June 28th, 1894 — London

The sound of the sea was haunting. Waves crashing against wooden pilings, the cacophony of a thousand droplets smashing against rocks, hulls, and each other-- it was a tremendous symphony that calmed every nerve in James’s frayed mind. For a man who’d spent the better part of his life at sea, there was nothing to compare to the salt that settled on his skin. It was the only constant in a life filled with chaos and tumult. For Vincent, it was bloody murder. A lobotomy through the skull into the deepest, darkest, part of his subconscious could not have scratched at the surface of that which the sound of waves made him feel. They haunted his every living moment those long months, always echoing in his mind where he was - himself - trapped.

It had been some time since the ferocity with which a storm raged transported him to that place. Not at least since the last time they’d managed to shove James aside (hopefully to back where he came from, once and for all) but the echoes… they lingered. Shadows of memories, small movements in the dark that were not Vince’s own and-- most infuriating, the sound of crashing waves that were not there.

By now he’d moved into his own flat almost entirely, only a few vestiges of his remaining at Cassian’s. The place was stale, littered with reminders of his life before and clawing reminders he could not shake of during. There was no after. There could never, truly, be an after. He was forever changed-- they were forever changed, cast now in the shadow of a legacy that was their own and wholly not. It was enough to almost take away Vince’s ambition entirely. (Almost.)

But Vince was, himself, more determined - perhaps - than his counterparts. More ruinous, certainly, to his own mental state, and as such pushed through the majority of his yet lingering symptoms. He would not let some bloody pirate rip apart (any more) what he’d worked so hard to build. Days filtered like grains of sand through an hourglass, in and out, until he nearly managed to forget he was not his own person anymore. Tasks at the Ministry became more routine; paperwork was filed, memories managed, and - slowly - assignments increased in difficulty until Vincent was almost back to the prowess he’d enjoyed some two years back. Cassian was forced learning to trust him again, and slowly things eased to normalcy. Or as close to it as could be expected.

It was a surprise then, in the late summer days of June, when a new voice began to materialize. At first it whispered, a sound so close to Vince’s own subconsciousness that it went undetected. It simmered, suggesting more than demanding, laying in wait for walls to fall and prowess to re-build. And then, one day, just as Vince was grasping hold of a portkey for London it hissed like a snake in his ear. He didn’t hear what it said, mind scrambling as the world around him spun. The field in which he left the latest Ministry miscreant in the hands of his hit-wizard partner dropped out from under him, a small crowd of muggles blissfully unaware of their world too. It wasn’t until he landed in a secluded little alleyway that Vince heard the voice again.

Love. Sentiment. Weakness.

Bile rose in his stomach and his balance faltered. Not again. Vince’s hand slammed to the stone of a building just before him, knees buckling. Nausea roiled in his gut, causing waves of panic to force the Slytherin to the ground. He was ice cold, face pale, and breath coming in short pants. Not again, bloody-- fuck--not again! Hands searched his every pocket for a wand even as Vince’s fingers tingled, magic going awry. He had to get a note out. He had to warn someone-- Gus, Cassian-- it didn’t bloody matter. But as he trembled and shook, teeth grit in fury and agony pulsing through his skull, the wand clattered to the ground and rolled away from him.

Love. Sentiment. Weakness. It was all an abstract concept that the trickster had long since abandoned even pretense of understanding. He’d despised once, so purely, so fully, that his loathing could have been tainted with some splash of affection. There was little of that fuel anymore in the shell of a corpse he dragged about. He had goals, ambitions, plans - always plans. But there was no drive, no motivation, now that the Golden one had lost all interest in him. Not even hatred was enough to rouse his brother into their match anymore and that was enough to break spirit. It was silly how something so small, so meaningless in the grand scheme of things could trip up the trickster and tie his silver tongue in a knot. It was worse than isolation, it was worse than chains and having one’s mouth sewn shut. Apathy was his greatest downfall for he didn’t even matter enough to ignite disdain. This was Loki’s agonizing purgatory.

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Irene Crawley & muse song inspo (but really this one)

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

London had become home for her, and in more ways than one. Irene thought that moving there, leaving Hogsmeade behind would leave as many marks on her as leaving for Italy had. But instead she’d found community; family. Every day she took a different path to work. Sometimes it would be by floo, and other times by broom. And some days, if she felt the urge, she would walk. Stopping by The Ivy Leaf in Diagon Alley to grab a pastry had been a habit she was all too happy to pick back up; it helped that Miss Edgecombe and Miss Tuttle were occasionally there with funny stories about their latest baking antics to put her in a good mood.

She’d just left the bakery taking bites of the raspberry pastry she’d just purchased when her shoe nudged something, making it skitter a few yards away. Pausing, Irene hurried to pick it up before another person kicked it even further. It looked familiar to her; well taken care of, and for some reason she had the image of this very wand moving before her very eyes. Blinking, Irene pocketed her pastry before moving towards the direction the wand had come.

Was it possible he was here? She picked up her pace, hurrying into the alley where she found him. Hunched over, expression twisted with pain.

“Mr. Iago,” She murmured, approaching him, her arm outstretched. “Mr. Iago, are you alright?”

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The following 1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post:1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post
   Vincent Iago

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

No. He wasn’t alright.

Vince was… (angry, frustrated, hurt, aching) at the fact that this was still bloody happening. He’d had dreams of a similar likeness. Not the blasted pirate this time, but worse perhaps. Visions, images, of other versions of himself— or were they demons come to plague him with what ifs? The fact that they were trickling into his waking reality was a horrendous side effect he had overlooked. Something had to be done. Something had to be done, alone, and soon.

As he knelt there in the veritable muck, water soaking into his trousers from the recent rain and hands trembling as he tried to regain his composure, there was nothing to be done for the ferocious growl he leveled at whomever it was come to check on him. He didn’t need anyone’s help, status be damned. He would fight his way out of this the way he had all the other lapses, and would continue to do until it broke him.

“Get away from me,” he managed to snarl, even as a pretty face - familiar, maybe - stumbled into view.

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Irene Crawley & muse song inspo (but really this one)

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me

She seemed to be looking in a mirror that somehow made the both of them switch places. Last time they’d been in the same room, it was Irene who had been hunched over in agony, hadn’t it? And somehow Mr. Iago had made it all go away. She’d felt good after that; excellent from what she remembered, and it was all thanks to Mr. Iago, the man who was now in a near fetal position at her feet.

Irene might have recoiled at the surprising venom in his voice, but the gratitude she felt for this man who she’d only encountered once held her back from completely turning away. So instead, she sighed and crouched down, her skirts pooling out around her in a puddle of light linens as she tilted her head at him. “Are you in pain?” She kept her voice low still, as if he were a frightened and wounded animal.

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

As Vince remained curled, staving off the horrendous migraine that was blinding him behind the eyes, flashes of his life and the most painful of memories seemed to tug forth. They were both his and not, some the pirate’s, some new— he couldn’t decipher in the end what was his own anymore and what was lost to the ether. Perhaps he never should have given up his correspondence with the lonely Ophelia. It was the only balm that ever soothed.

A feminine voice lit his world for a moment, a firework in the periphery of his vision (too bright, too warm, too striking). Vince stared at the face before him, not really seeing and certainly not registering where he knew her from. Fate did not admire him enough for her to have been his Ophelia come to life in this desperate moment of need. (Could it? Just this once?) Vince reached out to grab a hold of the woman’s arm and steadied himself, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve harder, perhaps, than he intended. A sharp, deranged sounding laugh escaped from his vocals as green, bloodshot eyes darted away.

“Pain pays the income of each precious thing,” he muttered. Was it a trap, was it a last ditch attempt at hope? He didn’t know. The Bard’s words felt fitting, moreso than any he himself might conjure in that moment, and so in borrowing the famous line, he set the lure. It was a hand reaching for the lost threads of time, searching the void for any flicker of gold. And was there, really, any precious thing to be found in the end? Vince couldn’t be sure. He’d lived a perfectly sane, decent life before all of this. He’d gained nothing from having his mind cleaved in two, and three parts— but as with everything, he would continue to fight through it. Every day, every moment, until every scrap of himself was completely abolished. As for her question, of course he was in pain. The rippled flinch that stole across what was (once) a handsome visage settled every question of as much.

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Irene Crawley & muse song inspo (but really this one)

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i desire very little but the things i do consume me