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Sally - POV (post E8)
🕑 Added 2025-12-16 19:10:37 +0000 UTCDid he feel horrible? In a way, yes. Wasn’t he the one who wanted them to be normal? To make friends and act like a kid their age instead of that cold lonely being staring back at him with those unnerving eyes? He felt bad when he would see them locked away in their room after school when other kids their age would be at parties, study groups and doing whatever it is teenagers do.
Although he shutters when he thinks of the more… perverted things. He didn’t want that because they were still too young. They didn’t know enough about the world, what if they fell in love? What if —because they’re so naive— they would get hurt? He wanted them to never feel that pain.
He wants to store them in a glass ball and tuck them away. That’s protection. If not, what else could it be? His parents left them adrift at sea, being carried away from the current if not for Sally who gathered his siblings in his arms, protecting them from the roll of waves that wanted to suck them down into the dark.
He knew in his heart that he tried his best. But was it fair for his parents to leave this all up to him? Him, still a child, was supposed to know how to raise three other kids when he wasn’t raised by his parents either? Yes, his father took him under his wing, told him things that no one else but a select few knew, gave him responsibilities and left…
He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about that. He can fix it. It’s the second thing he’ll do after he asks it for what his father wished for. He pulls at a tie that isn’t there and plops down on his bed. He looks around at the shelves on the wall with leather-bound books collecting dust, the heavy old table, curling at the ends because of water damage near the wall, the posters on the wall spewing motivational quotes that he repeated to himself when he was in high school, the tightly closed closet where his dark blue and black suits are pressed together smelling of moth balls with tiny spiderwebs in their pockets and the bed that hasn’t been made in weeks.
He feels the oily strands curling around his temples and smells the putrid smell emitting from his armpits under layers of clothes. He looks disgusting. He feels disgusting. This isn’t like him and he knows people are noticing but are too polite to say anything. The secretary at the office’s smile is too wide to be natural. The others come to him for answers, yet there’s a curl of indignation on their lips as if saying how dare you? Do you know who your family is? The last name on your birth certificate? Does it not matter to you the crisis we’re going through? Are you the one that’s supposed to lead us through the darkness?
He rubs his hands across his face and sighs heavily. “December.” How did it come so soon? It feels as if his sibling returned just yesterday. He laughs, his throat parched so it sounds like a cough.
The universe must hate him because how ironic is it that the sibling he’s wanted to protect the most is the one who he might have to destroy to live up to his name? He wants to have both and he’s becoming acutely aware each passing day as the sand trickles down the hourglass that he can’t have it all. He can’t be a good son, a good patriarch, a good leader and a good brother.
And it’s not fair. He feels his eyes prickle. Why can’t he be happy? Why was he born who he was born? He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s never had a violent impulse in his life. The girls, that young boy, the children who came after and are still coming. He didn’t want any of that.
He didn’t make this happen. It’s not his fault. He feels the tears spring out of his eyes and coat his palms. He feels the sobs quietly escape his mouth.
Why should he have to pay for what his ancestor did? They couldn’t be the Crowns and be a normal family? Only now, in this moment where he’s letting out his tears are when he doesn’t have to pretend, even to himself. He can be Sally, the little boy who never left that room where his mother gave birth to his youngest sibling.
His chest shudders and he feels suffocated by his hands on his face but he won’t remove them. He doesn’t want to face the light of day as a sniffling cowardly mess. The heir that couldn’t. Maybe Orla couldn’t have done it. She was blunt, cruel but strong and willing to do anything for her goals.
Or Percy, he’s a lost cause now but before things went south he was so inventive and unafraid of punishment. He would’ve done what it took even if it affected him for the better of the family because he does love his father. Even Sally can see it.
Sally loves his family too. But his fear and selfishness might be stronger. What if they’re wrong? What if doing this will ruin everything? Why should they trust it when it’s—
He bites his tongue. It can hear you. It will know. He wipes furiously at his eyes and swipes at his running nose with his palm. He clears his throat and pushes the oily unkempt strands of his hair away from his eyes.
“It’s ok,” he says to himself. “It’s alright.” He still has a few weeks to make a choice. He needs Lorcan to get him the diary. But who will decipher it?
His mind immediately pictures who and he recoils at the thought. He’s had enough of that brat. He thinks he’s so smart but Sally knows what he’s doing. But… he looks at the calendar mounted on his wall.
He gets up and goes to his father’s office. He shuts the door gently behind him and goes to desk. He pushes out the chair and sits down on his cold seat. He thought the feeling of being too small for it would fade.
He takes out the big phone from the desk, a phone book and dials, pulling out the antenna as it rings. He looks down at his short nails and feels the urge to bite. A female voice picks up on the other end and Sally asks, “can I speak with Imre Duran please? Tell him it’s Salvatore Crown.”
The woman — likely a maid asks for him to wait a moment and he feels a flash of irritation. Not only because he has to wait but also because he’s reminded that they no longer have maids. He’s drowning the family fortune in a pit of debt while the Durans seem better off than ever. He thought when the Mayor was afflicted with… what the hell that is, that family would start going under like his. He almost felt glad to know he wasn’t the only one going through this. But those people always land on their feet when they’re the worst of them all.
Imre’s clear voice crackles through the receiver, “an unexpected but welcome surprise, Sal. You’re the last person I expected to come to me for aid.”
“How do you know I need your help?” Sally asks indignantly.
Imre laughs, “why else would you call, dear colleague? For matters of social concern? Or…” he pauses, “is it concerning your sweet sibling?”
Sally feels his anger rising. He tries to maintain his voice level, “what’s your interest in them?”
“You know my interest.”
“Is that it?” Sally asks accusingly. “That’s why you’re doing this? Trying to prove me wrong?”
“Calm down, Sal. You’ll raise your blood pressure,” Imre taunts.
“I want you to stay away from them,” he demands, “stop showing up at my house. Stop calling them. Stop manipulating them to be your puppet.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” Imre responds coolly, “if they’re disobeying you, perhaps it’s your fault. Your grip is not as strong as you thought.”
Sally’s hand squeezes the phone and he snaps out, “people are dead Imre! How can this all be just a fucking game to you?!”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Imre sidesteps the question. “You feel that if you can’t manage someone as easily controlled as your sibling once was that you won’t be able to handle what’s coming. It’s understandable but getting angry and alienating someone who can help you is not that thoughtful of you.”
*If romance
“Why seduce them? And don’t tell me that isn’t what you’re doing because I can see the way their face lights up when they say your name. Couldn’t you have found other ways? Don’t you get that they’re fragile?” Sally asks, he feels desperation in his voice and feels a sense of shame at being so exposed with Imre.
“I love them.”
“No you don’t.”
“Does it matter if I do or if I don’t? Either scenario is rather distressing for you.”
*If platonic
“So you saw a vulnerable kid who needed friends and that’s how you got to them because I know before, when they had Nia they never would’ve given you a chance and that pissed you off didn’t it?” Sally asks, feeling a bit triumphant and pointing out a weak spot Imre has. But also worried, very worried about how much his sibling is acting under Imre’s influence.
“I like making friends with strange people, Sal. If you knew anything about me you would know I love collecting enduring and perhaps dangerous underdogs. Your sibling is a prime example of a cockroach who would survive the end of the world.”
Sally’s scowl deepens, he knows that for Imre this is a compliment of the highest order.
*
“You’re sick,” Sally says with disgust.
Imre grows silent on the other end as Sally traps the phone between his arm and shoulder as he takes off his jacket.
“I need the journal and I need to know how to read it,” Sally says.
“It’s written in a language not of this world, and you expect me to know how to decipher it? Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say,” Imre says politely.
“But the prophecy says—”
“The prophecy was created to toy with us. It holds no truth and I never understood why you and the rest of them, including my father wholeheartedly believed in the intentions of that… thing.”
Sally throws his jacket on the floor, “but what about what it says about my family? About the children born to my father? That isn’t a lie.”
“They can’t read it.”
Sally stops cold. He doesn’t think he heard him right. The weather is messing with the power lines and so his voice on the other end does crackle.
“What? No, no. That can’t be.”
“I saw it. They looked at the words and seemed as lost as we were. That’s what has caused me to doubt recently. I brought it over to your home and had them look at it a second time and there was no change,” he explains.
Sally feels like his heart is picking up speed and his stomach and doing little somersaults. This can’t be happening to him. He lets out a trembling breath and presses his hand to his moist forehead.
“Try not to fret. I don’t think that it means all is lost. There might be something we’re missing. I think superstition is a useful tool in controlling stress. I believe the phrase ‘third time’s the charm’ might apply here. But I need to speak to them.”
The ‘no’ has already left Sally’s mouth before he can think. “Anything you want with them has to be through me.”
Imre tsks. “What a shame. I can’t help you if you don’t do your part. I’m not an imbecile that works on promises and assurances like Lorcan.”
“Imre, I’ll talk to your father. I’ll ask him to allow you in,” but he knows how childish that sounds, “damnit, I’ll ask him to make you lead, he probably won’t mind because that means he won’t have to leave the mansion.”
Imre’s laughs make him stop. “You think I care for that anymore, Sal? My ambitions are far higher. I see we don’t see eye to eye.”
“No, Imre wait!” Sally with anguish.
“I’ll leave with this piece of advice—”
“We have to come to some sort of agreement—”
“—make your choice sooner rather than later you don’t have that long—”
“I’ll give you money!”
“—and you wouldn’t want the others to take initiative and push you out—”
“Make you the Scouter!”
“—have a lovely day, Sal. I mean it.”
And as Sally is babbling promises he can’t keep Imre hangs up.
Note: I should really write these things in advance cause three life things hit me at once in these past three weeks. But we're out.
