Roga’eus couldn’t look more helpless, but his soul didn’t seem to die with its ability to move.
Half-merged with the outer wall, his eyes darted frantically from one captor to the other, as if trying to guess which one would be more amiable and willing to bargain. In those eyes, however – aside from fear – a will to resist. To agree to nothing, mixed with resignation in a way that must have frightened even it.
As Lorian came closer, one of the branches moved slightly over Roga’s thigh, threatening to move higher. In places that would surely make it scream if it touched it with its cruel caress.
Nymre looked impatient. His restless raven, always aiming for the heart of things. But his mind was already in Roga’eus’, penetrating it without it even knowing it, pouring truth into his marrow. He knew, ah, he knew who had sent it, and it was as obvious as the morning after a night.
“You are such a unique creature,” he mused, his hand reaching for the branch that slipped between his fingers to sprout higher, on his prisoner’s skin. “Before your coal children took over the Shadowlands, you all owned the mountains. But you have been reduced – to small clans, hiding in the chasms and hollow caves. How many of you still breathe the cold air of the highest peaks?”
Roga’eus choked at the words. The shadows still hugged its throat, but did not press in. Waiting.
“They are… still… our children…”
“Ah, of course,” Lorian smiled, his black eyes shining with a dull, darkened light. “The love of the clan. The beauty of family ties. That’s why you followed the wounded heart of Lord Vern’ese. His lover for mine, wouldn’t it be fair to destroy what he thinks I cherish? Blood for blood and feather for feather.”
A sudden laugh pierced the clear air. Lorian’s laugh was like a rippling stream and the sound of spring and winter intertwined. Roga’eus threw itself into the cage of roots and branches, realising it was exposed – perhaps betrayed. Its ragged and harsh voice, more like the growl of a wild animal, joined Lorian’s laughter.
Which soon cut like with a sharp blade. The branches began to move, crushing the sprite, the wall opening to swallow him.
“No!”
Nymre scoffed. Lorian knew her patience was wearing thin, and she wanted to tear the creature’s heart out, to find out why her powers weren’t enough to raise Leira from her deathbed.
“No?”
He raised one eyebrow. That had eluded him, why Leira can’t be healed by the most powerful healer in the realm. Something coded so deep in Roga’s mind that he would have to be killed to get it out.
And that was what he planned to do.
“Your biggest mistake was not listening to Kolerial Vern’rese. It was not even an attack on my spy, even if that was already a fool’s errand.”
Roga’s hand suddenly gained a life of its own. The sprite left a terrified moan, when his own hand travelled to the branch that suffocated him. Took it between its fingers. And burried deep under his skin.
The sprite tossed again, its hand trembling while it pushing the sprouting vegetation in, its eyes widening. Lorian bathed in its emotions, frantic and panicked, surrendering to the horror of reality.
Roga’eus began to peel away its skin with soft, slow movements. It was then that the assassin began to break – fear replaced by pain and desperation, far more powerful. Lorian… knew everything. He wouldn’t let him go, but he would make him pay.
With blood.
Spilled by his own hand.
Pieces of flesh and fur fell off, swallowed by the thick bark as the sprite flayed itself. Every tug accompanied by a desperate scream. Its body gave up its most hidden secrets, Its flesh exposed to the howling wind. Roga worked, methodically, like a cruel device, knowing no remorse or pity for his own suffering. He were kept alive for one purpose – to open himself up before the eyes of the fairy king. His wounds smoked with the heat of shadows, boiling inside them.
“Your mistake wasn’t underestimating me, too,” Lorian’s voice was joyful, youthful; a child who likes to play with his living toys.
Soon Roga’eus was nothing but screaming flesh, roots biting into his skin to extract more of his pain. Nymre’s restlessness painted her beautiful face, sculpted with extreme emotions, visible even when her raven mask covered half of it.
The roots slowly crawled up, reaching between its legs. Roga’eus’ panic was almost palpable, a delicious fear that filled Lorian’s senses. His dark eyes shone with cruel need as Roga’s hands clasped over the roots and pushed them into himself, slowly, deep, deeper. Roga’eus screamed in agony. Blood poured out, meekly at first, until the roots began to rearrange it. Lorian’s mind attacked him at the same time, breaking down any barriers that still held the sprite captive, drawing out any secrets.
Roga choked on painful groans and slowly wsa deflating in the wall. Dal’coler knew such cries well, a palace both beautiful and terrible, breathing in the darkness of the winter fairies. Nymre’s eyebrows knitted, her flaming eyes fixed on the sprite, and Lorian didn’t need to get inside her head to know that she was torn between her personal dislike of Leira – and the threat the assassin posed.
“Your biggest mistake was assuming that I would not read you,” Lorian purred. “But you couldn’t know. So you are forgiven, your faults absolved…”
The roots began to worm their way into Roga’s nose, it tried desperately to push them away with what was left of its hands, screaming defaeningly… but they entered its nostrils and crawled relentlessly, making wounds as they went.
Impaling him on the thick tendril. Shadows pumping into Roga’eus instead of blood, which slowly poured, staining Lorian’s boots and Nymre’s naked feet with ruby mixed with white of the snow.
Which started to fall again.
“… and your soul will join mine, in these walls,” he drew a path across Roga’s torn skin – almost a sensual stroke – took a drop of blood and licked it off.
This alarmed Nymre. Though she couldn’t put her finger on why.
Something in those words left her hanging in the void. Without a thread to follow.
Covering her thoughts with an undecipherable threat.
*
The night slowly turned to winter morn.
The magical barrier pulsed with invisible spells, letting a cold wind into the room; moving the curtains in an unrestrained jig of fabric and wind.
Leira lay in her bed. Her hair scattered across the pillow like pale wheat.
Lorian stood over her, a shadowy apparition, breaking the spells that were attacking her… and maybe finally breaking also her. Removing one threat from her mind, but perhaps… just perhaps… adding another, far more subtle.
For the first time in his long life, he didn’t trust his power.
And he didn’t like it.
Not at all.
Nymre’s gentle spells enveloped Leira again, trying to soften the destructive force that was her lover’s mind. Even against herself, she knew that she gave in again. She was weak beside him, clinging to their love like the hand of a drowning man clings to the fingers of a rescuer.
Even if those fingers belonged to a river demon. Who would save her only to wrap her in a thick web of enchantment.
Do you hate yourself, cruel raven?
Perhaps.
But I still want it.
It destroys me and makes me reborn again. A fire that burns my wings, to replace them with flaming ones.
Some things… are worth suffering for.
*
“Kolerial Vern’ese.”
The name rang in the silence, almost a curse.
“How did it know I wouldn’t be able to heal her?”
“Alnam Devlon has an estate on the border of the Shadowlands.”
“Roga’eus served him after Dal’coler invaded the Shadow Fairies.”
“He found Elder Roga’s hiding place.”
“Promised them revenge.”
“One day.”
“And Sal Vern’ese used it, to avenge his blood.”
The air grew thicker.
The chill more pronounced.
“It was one of them. A healer’s spell cannot break the power of their magic. They are too old.”
Nymre felt anger. That someone could be immune to her power. That someone had dared to challenge her and she lost.
Lorian had promised her the stars.
But how could she fight for them when her strength failed her?
But she was not one of the weak hearted. And she vowed to watch both Sal Vern’ese and Alnam Devlon decay and wither.
*
She became one with him. Somehow, she had carved herself into him, like a poisoned splinter into a skin.
If he lost her, he would lose a part of himself. Ripped from him, as Alnam had wanted to long ago, but had been unable to cause a damage. Bitter amusement overcame him.
He respected a good enemy. A challenge better than any other, the more painful, the more cruel – the more fulfilling. And they… they just proved that they were worthy of his most intense attention…
Death… was a weak, despicable thing that never dared to touch him.
It won’t touch her too, as long as he can instill fear in it’s rotten heart.