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The Bevetta family is one of the few magical families in the world that are purebred and aristocratic down to the marrow of their bones. They are a bloodline branching from Nikodemus Desalvar. Carrying his heritage was a priority to the pureblood family and they went through a great deal of effort to keep their line free of any humans, limiting their marital connections only to equally as purebred descendants of other families. They carried great hatred for humans as their lineage began during the witch hunting era and their ancestors passed down the stories of brutal massacres and burnings to the next generations, thus fueling and maintaining the superiority complex and disdain towards humans to modern times. The ideology became radical and, when the Bevettas began suspecting no other magical family was of greater purity, they began marrying amongst each other. Brothers and sisters, first and second cousins. Their children, like any other children produced from inbred marriages, had defects, diseases, mutations. The Bevettas rarely married by love and it was no different in the case of Sebastian's parents. Vittoria and Atticus were both Bevettas before marriage. Sebastian was his mother's third pregnancy and the only successful. He was born with a heart defect. |
There's a gravestone with your name on it I suppose I've seen you come and go, all golden heads and broken halos, named like cattle for the reaping by a monster I birthed, unknowing, perhaps by fate's irony alone. And fate's irony perhaps has cursed me to remain amongside you, unharmed, but helpless to protect you. And I am afraid... I am afraid of calling your name, because your name is the ring of a death bell. I am afraid of calling your name lest you never answer me back. But you fear nothing... You stand before me and you hold me like a pillar, vultures hanging heavy on your back and I wonder - don't you think you're next? And does it not feel like a promise when you walk through graveyards, reading FrankFrankFrank engraved in stone? Does it not feel like a legacy of death that hangs above you like a guillotine, and do you not tremble like I do at night when I hold you close for fear of losing you? No, you are not afraid of funerals, or blonde heads resting in coffins. Your ribcage is a graveyard already, what's another buried soul? But for all your resignation I will hold you, gentle and protective like a guard, I will be the hangman when your time has come and your great protector until then. -s.b. |
Apollo He was the sun head crowned blonde with sunbeams dancing golden through his halo, hanging angel-like above him, blinding light emitted from the crevisse of his broken ribcage, phoenix fire heart fluttering between the bars, birthed from the flame of passion, pumping love and fire, heartstrings made of virtue, delicate and paper thin, fallible. He was vivacity and light and his downfall was a supernova - all-consuming and apocalyptic, and when he fell the world fell with him because the absence of him was a darkness. He died every night and rose again in faded starlight, prism colors blooming, flaming feathers spreading, reborn from darkness' ashes, and from his light the world rose as well. He was a light-bound colossus, skin made of molten gold monuments, the towers of Olympus balanced on his able shoulders, straining, bones crumpling under the weight of the world. He was a God but he was not infallible for human hearts were fragile things and his skin sometimes broke from the magnificence of his soul. -S.B |