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Author Topic: To Condemn or to Crown // Rivera  (Read 78 times)

* Altair

    (11/24/2024 at 17:31)
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The Election Debate has sent his head into a spin. As it went on, he'd given himself over to a signature annoyance, even a loathing, as he had listened to Atticus' speech on how he was going to improve their magical community.

When he'd entered home in Muspell, he'd been overcome by what could not be described as anything but a purple haze. And then he'd broken down, found some long forgotten bottle of red wine (technically, he'd quit all drinking many years before) and slumped into one of his large, leather chairs.

And he'd sat through the night thinking.

And he'd remembered.

Then he'd been gripped by them, long tendrils of dark misery, of despair, and of failure. And like his Condition (the one that had landed him in the seat of the Seer) seemed to require (much helped by the wine), it had tossed him into a spiral of confusion, as his grip on reality wiltered away. From then on he knew what had happened, but struggled to remember - failing to reach the door downstair to the protective chambers, he'd been tossed into the Otherworld, and Muspell's spirits had recognised his moment of weakness.

He'd woken to bookcases that had toppled over. One of the meaner spirits had gotten away, and a labour heavy task of hunting it back down was on the future agenda.

For now, though, he found himself back in the Pasta Vino (oh, the irony), finding the Interim Minister working at a table.

"Excuse me, Sir," he said. "Do you mind?"

It was an odd thing for Altair to slip into formalities, and it reminded him of a pureblood upbringing that he'd long since abandoned. And though he'd made an effort to look presentable, he felt dizzy from the turmultous week.

"My name's Altair. I taught at Hogwarts when you were a student," he explained.

(In fact, he was pretty sure that Rivera had been at school, during his infamous incident of blood magic.)

"I'm considering giving you my vote, but I have some questions about your political agenda - if you'd be so kind."

He gestured to the free chair on the other side of the table - a request to sit.

Through the turmoil of the night, he'd realised something important: The reason why he'd exited the debate with the confusing feeling of both being moved and wanting to rip out the throat of Atticus Rivera, was possibly that the man was trying to do something at which Altair had failed.

So he had a need to run a reality check that whatever Rivera had said that had set him off was not a fragment of Altair's own imagination (as were too many things, these days).

Furthermore: Whether the loathing he felt for Rivera was actually grounded in a loathing for himself.

(In the middle of desperation, he must reach out a long-fingered hand and grab it - grab the hole in his chest that constantly worked to turn him against himself and everyone else.)
« Last Edit: 12/05/2024 at 20:32 by Altair »
FOR  I  AM . . .                                


THE  SPIRIT  OF  METALS. THE  FIRE  WHICH  DOES  NOT
BURN. THE  WATER  WHICH DOES NOT WET THE HANDS.



* Atticus Rivera

    (12/02/2024 at 10:21)
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Atticus had been told many years ago that it was never a good idea to take work home with you. That didn’t stop him from doing it, however. These days, he did it quite often.

Running the country and a campaign at the same time meant that every hour he spent at the Ministry required his attention be given to some pressing matter. Interviews, staff meetings, speech writing sessions, all of it blurred together into a steady stream of constant demand. To simply have a few minutes to sit down and comb over paperwork and letters and bill drafts was a luxury he wasn’t afforded during normal work hours, so that meant he did those things afterward.

Of course, the most sensitive matters were handled in his office, long after everyone had gone home. But some matters were fine to take somewhere more appealing. Pasta Vino was his choice that evening. He’d been given a table near the back of the restaurant, clear of most other patrons save for two coated men sitting a few tables down from the Interim Minister. They were eating a meal on the house, but should anyone do anything shifty, they’d be on their feet with wands drawn in a matter of seconds. Atticus for his part pretended they weren’t there, instead enjoying the faux isolation of his spot.

Before him were various letters from foreign leaders and dignitaries offering their commentary on the impending election. Advice, appeals, requests, and well wishes all mixed into various colors of ink on various types of parchment. None probably expected a response, but Atticus was too neat to leave a letter read in silence. He penned responses slowly and thoughtfully, but as the evening had gone on, he’d amassed a stack of replies half as tall as his stack of received letters. He found he enjoyed it, almost. It felt almost ground level, traditional.

His eyes were torn from the letter he was writing first by the voice that announced itself to him, then by the sound of chairs scraping across the floor. The two guards stood, wands pointed in the direction of the man who stood before Atticus, introducing himself as if nothing had happened.

Atticus raised his hand to the two men and they sat down, returning to their meals. “I know who you are,” Atticus said, making eye contact with the older man. “You’re not someone easily forgotten.”

Atticus nodded toward the empty chair opposite him as he began clearing away the papers lining the table. He raised a gentle hand to the nearby waitress and with a smile requested two fresh cups of water; one for himself, and one for the new arrival. As she turned to fetch them, Atticus turned his attention to the man before him.

“I’ll answer whatever questions I’m able to.”

EVERYTHING I GIVE YOU

all comes back to me

* Altair

    (12/06/2024 at 14:55)
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He had not seen them.

He had not seen them.

Now their presence hit him like a small eruption, a tidal wave that started with the raising of hands and the potent magic threatening to burst from the tip of their little playthings.

One hand to the wooden surface, palm down, he used the table for support as he turned his head to look at the guards that had somehow gone undetected and his glance was not kind - yeah, you better be scared, said the little voice in the back of his head, and he sent a dark thought to the assassination of one Jean-Claude Ouellet, once upon a time in the era of the Social Reconstruction Committee. He needed no wand to work his magic, but it was also not his style to attack anyone in the open, and least of all a Minister.

It was a moment of sheer stupidity from the former Ravenclaw, a second of weakness in the agitated state that followed his realisation that his magic had failed him. Following the dizziness, the fact that he, at the given moment, was struggling even to keep himself standing.

And somehow they multiplied, turned into dark shadows.

It was the other's raised hand, the depth of his voice that brough him back.

Yet, he turned his head and the papers gathered between them appeared to melt into the table, and Altair was made aware that he was not all right - resisting the urge to reach out a finger and poke the other man so he'd finally turn into wisps of orange smoke.

“I know who you are. You’re not someone easily forgotten.”

He was smart enough to know that this was not necessarily a compliment, but he was sincere in his approach, and could appreciate the frankness. It was this that convinced him that he might not, in fact, have slipped back into the dark pool of terrible visions.

And he sat.

"Thank you," he said quietly, but he needed a moment to close his eyes, to allow for a new silence to settled in.

"It's a complicated matter -," he started, "- but I'll try not to take too much of your afternoon."

When he opened his eyes back up, they looked at Rivera directly.

"I stopped voting when I got myself involved in politics," he explained. "Many years ago, I was part of the political movement of the Order for the Return of All Rights. We were known for being quite radical. We believed that people were able to make the best decisions for themselves, in all matters."

For him, it had been libertarianism, but in the anarchist tradition - one potent with idealism and energy and change.

"I stopped voting because I went into that movement wanting a freer world, for purebloods and muggleborns alike - but what happened was that the leaders turned into megalomaniacs. It was us that brought on the Blood Status Bill."

The words cut him like shards of glass, but his blood intermixed with theirs, running freely and black with guilt. Since then he had worked relentlessly, dedicated parts of his life to undoing the madness that he was participated in bringing aboard, though without abandoning the original ideology by which he had lived.

"Do you know what tyrant means, Mr. Rivera? Tyrant is originally a term from ancient Greek society assigned to those that arose to power without the formal approval of a ruling elite, against the staus quo, against the Laws that have been put in place to keep that power."

The demonisation of people like them had been put into their language, into their Law. That was how resistant the system was to changes from the bottom-up.

They were words that seethed with molten anger, then, abruptly --

"I'm sorry, I'm not here to give you my lecture," he said, diverting his eyes to stare down at the table. It gave the impression of a child suddenly realising that he'd said too much, a strange crack in the character that was Altair.

"I'm just here to express that, given my experience with the Ministry, I am afraid of what Bellestrom might bring, and what you could become once placed inside that same system of politics."

It wasn't really a question.

It didn't even have much to do with Atticus Rivera.

This was Altair having demons, and reaching out for someone to cling to, someone that might have some power to change things. Perhaps even someone in a position to resist corruption.

Break the circle.

(It was hope he was looking for, at last.)
« Last Edit: 12/07/2024 at 09:03 by Altair »
FOR  I  AM . . .                                


THE  SPIRIT  OF  METALS. THE  FIRE  WHICH  DOES  NOT
BURN. THE  WATER  WHICH DOES NOT WET THE HANDS.



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