhaeil traced lightly over the arcane symbol tattooed on the inside of her left wrist with his fingertip. “The mark was hard-earned. It means everything to me. This will be the mark of our house.”

And now she knelt before him, etching the same design onto his flesh with needle and ink. She felt his eyes upon her as she worked. Not upon her work, but her. Xoriah’s thoughts drifted to the night before, when she had given Mikhaeil’s sword to Agostino to train. Never had she felt so cold and alone, and bereft of that which she loved so dearly. Never, she thought, have I had so very much to love and lose.

Xoriah had felt it, the moment the sword rested in the gypsy’s hands. The covenant which bound Mikhaeil to her was instantly severed. He belonged to the gypsy, then. Whether Agostino had known it or not, to hold that sword was to hold her angel as his own. Everything within her came screaming to the surface. Her instinct, raw and visceral, told her to tear out the gypsy’s throat and take the sword back into her own possession, never to relinquish it again. But she knew Mikhaeil’s desire, and she knew, too, that Agostino was faithful to a fault, to her and to her angel.

Therefore, this night, Mikhaeil willingly bore the mark of her house. Their house. Should the gypsy fail, and everything that she loved slip into Apollyon’s grasp, Mikhaeil would still be marked as her own. A reminder to her that he was not so far away. A reminder to Mikhaeil that she would never forsake him. And a reminder to the archdaemon that she would return for what was hers.
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Come with me where chains will never bind you...all your grief at last, at last behind you. ~Les Miserables

[Agostino]

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Mikhaeil’s head lowered. Almost imperceptibly, but a warrior notices every move, every shift of demeanour, in his mentor – or his opponent. And as Xoriah handed the sword to him, Mikhaeil relinquished something so deep within himself that he could scarcely stand. It seemed as if, rather, gravity threatened to crush the Doctore to his knees. Slowly, Mikhaeil exhaled.

The sigh did not linger alone, but joined that of Xoriah as she passed the sword into the hands of Agostino. Although the sword had never been her own, he felt as if taking it rent her soul in twain, and left it to flutter like a banner of surrender in the sunset of battle. Her eyes turned molten, the colour of amber burning brightly – a torch behind stained glass. For a moment, he saw her as she truly must be – a being of passion and fire from beyond the world that he knew.

This sword – this blade to which Mikhaeil himself was bound – must have held far more significance to the both of them than he could ever have guessed. Wielded easily, naturally, the sword was beyond compare. An extension of his hand, and of his soul. He held it vertically and looked up the blade as the light of stars glinted off the polished steel.

Agostino smiled and looked to Mikhaeil, who instantly lowered his gaze away. “Doctore.”

Mikhaeil struggled to lift his eyes again to meet those of the gypsy. “Yes….Agostino?”

The night wind tore at the gypsy’s dark waves, and Agostino smiled at Mikhaeil reassuringly as Xoriah restlessly turned and stalked out of the ludus. Agostino spoke quietly, the intensity of his words unmarred by his accent. “This sword was forged to kill Apollyon. Long before the archdaemon ever knew you. And by my hand, Signore, I swear you will have your vengeance.”