Chapter Text
Mao Yenrai
And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.
(Vicious)
Mao has never considered himself religious; his line of work is antithetical to it. Yet there is something in Vicious - a pride, perhaps, or a coldness - or maybe, in fact, something that lacks in Vicious, that reminds Mao of the story he heard of the Abrahamic God, and the proudest of his sons.
“Have you ever heard the story of the Morningstar, Vicious?” Mao asks him, as the two drink tea together.
“Do you have a job for me, obayun ?” replies Vicious, not lifting his tea to his lips.
Mao smiles to himself; or maybe he sighs.
“The Morningstar, Vicious. He was the highest and brightest of all the angels in Heaven. Yet he rebelled because he thought he knew better than his father.”
A single arching of the eyebrow. Vicious, abashed, as any child would be, lowers his gaze, and drinks from his cup discreetly, like a dog seeking penance.
“He led a rebellion, and was cast from Heaven to become a devil. That is what happens when angels are cast from their father’s eyes. I wish you to remember the lesson, Vicious.”
Mao takes a sip of the tea, and watches the expressions shift over Vicious’ face; he hopes, in vain, to make a point. Part of him knows the point is already futile.
At least, he thinks, he has Spike.
(Julia)
He catches her, after another Syndicate funeral, and slips an arm into hers before either Vicious or Spike can catch her eye.
“Walk with me,” Mao says, simply, and she nods. He can see the tension in every line of her body; it is unusual for the obayun of the Syndicate to make such a broad, explicit motion to somebody not belonging to the kobun .
When they are away from the funeral gathering, Julia asks, “What do you want?”
Mao says nothing for awhile, but takes the time to purchase a few, rather lovely daffodils from a vendor, fixing one in his buttonhole, and offering the rest to Julia, who takes them with an air of deep gravity.
“I understand that you are in a relationship with Vicious.”
The lines around Julia’s mouth tighten; there is a wetness to her face. Well, Vicious gained his nickname for a reason.
“...I also understand you and Spike have started a relationship.”
Julia makes a sound now, like she’s holding back a gasp of tears.
“Julia. You know that you are in terrible danger. Whatever this thing is with Spike, you must end it.”
“Bu...but…”
“End it, Julia. I will know otherwise.”
(Spike)
Spike. His younger son. His protege. His up and coming lieutenant.
For a while, Mao thought, he understood Spike - a child lifted from poverty and raised into the Syndicate by his hand and his choice. Now, however, he starts to understand that there is more to Spike - more to his loyalty, more to his choices - than the mere gratefulness of a child. Somewhere, behind the mismatched eyes, there is a genuine sense of morality, a soulful, wilful man, hidden in there.
It makes Mao think of Icarus, enjoying his flight too much to realize the deadliness of the sun he flew so close to; it makes Mao think of Daedelus, weeping openly over his son’s broken body, flying so high and beautiful on elegant wings of wax, unable to listen to his father’s pleas.
It makes Mao think also of Orpheus, who could sing beautifully enough to move the hearts of the dead, and who, after losing his wife, was ripped apart by maenads, and sang, beautifully, as he did so.
Mao fears for his younger son. Fears for his life. His soul. His future.
Most of all, Mao fears that the story Spike is writing is not the story of Orpheus, nor the story of Icarus.
Mao fears, as he watches Spike smile, a touch too fondly at Julia, that Spike is writing the story of the First Murder; and that Vicious will be the one to give the best he has to offer.