Our Solemn Hour

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Disclaimer: I don't own Daughters of the Moon

AN: These are scenes from Cassandra's POV (from the books and some made up. She's easier to write than most).

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Cassandra pressed the tips of her fingers against the blooded wounds, a meager attempt at staunching the crimson liquid slithering down her chest; ribbons of color that reminded her of emotion. A deeper turmoil—more painful than the hissing pain that throbbed in her chest—rampaged in her soul, cutting and stripping it: soon, that soul would begin withering away, becoming nothing more than a void—a deep depth of darkness. Piercing the delicate flesh of her body with that silver edge merely helped trample the emotional storm.

Through the strobe lights and smoky atmosphere of the teenage-ridden and alcoholic-induced area, she spotted Tymmie and Karyl toying mockingly with the naïve blonde of a Daughter—Vanessa, the butterfly who needed to have her wings torn from her back. Stroking her lips with her moist tongue, Cassandra strode through the crowd, ready to snake into the action.

"Dance with me," she whispered, leaning her chest against the Goddess's back and rolling her palms up her thighs. Vanessa, promulgating a high-pitched gasp, barreled away, swatting her hands pathetically about. Cassandra, expressing the smile that hinted to wicked mischief, slipped through the dancers, smartly circling her prey. The blonde, as predicted, fled her way, head bowed down.

Her hands dug into Vanessa's arms, fingernails shredding skin. The blonde twitched, eyes widening as the pain seared through her arm. "Ouch," she cried, voicing the ache. Cassandra smirked, something akin to despicable pleasure etched onto her expression as she allowed her blood-ridden fingers to trail down the protruding veins in the Goddess's neck. How joyous it would be to see the pure blood within her spew forth; to gaze at the azure orbs of the Goddess as she stared into nothing but death with an endless sight.

"Play nice." From behind, the two boys snickered, watching the spectacle from the shadows. "Karyl and Tymmie just want to play"—oh, they wanted so much more to do with the little girl—"So do I. Be our friend."

The blonde's nostrils flared, revulsion dripping with every word as she hissed, "You guys are lost in the K hole." Her eyes flickered to something new, and she venomously snapped away and trudged onward, panic emitting from her frail body. Cassandra's lips twisted into a smile, ecstasy not foreign to her tongue or body. Oh, yes, the rapture of heightened pleasure was something wonderful. However, stripping a human being of their soul—instead, embedding the emptiness inside them—was a far greater pleasure that no dismal drug could ever stimulate.

She noticed Vanessa towing the unwilling blonde bitch—Morgan somethin'—out of the club, displaying the sense of righteous selflessness entwined with her heart. It, astoundingly, pleased Cassandra to know that morally and nobly good humans inhabited this miserable, dysfunctional world.

After all, good people were always more satisfying to destroy.

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Vanessa gripped the other Goddess's hand—Catty—, holding her closely. Her eyes landed on Cassandra, a tinge of confidence mixed with the expressive blue, prompting a surge of fury to thread through the Follower's veins, pumping the blood. She weaved through the crowd, Karyl locked on her side; soul hungry to feast off of the blonde's purity; to gain a sense of victory in this loathsome life (as if that were the right definition).

The music amplified throughout the room, an electrifying energy that intensified the useless emotions chaotically twisting throughout the many boys and girls; their feet charging forward in a desperate attempt to hold onto the frenzied noise, a sound that brought upon the darkness within them, whether they knew it or not. However, Cassandra was shoved backward by flaying hands and bouncing heads.

"Bastard," she seethed, teeth gritted, when Karyl smashed—accidentally—into her, limbs rough as a lizard's scaly back. He merely rolled his eyes upon response, swiftly elbowing through the crowd, creating a clear pathway for the both of them. The entire, bleak and hectic ambiance of the club was beginning to snap at her patience; self-control dancing around every one of her predatory senses as she maneuvered through the dancers. Her lips formed into a crisp and bitter line when the view of the two Goddesses vanished. The noise of the room bounced off the walls and ricocheted into her ears; something sharp twisted down her neck from her ears with a tornado speed.

"Damn it, where are they?"

"Over There." She followed Karyl's pointed finger and sure enough, the blonde cowered, lost in the mosh pit as her desperate eyes scanned the floors for her trampled friend. A smirk eased onto her face.

'Surrender, Goddess.'

Vanessa's head jerked, startled by the voice that whispered across her mind. Cassandra jabbed her elbows, creating space, while Karyl had seemingly caught the blonde's eyes—sending her sight and soul descending into a dark pit of illusion. The hungry pulsated through her blood, flaming her once cold skin as she gained on the Goddess, the helpless little girl.

'Turn. Come back.'

Cassandra's eyes squinted in an attempt to pierce through the shuffling and hopping legs; the Goddess was crawling through the people's stomping feet, hands slapping on the concrete. Maybe they'd—she and her comrades—would hit the jackpot? Perhaps the two Daughters would have their delicate bones crushed under the many heels and boots. Her eyes fluttered dreamily at the image of the burgundy blood that would pool under their slim bodies; amulets cold and nothing but rocks around their shattered necks.

Her violent, desirable daydreams were temporarily shoved away once her eyes managed to zero in on the exact spot of the blonde. 'You're mind now, Goddess,' she screeched into Vanessa's head, earning the reaction she was expecting: for the blonde to whip around, unknowingly locking eyes with her. The victory seemed sure as Cassandra's dark hands—the ones representing the hold of a trance meant for victims of the Atrox—clutched Vanessa's mind and soul, fingers shredding and tugging her deeper into the dark pit of emptiness the Daughter was surely being pulled into. The rich essence of triumph became planted in her brain, especially of the impression she would fix on Stanton once he realized how she—not, no her two dimwitted, moronic comrades—managed to muster the power and swiftness of a true—

Some idiot rammed into Vanessa; the blonde stumbling forward from the heavy shove. Cassandra tried to shield her eyes as sparks erupted from the two amulets that had glazing one another: tiny, exploding fireworks of dazzling colors shooting upward and assaulting the Follower. She clenched her teeth as the embers scorched into her flesh, a searing pain; scarlet boiling where the burning intensified.

The pain seemed worse than the blade that had carved open fresh wounds in her chest. It might have been from understanding how repelled the amulets—symbols of hope and innocence and goodness—were from her, such as her flesh, her touch, her mind, her body, her soul: everything that made her the human she survived as Every inch of the stupid stone felt repulsed by her, and worked its magic to further resist her.

It didn't seem long before the two Goddesses had fled from the club, with the aid of their fellow friends. And Cassandra never did see the light of pride in Stanton's eyes when she captured both Daughters, because it never occurred because of their little friends: more like gangster bitches. Instead, Stanton had mustered a small smile; one that wasn't inspired by her actions, and she briefly wondered who was meant for.

Probably for the Goddess, Vanessa, who impressed him merely upon escaping.

… Bitch.

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STUPID, SLUTTY, SKANKY WHORE

Cassandra stormed throughout the dingy apartment, her hand colliding with various objects and items, some useless and other necessary. Her mind was too clouded with blatant, unrestrained fury as the image replayed within her head; spinning it into a vicious nightmare that tore out her heart. Staggering toward the mirror pinned to the wall, she paused for several extended seconds before releasing her fist into the glass. Fragments of jagged-edged glass plastered the floor by her bare feet; splintered pieces sticking to her knuckles. Thin streams of blood divided multiple times down her arm. The pain was meaningless as more memories played over in her mind.

"Calm down, Cassandra," a deep, strong voice belonging only to Lambert commanded. He stepped into the dim light of the room, hands clasped and resting on his stomach; long, sweeping ebony robe gliding with every movement. She flinched away from the Phoenix crest etched into his cloak, defining his high rank. A luminous yellow glint sparked in his eyes under the stream of radiant moonlight.

"I can't calm down!" she howled, venom oozing from her words. "That… whore"—she emphasized the term with a low hiss—"stole my love away from me! And she's a fucking Daughter of the Moon, for Christ's sake! Do you know how much of a God damn blow that is to my heart? I mean, I've spent years with Stanton and she just gallops in, like some princess on a fucking sparkly unicorn, and he decides to be her Prince Charming? I mean… What the hell? I can't wait to destroy her stupid, pure soul and tear out her black curls from her scalp—!"

"Cassandra." Lambert lifted his hand, palm faced forward, silencing her shrill, livid speech. Her breathing was shallow as she worked to gain a proper amount of oxygen down her lungs and through the fury clawing at the inside of her chest. "How can you be sure of his love for the Goddess…?" He allowed the suggestion of the statement to linger before continuing, "I've heard of a prophecy, locked away. But I have heard it."

She eased her hand to the blanket on the beaten couch—needing something to cover the wounds in her hand—, eyes remaining trained on the powerful Follower. "What's this prophecy say?"

"It concerns you and Stanton," Lambert whispered, remaining situated in his spot in the veil of shadows, but allowing his eyes to widen dramatically, propelling her to mirror his anticipation; although hers was much greater as the beating of her heart accelerated. "I've heard of a Dark Follower, perfectly matching Stanton, who would chose his bride—his love for eternity—in the form of one of his students: a blue-eyed girl with the his heart imprinted to her body forever, a permanent mark." He indicated the tattoo on her thigh. "I suppose it was more literal than heart-filled as one would think."

"You… heard… that? In a prophecy?"

It would make perfect sense, right? Stanton was, after all, a very infamous, powerful who has accomplished much in his immortal lifetime: becoming a valued member. She imagined him gaining ranks into the Inner Circle, his hand then guiding her into the Cold Fire so she could be his for eternity. Her skin chilled pleasurably at dreams of feeling the cold wisps of the icy blue flames enchanting her and licking her skin, as though a spirit's feathery, near transparent fingers trailing along her body.

"Yes," Lambert whispered silkily, "you will be his for eternity." He strode her way, his papery thin hands cupping her face. She gazed into his captivating eyes, overcome with genuine honesty and luxurious images he planted in her mind. "For these to occur, however," he continued, leaning back and releasing her from the images she wanted to hold onto forever, "you must follow my instructions… Can you do that, Cassandra?"

She nodded dazedly, eyes trapped in his.

"Of course."

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It was the apocalypse. Or, it was a few short hours ago. However, the once shady moon no longer hid behind a curtain of darkness. Instead, it shed its silvery tendrils of bright, brilliant light onto the world—or, the side of the world Cassandra resided in: Los Angeles. Although the Followers would have been shrieking with defeat and unrepressed infuriation, Cassandra flippantly strolled down the dark streets. Just hours ago, a part of her simply… vanished. It was an area of her body—her soul, her mind—that still felt plagued by the Atrox.

That darkness slipping away from her signaled the Atrox's demise, and a new leader taking its place… Stanton, Prince of the Night. She swallowed the lump in her throat, sickened. In fact, despite the torment she suffered from because of him, pity for him engulfed her. The love she once thought she felt no longer existed. In fact, she could barely understand why she was strolling toward the apartment complex. This incomprehension muddled her head even as she pressed her index finger against the button and leaned forward, skin crawling from the night's cold touch.

Heavy Spanish—the tone somewhat swallowed by grief—greeted her, barely alive. Once it ended, Cassandra worked to figure out the right words, simply saying, "It's Cassandra… I need something from you." After few prolonged moments of silence, a buzzer sounded; the lock clicking. She opened the door and sauntered down a hallway, unable to understand how she knew were the woman was located: her feet guiding the way, instinct.

Once on the second floor, she stood in an empty hallway, a light bulb flickering. Shadows danced across the walls. No sooner had Jimena appeared, dark eyes solemn and black tresses tied into a bun. Cassandra rubbed her arms. The past memories and animosity between the two didn't create an friction, as she suspected; not even as they then stood inches away, facing each other—mimicking the sorrowful expression carved onto one another's grim faces.

"He's not coming back," Jimena spoke, voice raspy.

"I figured…" She cocked her head, a vague sense of pity drowning in her system for this once Daughter. "What about… Serena?" Her name didn't sound bitter tasting on her tongue, as she figured it would. No, it rolled off her tongue peacefully. The dark-haired woman bowed her head, before lifting her eyes to lock with her azure ones.

"She's in Nefandus, too… with Stanton. It was her destiny."

Destiny… far more powerful than a fucking prophecy.

"I'm sorry," Cassandra whispered, flicking loose strands of hair away from her face. Something broke in her voice. She couldn't understand why her voice cracked and why her eyes glazed over with deep moistness. It weighed down on them, causing a thread of a tear to slide down her cheek. Jimena's eyebrows pinched together, sheer pain crossing her once controlled features, and she slowly tugged the Outcast closer, thus destroying the term given to her by the Atrox. Her embrace felt empowering, greater than that of a mother's, and Cassandra clung closer, wishing for the warmth of it to stretch on for an eternity, even into her death.

For once, in so longer, she welcomed the light.