A Behind-the-scenes Look At Keanu Reeves’s GQ Cover

Why don't you listen?

The Incredible Marble Bar, Sydney, Australia. Iconic, heritage listed, dated 1893. - Photographed 5th September 2019, Spring

Good Dog.

“And the dog, does he have a name?”

“No.”

Magic and Gardens

Photographed Winter/Spring 2019 at The Grounds, Alexander. The Paddock, Surry Hills and Central Station, Sydney, Australia.

John Wick || Blood of The Raven King

This work of fiction is dedicated under inspiration and by request of @rubydian and the founding concept as published on Twitter by English Sci-Fi/Fantasy author, Matt Dovey

Act One || Scene One || Irreversible

And thus it started, the way it usually does in tales such as these.

With a letter.

On this particular wet August afternoon in New York City, the mailman had been discourteous enough to not wipe off his boots upon the runner carpet that had been rolled out specifically to capture the wet footsteps of guests and visitors going to and from The Continental lobby. Instead, he shook out his high visibility fluro-yellow raincoat with a shower of water that hit the marble floor and the hotel reception counter in a splatter. Some of those wayward, wind chilled droplets struck Charon’s computer monitor. The elegant African American man, in his dark Italian wool suit, offered the wet plastic covered parcel of letters that was unceremoniously slapped atop his counter, a cursory glance before sliding them off the counter top and shaking them into the waste paper basket at his feet. His displeasure did not reflect in his profound features. Rather, he offered the mailman his thanks and fixed him with a poignant glare that seemed to work wonders, for the middle aged mailman gestured vaguely to the general wet mess he made and apologized sheepishly. 

“Sorry, Mr. Charon. I didn’t mean to bring the storm in with me.” Charon, the hotel Concierge, softened his features somewhat and replied in his rich accented baritone,

“It is unavoidable. Perhaps, you might shake yourself and the mail out under the awning next time?” 

An obvious consideration. The mailman nodded his assent apologetically once more before tapping the brim of his sodden baseball cap in respect, replacing the hood of his raincoat and turning on his heel to march back out into raging storm. Charon watched his receding footfalls for a moment or more before finally seeking to pull out a clean dusting cloth from beneath the counter’s tidy shelves and wipe away the errant droplets from the marble surface and the back of his thin computer screen. Once he was satisfied that all was as it should be, the cloth was replaced and the plastic covered mail satchel was again addressed with his customary care. A silver letter opener that was taken from the hands of a small kneeling iron Roman warrior statue upon the desk made quick work of prying the plastic sheathing apart. Within, dry and protected from the rain, rested an organized and fairly typical arrangement of letters. These included utility bills, insurance reports, tax department assessments, sundry receipts and reconciliation invoices for repairs, maintenance, linen and fresh food and beverage supplies. All of these letters would be addressed in due time, for there was a management and administration process that Charon followed religiously in his years of employed service. And it ensured every article would be considered carefully and addressed appropriately. What was of highest import at this moment was what Charon picked out to be internationally addressed personal mail. These letters arrived with a reliable systematic frequency and were almost always addressed to his employer, the hotel owner/proprietor, Winston. Occasionally he would receive a personally addressed letter as well, but these were few and far between. 

There was a very particular letter that he was expecting on this day. It arrived fourth to last in the pile and featured the neat, calligraphic penmanship that was characteristic of a female hand that valued the aesthetic pleasure of ink on paper, compared to type and print labels that were so readily available in this day and age. The stationary the letter was mailed in was of quality off-white paper stock. It featured an Air Mail stamp and beneath it another that presented the face of Queen Elizabeth II for her Sapphire Jubilee. Sixty-five years a reigning British Monarch was an exceptionally long time to reign, even as a figurehead for an entire empire. Charon turned the letter over and noted the sender’s name, ‘Miss Bobby Kent’. Naturally. Roberta, whom had endearingly and playfully always been known to the world as ‘Bobby’ was Winston’s niece. 

A charming young woman of thirty-three years of age with sharp blue eyes, a sun kissed complexion and a shock of forcefully tamed frosted mahogany coloured hair. She had grown into a striking young lady post the bloom of her girlhood for as much as Charon remembered. Bobby lived in Essex, England in a peaceful cottage by the countryside that she had inherited from her deceased parents some nine years earlier. After completing her high school education she sought to attend Oxford University, boarding in their slightly cramped and out-dated sorority dormitory for five years as a means of escaping the country life. In truth she wished to live somewhere exciting, like London. But considering her financial garnetour, Winston, was the manager of her family’s estate after his sister’s passing; he was forthcoming in advising that her monthly allowances could not support the exorbitant additional cost of Central London rent without depleting her inheritance substantially. He wished to preserve those funds for as long as was prudently possible, at least, until the day of which Bobby announced her intent for marriage. 

Sadly, such proposals with eligible suitors were regular and regularly discouraged. Bobby was a woman of big ambitions, plans and social pursuits in the world of discovery and education. An independent cartographer that specialized in alternative tour guide manuals that celebrated and relegated geographic explorational pursuits in breathtaking exotic landscapes and oceans across at least six of the seven continents. An impressive feat of achievement for a such an academic lady and her fellow organized crew. Winston had suggested archaeology and ruins preservation was another ample field of study that he hoped Bobby would consider for employment. Unfortunately, a Peruvian cartel of ex-mining gangsters with designs upon North American narcotics trade saw her exciting life of travel and adventure cut short. Bobby was captured, as a bargaining chip, imprisoned, tortured for eight, painstaking days and put to ransom in a gory array of eight millimeter video footage that arrived on Winston’s desk in the midst of a frantic police investigation for missing persons. The investigation was heavily handled, media suppressed and eventually filed as a cold case. The gang cartel in question, with their methamphetamine inundation was infiltrated; and quietly picked off. Neutralized. By a gentleman that was said to be a ghost of myth and legend. His origins confused. Russian? Belarusian? Ukraian perhaps? Some even ventured, Italian; for he had noted affiliations across a council known as The High Table. And there were twelve councilors there that were international Crime Lords, owners of cartels, arrangements and syndicates that dated back some many hundreds of years. Holders of honour and tradition. Corrupt and wayward as much of it may have been considered, there was purpose and method to their madness. War was something that happened. It was corrected. Acknowledged. Crushed where possible in hopes of peace. Continual fire prevents germination of the new growing forest. If all the soldiers are dead, there is no army. And without an army, of what are you a leader, a general, a king?

Bobby never saw the face of the man that had saved her. She never even learned his name. But when she recovered from her coma and years of intensive therapy, she sought out her Uncle and began to ask him some very direct questions. Questions that related to his historical origin. Questions that related to his business enterprise. Questions that related to his religious, moral and ethical fibers. Questions that parsed his psychological profile into theoretical components, that precipitated into a murky conclusion that she was finally relieved to comprehend, even in an unclarified and subsumed level. The revelation did not leave her suffering as deeply as she thought she would. 

“You’re a mob boss, aren’t you, Uncle? One of those impossible underground criminals that runs this hotel as a front for terrorists and black market trade. Am I right?”

“….Well…. Roberta,”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby…” He corrected, on knee-jerk reaction, “It’s not quite that cut and dry nor that sinister to be honest, darling.”

“Don’t you darling me, old man! You’re full of horse shit! They knew about you! About what you were capable of! Of the class of people… creatures… beasts you surround yourself with. And they found me, and bled me to get a reaction out of you! What did they ransom me for, hm?”

“Bobby, please, I need you to calm down-”

“You fucking calm down! You bastard! Before mother died she promised me you would look after me. That you’d care for me, make sure I wouldn’t be led astray. I thought she meant just boys and drugs and wild parties! I had no idea she would entrust me into the hands of a lunatic black-market hoon! You disgust me! I wish I was never born into this wretched family! I had plans once! Dreams… now look at me!”

“Bobby…” Winston breathed. His eyes glazing over dangerously from behind his reading glasses that he finally removed so as he could bury his head into his hands.

“Oh and now you weep! Collapsed lung, crushed skull, they took a kidney and I’ll never walk properly again with this spine injury. Every day of my life for two years has been an endless agony of horror and torment. Because of you! Because of your twisted, depraved fucking empire of criminals and darkness.”

“YOU’RE WRONG ROBERTA! IT’S BECAUSE OF ME THAT YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!” The elder gentleman snapped at last, losing his temper within the confines of his guilt ridden sadness. 

“…I don’t call this alive. Not even remotely.” She whispered in her compounded sorrow. She’d long since promised herself she’d never cry in front of another human being again. 

“I want you to tell me what you know. No ifs… no buts… no lies.. No bullshit. I want everything. I want the truth. Because you owe me this.”

“Roberta-”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby… If I do this…thing… you ask of me… If I drag you into this world… As you are right now… You need to understand, that there’s no going back. Ever.”

“Just as well. My scars are irreversible, Uncle Winston. You gave me this life, be it by divine providence or bad fucking luck. But I’m in it now. The least you can do; is show me how to live.” 

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. He considered everything that he thought would be just and ethical and compared it to everything he knew would be considered immoral, unjust and socially perverse. He looked deeply into his niece’s eyes. He read her, the pieces of her he wished he’d never have to see. He found himself, for the first time in his life, praying. Wishing that his sister would not have burdened him with this young woman. So that he might have saved her from the trauma of the world around her. This was why he’d never married. Nor had children. So as he could rule an empire that would not fall to complication when the genuinely innocent are caught in the crossfire of havoc and fury that does not concern them.

Winston considered his options for a very long time that day. And after that long time; he made his decision.

And he told Roberta Kent, aka 'Bobby’, everything.

Act One || Scene Two || Letters of Warning

Charon concluded his administration processing with his customary efficiency, until his relief management staff took the front desk and permitted him complete the day’s hand over seamlessly. A final glance around the foyer with its range of ambling guests waiting out the rain or waiting on friends and colleagues, revealed that at least on the surface, this oasis of calm and civility was very much still in working order and could do without his vigilance for at least an hour or more.  With a smile at the uniformed ladies that had taken his place at reception, he sought to attend the lounge that was relatively quiet at this hour of the day.  Sure enough, he discovered his friend, colleague and employer, Winston, seated at the lounge by the fireplace, sipping at a steaming tea cup and decoding possibilities for the crossword puzzle that '12 Down’ was occupying him with.

"Good afternoon, Sir.” Began Charon by way of greeting. Winston looked up over his reading glasses and put down his pen,  fixing his Concierge, friend and colleague with a smile. He’d already noted the letter in Charon’s slender fingers and was expecting its arrival hourly.

“Ahh! Charon, welcome, pull up some leather. Have a sit down won’t you?” He indicated the tobacco coloured chesterfield lounge before him on the opposite end of the fireplace separated by a provincial coffee table. Charon complied with a smile, grateful to be off his feet for a moment. The morning had been busy and the afternoon had finally worked into a lull that said sitting down was a very good idea.

“That letter you have there, Bobby, I take it?” Winston asked with a quirk of his brow.

“Bobby.” Charon replied with a curt nod. He leaned over the coffee table and placed the letter beside Winston’s teacup. The elder gentleman folded down his newspaper and set it aside. He took another sip of his tea and waved for the bar hand to bring another cup. The uniformed woman in her pink blouse and black pencil skirt took stock of Winston’s guest and arrived immediately on rapid footsteps to set down a fresh teacup before Charon. She served him then. That fragrant bergamot Earl Gray with notes of lemon and rose petal that was just delightful. Both gentlemen thanked the young lady and waited for her retreat to the bar before continuing their conversation.  Winston picked up the letter and used his pen to break apart the top of the sealed envelope.

“Second one this fortnight.” Winston commented as he freed the thick, quality paper from its confines.

“I do hope the young lady is keeping well.” Charon commented. He meant it too. He thought Bobby’s adventures prior to her misfortunes were magnificent. He had many of her travel guides in his personal collection and found her photographs to be spectacular.

“We’ll soon find out.” Winston replied as he unfolded the letter and took a moment to appreciate the blue ink and cursive hand that was so characteristic of his niece.

He read:

 Dear Uncle Winston,

 I do hope you’re keeping well, all things considered. The weather in London is not as terrible as everyone would have you believe. If anything the heat is every reason to keep indoors and just as well, I’ve been in mostly air-conditioned luxury more or less. Spending a great deal of time in and out of the houses of University scholars and other learned ladies and gentlemen that have been spending the better part of two hundred years compiling research in the form of accounts comprised as to the reason for true magic having disappeared from the streets of England. As per my previous letters to you, I am determined to follow them as deeply down this rabbit hole as I dare. There are less honorable pursuits by which a woman might entertain her time. I might add that I’m recently returned from Harlech Castle in Wales where my research has opened out some spectacular and purely mind-blowing avenues.

As always, I’m still very much following an elusive lead for the legend of a man known as 'Brân the Blessed’ from as far back as the 14th century. They say he was the first incarnation of the legend for the anthromophic personification known as 'The Raven King’, objectively, disappeared from the human/mortal plane in 1389 but made reappearances in unusual circumstances at many points that are heavily contested, both for and against, throughout history. The latest resurgence appears to be in 1847 and then again as late as early 1975.

There are pieces of this puzzle that are missing, Uncle Winston. Pieces that I’m determined to gather and engage.

My latest research has revealed that this legend has had appearances all over the world. For what could be considered charitable and extortive reasons. Some of the learned underground call him 'John Uskglass’, The Black King, The King of the North. I’m not convinced that his origins or disappearance from the mortal plane are as extravagant as I’ve been told. There is more going on beneath the surface. More that I have learned, that I have uncovered or been told.

Uncle, I need you to know that this legend has tendrils as far into the gypsy clans of Russia and beyond. Across Belarus, Poland and the Slovak nations. There is a story that I’ve been following, and you may think it mad, but I’m telling you, the world which we perceive around us and the plane of existence that we may traverse in dreams holds the key to secrets that are beyond mortal comprehension. That does not mean they do not exist. I know you’ve been discouraging my line of work, but I have been told, by our mutual friend that you alone in your hotel may possess the key that I’ve been looking for. This 'Raven King’… this fairy… fae… however you wish to spell it, is real. This legend of a man, or creature that moves in and out of shadows and takes with him the souls of the living, is more than just a myth. Our mutual friend tells me that you know him personally. That were it not for him, on that night so many years ago, I may not have lived to write this letter I do you today.

Uncle, I plan on visiting you shortly. In fact, I have booked the next plane to New York arriving Friday, 16th at 4'o clock. If perhaps you might arrange for a car to come collect me from the airport, I should be very grateful. I will call you before I board my service and again when I touch down. I don’t mean to intrude on your personal space, but if I could request your hospitality for the duration of my stay, I should be very grateful and will naturally pay my own way. I am due to meet my old crew mates Connie Barker and Nate Serville who are traveling from Los Angeles and mean to rendezvous in New York to take in the sights and sounds. They will act as my guides and have shared in much of my research, as you already know.

I look forward to seeing you, Uncle Winston. I have missed you terribly. We parted on inamicable terms last time I visited, and I have told you I am very sorry. Unfortunately, my history and unintentional involvement in affairs that should not have concerned me have left me bitter. I do want to make amends. And you’ve never let me down. But for now, Uncle, I beg your honesty one last time. I’m coming to you again for answers.

Answers I know you have.

My love and good tidings,

Your adoring niece,

      Bobby

The elder gentlemen set down the letter with a heavy sigh. Charon, whom was nursing his teacup and enjoying the flickering flames of the gas fire looked up in question.

“Sir?” He inquired quietly. Reading his old friend’s disquiet expression.

“When it doesn’t rain,” Winston began, handing Charon the letter. The younger, dark skinned gentleman took the paper and absorbed the ink letters with a practiced eye.

“It pours.” He rejoined, some few minutes later, folding the letter down and handing it back to Winston who replaced it in its envelope. It would join the thick pile in his locked writing desk drawer where every other correspondence from his niece lived.  

“Shall I prepare a suite of rooms for the young lady?” Was his first question. Although it didn’t need to be asked.  Every other visitation for years had seen Bobby cloistered safely within the finest apartments The Continental had to offer. Winston and Charon had taken professional pride in ensuring the young woman had been accommodated in a luxury that her otherwise provincial countryside English manor or the myriad of rustic campsites had not afforded. Never a “tall poppy”, Bobby maintained a genuinely likeable, down-to-earth personality that saw her often saying things like:

“You needn’t go through so much trouble for me, Uncle, honestly. A blanket by the kitchen hearth on the floor is good enough.” or

“A single room with three other girls will do, Uncle. I lived in university dorms for the better part of my young adult life. I’m not adverse to sharing.”  

These sentiments were all very sweet and well-natured, but that just wasn’t how business was done as far as Winston or Charon were concerned. They had standards. Their hotel was the bespoke Gold Class in international and local accommodation. Their rooms were almost always fully booked, all year round with underground professionals as well as local and touring civilians. Even so, there were always reserved room suites that were maintained on various levels and marked as “Private Residence”. These were withheld from the public and were always set to accommodate family and friends, friends of friends, staff and their relations or on exceptional and frequent occasion, the absolute royalty of the criminal underbelly.  Gold coins exchanged hands. Room keys were given. No business was allowed. Winston had already lived through a recent excommunication mandated by his order. The price of its completion had been high. He still regretted pulling the trigger on that pistol.  When the body of his friend was not recovered from the streets below, he had glowered in a semblance of hope. The Adjudicator and her department of vipers retreated to the bowels of whatever circle of hell they came from. But not without warning.

As far as he was concerned, they could shove their warning some place largely uncomfortable. He wasn’t about to fold to the ideals or criticisms of a faceless organization for which he had little to impart upon. He was New York. Had been for almost forty years. And he wasn’t about to give it up now.

So when the ghost, known as “The Boogeyman” resurfaced upon his doorstep some three months later, with a fire in his eyes and a woman at his side, he ensured the premium penthouse suite was at their disposal. Through correspondence in England, from The White Tower of London, he learned a great power shift had recently come into play. And that woman, that “The Boogeyman” was escorting was in fact now the owner of England’s council seat of The High Table. Royalty.

Yes.

He was accustomed to accommodating royalty.  Charon had informed him that Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton had taken an extended residence and requested their penthouse be serviced only under express request. Otherwise, they were to be left perpetually undisturbed. Mr. Wick had his beloved dog, that charming charcoal blue coloured Pit Bull Terrier that simply answered to 'Boy’ and 'Dog’ follow at his side along with the Lady that dressed in black and was held at his arm. Charon had noted that Mr. Wick now wore a ring that was not of the same origin as his wedding band, but to those learned underworld on-lookers had the same weight if not more. It was a black onyx stone framed in sterling silver and emblazoned on its surface was the ancient caduceus symbol. That ring, was a symbol of amnesty and regal entitlement.  It meant he had been selected as the royal consort to the new grey queen of the English underworld. Lady Clayton, ethereal, removed and strikingly otherworldly, with deep green eyes and a piercing demeanor, had superseded her predecessor in a blood feud that had ended the lives of hundreds so as she might have ascended the throne. The grapevine called her “The Reluctant Queen”, for she had requested abdication of the council seat at The High Table, citing emotional and physiological instability to be her primary point of contention. The Department of the Adjudicator did not care for her confessions. They cared about establishing stability until her use was fulfilled and a suitable replacement to absorb her criminal enterprise across London could be secured. She may well have been a holder of a seat upon The High Table, but she did not treat the honour with the respect which others felt the council so readily deserved. It was said she had help, in her blood feud. That Mr. Wick had absconded from American soil on her commission soon after Winston’s betrayal. That war was once more brewing on the streets of New York. Simmering beneath the surface. Coming, like the gathering storm. Across the water. Torrential, like the rain that very afternoon. The ground was due to give way again. And so many would be sucked down into the abyss for which they would never return.

He had no choice but serve his duty. For Lady Clayton, entered the hotel with her retainer, Mr. Wick, and paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of their isolation from the world around them. And he was wearing her ring. The ring of the Royal Consort. The caduceus symbol that meant he was now a “kept man” under the protection of England’s latest grey queen. Protected. Revered. Coveted. Retired.

It suited him, Winston had said, when he met his old friend in the lounge some many days later. But Mr. Wick was hesitant to respond with anything that looked like even forced cordial civility. His eyes had seemingly changed colour as well. Winston was positive, in the years of which he had known Johnathan, that the middle-aged assassin both before and after his marriage to Helen, had eyes of a deep and compassionate chocolate brown. They seemed to capture you, entrap you. Bring you into the moment of focus that was otherwise so readily able to slip away.

He actually wondered if he was very much mistaken. For that night when he attended Mr. Wick’s table, as he was seated alone and nursing a glass of top shelf whiskey, his eyes appeared a great deal lighter. In actual fact, they were a startling, almost inhumane shade of green. Green, and the iris ringed in a perfect circle of black.  Almost a horror to behold. As if… as if his eyes were a mirror of the demons and vampires found in literature and film. Were they coloured contacts? He meant to ask. And his ring finger on his left hand… was missing.  Cut away entirely from the second knuckle joint. His wedding band gone. Though the discoloured mark that was left behind after five years of marriage meant the memory of his wedding vows would never fade.

The questions he meant to ask died in his throat. Along with his better judgment. Mr. Wick was never one for many words. As he was now, whiskey glass in hand. Missing his ring finger, his wedding band.. wearing a new ring of the Royal Consort and those eyes… those eyes that were positively burning, inhuman. Like, something had torn free and blazed in the fire of irresistible resurrection. He thanked his old friend for his patronage. He withdrew from the table and attended his rooms, locking the doors and bolting them heavily behind him. The shutters in his windows were down. And the lights were reduced to a single reading lamp. He’d slept fitfully that night. And with one eye opened.

It was Mr. Wick’s shadow that had disconcerted him more than anything. For he could have sworn that the man’s shadow as he sat reflected by the firelight of the lounge, set across the floor to appear as though he had the wings of a massive, impossible moth… or perhaps a butterfly. And he’d stood for a moment, rooted to the floor. Horrified. Watching that shadow. Those wings. They moved. Beating the air silently. Pulsing. Once… Twice… Three times… Could it be so? That this man was the harbinger of doom? Had The Raven King returned to possess and destroy those whom would have wronged him? Stolen from him? Killed from him?

“Goodnight, Winston.” Mr. Wick had said. His voice, rich and deep snapped him from his tormented reverie, he looked up and almost stammered,

“Yes… Enjoy your stay, at The Continental.” He looked back down. The shadow of those wings were gone.

It was just his old friend Johnathan Wick, sitting at his table, nursing his whiskey glass. His eyes were still the colour of rich coffee that they had always been. But his ring finger was still missing. As was his wedding band. He nodded his goodnight. And walked away.

Now Winston sighed again, nodding to Charon and wishing very much that Bobby’s timing could have been a great deal better. Sooner than Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton’s arrival, or in fact later, once the couple had left his hotel entirely to disperse into the underground. Back into the cold city streets or away back to England where Mr. Wick had been commissioned to rule, off field, as an overseer at the side of the Lady Judeth Clayton. There was something wrong with them. The pair were both strikingly unnatural. The air grew colder around them when they were together. And the guests hesitated to sit so close. The couple spoke in hushed tones to each other. In different languages. French. Italian. Sometimes Russian. It was something about their eyes. They appeared like mirrors. Reflecting the sins of the world. In blood and torment. You could almost hear the screams of the dying and smell the acrid iron of spilled blood. Darkness… dark magic. John Wick, Excommunicato Survivor and Judeth Clayton, The Reluctant Queen. What a pair they made. And they were here. Now. Upstairs in their penthouse overlooking the fountains and gardens. Away from the street. The entire top floor was vacated for the honour of their accommodation and would remain so as long as they stayed on in his hotel.

His maids had complained that 'Dog’ growled at them when they attempted to take on their cleaning duties of the rooms. And that Lady Clayton was often seen at her dressing table, with a great ball python coiled about her arms and lap, whispering, speaking words of unintelligible origin as she looks on into the depths of her mirror. That the maid had noted the room was cold… freezing cold, although the thermostat was turned up to its highest heat setting. And that Lady Clayton’s reflection did not meet her in the mirror. That something horrible was there instead. A blackness… a murky forest or swamp. The Lady did not respond when called to or prayed to, or upon. The maid ran from the room screaming. Insisting they needed an exorcist or at least, a priest. That penthouse suite was unholy.

Winston had no choice but to retire these maids under stress leave.  There was too much pressure building around his returned guests.

And now Bobby was coming to New York. Merely three days away. Another problem to compound his already growing list of extremely provoking concerns.  “Perhaps, Charon, you might put Bobby and her friends in the vacant Queen Suite on level five, near Mrs. Rainthrope and her charming granddaughter. Room Five-Twelve, I think.”

Charon nodded to this sentiment but returned with his own admission,

“Don’t you think, Sir, it might be more prudent to put her on level eleven? Rooms One Hundred and One and One Hundred and Two are vacant and closer to Mr. Cesknoc and Ms. Halloway, being as she is, now consumed of our line of work….” He let the thought hang in the air. And Winston absorbed it with his thoughtful eyes. But did not agree.

“No, my old friend, I don’t think so. If anything, I’m certain Bobby would better appreciate the normality of being surrounded by harmless civilians. Just because she’s now privy to the arrangements under which we operate, does not mean we now have license to embroil her or her friends any deeper into this cesspit of darkness than is absolutely necessary. Not that I don’t appreciate your foresight. Her protection is paramount. Especially now more-so as she refuses to desist with her investigation of the other side as it were.” He paused here, to drink the remainder of his Earl Gray tea before setting down his teacup and pushing it on its porcelain saucer aside.

“No, I think, Room Five-Twelve beside Mrs. Rainthrope and her granddaughter, Shirley, will be just fine. If we’re lucky, the two ladies might become friends and they might seek to move on their American tour together. And Bobby might be so good as to leave this notion of the other side behind.”  

Charon also finished his tea as he listened to his employer’s logic. He dared to pro-offer the crux of Winston’s concerns as he said,

“You’re worried about Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton, aren’t you, Sir?”

There was silence between the old friends for a long series of heartbeats. Winston collected his pen and his paper and reading glasses and straightened himself, getting to his feet and taking Bobby’s letter into his coat pocket.

“Worried? That’s a mild way of putting it, Charon. The cleaning staff are calling for exorcists before even considering the option of entering their rooms. I’d say, unequivocally terrified, is a more accurate summation of it. Alas, Que Sera, sera.”  He finished finally.

The two old friends exchanged a knowing glance that spoke more than the words they each held in their hearts.

They were both, deep down, very sorry that Bobby had been caught in the crossfire of a world that never concerned her. It had almost killed her, that day, so many years ago. And Winston was given the choice, whilst she was in a coma, advised that her quality of life was greatly deteriorating. As her last and only next of kin, would he consider turning off her life support? He deliberated deeply for days and nights at her bedside. And finally whispered into his niece’s ear.

“There are some things, in this world, that are worth fighting for, Roberta. Some things that are worth dying for. But this, darling girl… this lapse in judgment is not it. Come back, sweetheart. Your time’s not up yet. If you can hear me, Bobby… And I’m sure you can… Come back.”

And so, Roberta 'Bobby’ Kent, was coming back to New York City. She had plans to visit her Uncle Winston in The Continental. She had survived her ordeal. And she had become obsessed with the myths and legends of a man that was said to have left the human world in anything but a blaze of glory. It was said this man was reincarnated from time to time. To come from the depths of the underworld, to appear, to live, to change and influence events and then to disappear into the ether, as though he had never been. And never was.

They said, in the recent folklore, that this man, moved in shadows and served a power unlike anything the underworld had ever seen. That he had “got out” once. That he retired… and took on a married life, with a beautiful woman named Helen. That his life had changed when she had passed away. That in actual fact, the day she died, he’d gone with her. To the land of the other side. But he was caught. Trapped upon a bridge that would never end. No shore in sight. He walked on and on and on and called her name. Helen… Helen… He was driven… By the sound of beating wings. But this bridge… The was no ground beneath it… No opposite bank he could discern. And no way to turn back the way he had come. Was this purgatory? To carry on… forever? Chasing the memory of a loved one? Chasing the sound of beating wings?

A good man had died on that night. And left behind a ghost. A shade. A dark angel… Black blood. Risen from the banks of the earth and disconnecting life one bullet at a time. He was bound back into service. A blood oath marker that he fulfilled. Unwillingly. He came back for love. But it was not him that returned to the mortal plain to fight on. To keep living the life of which he had been pardoned, so as he could remember what he had forgotten. The life he had once lived. The love he had once shed.

They said, John Wick was no longer a man. That he had gone to the other side and stayed there. That the woman… Judeth Clayton… she was not even human anymore. The blood she had shed to bind his soul to the earthly plain had been enough to topple a whole empire.

The old legends… The folklore. It had said to watch for the change in their eyes. For there are those amongst us whose eyes are green. But there are shades of green of Dutch and French origin. Those are neither here nor there.

It’s the others that you watch for. The ones whose eyes are green like  the deepest, darkest forest with no end. Like the eyes of demons, mirrors into a non-reflective soul… And you can feel the air grow colder around them. And you can smell the scent of iron and blood. And animals would go out of their way to protect them. And mirrors do not show their reflections. And that you must watch their shadows. For the shadows are honest and true. And they show the beating of wings. Like a butterfly… or a great, massive moth.

It rained that day in New York City.

It rained.. but you could hear the cries of ravens in the air. In the distance.

It shouldn’t have been like this.

Ever.

But it was.

JW. || Blood of the Raven King Uncut

This work is dedicated to all my fellow John Wick fans all over the world, no matter where you are. This is an unusual supernatural/alternative universe cross over request. Constructed solely on a prompt and some beautiful artwork as supplied by our friend @rubydart; who, along with a Tweet by author Matt Dovey in May of 2019 suggested that if John Wick was a Fae of Folklore, he would:

Only works for favours, tallied through gold coins

Can be bound by blood promises against his will

Lives in the world unseen by passers-by

Values sacred ground and rituals

Has a special bond with animals

Does not tire or feel pain as a human would

The other fairies speak in awed tones of him as the only one to “get out” through sheer strength of will he crossed over into our world for the love of a human

Can only be harmed by weapons containing iron

Each of these are elements I hope to bring into the story in time. As an organic free-form writer, I work on a concept and let it build into something beautiful. The following Two Scenes for Act One are a precursor for the future. There is a whole host of inspirations and concepts that I’ve every intention to give credit to in a proper bibliography in time. For now, I ask you, the readers, to write in with your thoughts and feelings on the work. Would you like to see more? Has this story excited you? Do you enjoy the characters? Feel free to like and share this work with your friends and fellow John Wick fans, making sure you link me back with a credit. If you wish to leave a review, I’m always reading what is left behind. Would you like me to tag you for latest updates? Please send me a direct message via Tumblr messenger or an Ask request. I’ll make sure you’re added to my list.

With Love and Peace,

L.G. Spider

{[ Reader’s List: @jardanijovonovichs @rubydart @rubydian @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat @lalienna-dementriento ]}

What I heard on the radio…

Fracture | One | Two | Three | Four

|| @smilewhatstheuseofcrying @daily-joker @arthur-j-fleck​ ||

“Horror stories don’t interest me,” Maul said.

“Being one yourself, I would think they might, wouldn’t it?”

| There's something about the end of Autumn. About coming home to the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon. There's gentle music in the background and the air is crisp and cool. The sunlight fades faster in the evenings. The nights linger longer like the kiss of a loved one. And walks down the leaf littered path remind me of you. |

"What do you have in mind?"

|| COMING SOON ||