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horizoncrew · 4 years ago

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The Decay Of Ashes

(Part Two)

Once he did not dream his normal beach. The tides were too strong, the cliffs too sheer, and yet it was achingly familiar. There were the ghosts of islands in the distance. Towering figures made small by distance and enveloped by the haze of the horizon as if fog had risen and tucked the islands into bed.

The beach itself was barren, without a creature nor soul in sight except for one. A figure more hole than substance, expelling the constant smell of charcoal and sulfur, and always a creature made of embers flaring brightly. Atrioch, in all his pitch, not a feeling or a hum but as physical as he could be here.

It made him want to run. Run as fast and far as he could, till the jagged rocks tore his feet to shreds, his body shrieked with the exertion, and he was safe. His mind screamed for him to, but he didn’t, for Atrioch looked as wary of the situation as he did. Its form swirled and bristled, puffing like an animal sending out a warning with its spines.

You shouldn’t be here

It came as a feeling rather than a spoken phrase but he felt Atrioch’s words reverberate in him in the way they usually conversed. In response, he used what consciousness he had here to reach out to feel at the edges of the dream. As if an echo floating over the waves, he heard the distant trickle of cave water. No, they were in his mind.

Nor should you be. He sent back.

The violet glowing outlines of Atrioch’s eyes widened then narrowed. A pause as he sensed Attrioch testing the edges as he had done. His stomach curled, his body fighting against direct proof there was an intruder in his head. It wouldn’t do to have his body on edge now.

He was only wrenched from his thoughts when a hot current of unease shot across the air. He could feel how the water hissed and boiled at his feet when Atrioch whirled on him. For once he met the gaze head on. His markings flared and burned against his skin, picking up the emotion churned magic pouring off of their creator. Still he held as the heat cracked fissures across his face, and Atrioch swarmed into his space, massive, enveloping, and furious like a wild animal.

He didn’t break, though he felt like cracking glass.

You brought me here.

The figure paused.

And what would you make of that? A concession. His anger was calming at the least.

Nothing, but I have a right to know what’s happening in my own mind.

Atrioch was silent.

Why is this here? He prodded.

...You’re far too suited to me than you should.

The demon refused to answer more, turning on his heel and gliding down the beach. He didn’t even spare him a glance.

Follow.

And he did.

The beach wasn’t his picture perfect shore. Rocks grew in frequency as the sands diminished, jagged in shape and seeming to fight the air they rose into. They grew till he was struggling to pick his way amongst the outcroppings. Atrioch waited for him with a mounting frustration. Amidst particular difficulties, he felt what could have once been a clawed hand wrap around his chest. Three spindly elongated fingers being all it it took to lift him from the rocks down to the sands below. His pulse jumped at the touch, the jolt of fear nearly closing the dream around them.

Relax.

He really shouldn’t.

“Relax.”

The whisping voice nearly startled him as much as the touch, and he tilted his head to meet the eyes watching him from above. The voice wasn’t the crackling timber tones that barely sounded like a voice he was used to, it was softer and clearer, more mortal. Even the face had more definition. Lost was the ever shifting bare outline features, there was changing parts no doubt, but instead the hints of sharp features stayed. It was disconcerting.

He decided he disliked this dream, but he relaxed.

Claws removed themselves from clothing with a rasping hiss, so he no longer was he floating. He glanced around. No more rocks, simply a small inlet where the water was shallow, and a statue.

Stay.

The order bristled against his ego, sounding like a command for a dog rather than a request but he didn’t argue.

He watched as the demon floated towards the statue above the waves that lapped at his ankles. The statue itself was large. A group of some sort. Seven in all. Each fully outfitted in armors and weapons but at ease. Atrioch regarded the statue almost with familiarity, ghosting claw tips over the stone. Nodding his head in greeting to each of them.

The bard

The wanderer

The man in robes

The shield maiden

The knight

And

The holy woman

He touched all but the foremost figure. A woman with long wispy hair, and elaborate markings along her entire body. Even from this distance, he got the distinct feeling of sorrow from her statue. The kind that made you want to run instead of acknowledge the pain it evoked, for it would consume you if you tried to empathize.

If his patron’s actions didn’t surprise him before, they did when his form kneeled before the woman. Atrioch’s form solidified, and he saw it then. He didn’t even need to see Atrioch’s face to know. He could see it in the way the tension melted, and hands barely hovered above stone. He could see it.

The reverence.

And it was so familiar.

That’s why he hated it all the more fiercely

————————————————————

He had one dream after Varrisidan’s crowning and before the worst came. A time where he dreamed the truth before he knew it. He was in the cavern from the start, their fingers brushing as storms thrashed on the horizon. The entire space filled with smoke writhing off of them as the waves ate at their only path of escape. The water churned savagely against the rocks, dark and thick like raging oil. He watched with wild eyes. Varris watched contentedly at the coming storm and the dark water rising around them.

The sea had surged up to their elbows by now. The glow far in the cave shone brightly calling, calling, calling him deeper, but the light was fading. Seeing him dart his gaze around, Varrisidan smiled in the soft way he did, drawing a free hand down his panicked companies arm in comfort, holding him in place. He wrenched his gaze from the rising danger to affix it on Varrisidan.

“We have to go.” He shouted into the choking air, surprised at the lack of smoke pouring from his own mouth.

Varrisidan shook his head, pityingly.

He was sure of it now Khayani, Lysvan, and the rest they were there with the light, he had to go to them before it was too late.

Too late for what?

“Varris please I have to.”

Varrisidan shook his head more fiercely, tugging him back towards the water as he tried to move towards the light.

“What reason do I have to stay?”

The drow’s lips mouthed a single word as smoke billowed from his lips. His expression set in a desperate smile. He couldn’t hear what word could be so necessary for the Drow to speak that he would speak it even as it bit and choked him. He could hardly even focus as Varrisidan drew him closer to the rising waters, fingers interlacing with his, the prince’s free arm pulling him farther and farther down. The waves smashed against the drow’s chin as Varrisidan hovered over his ear, his word barely wisping over the roar.

“Devotion” He whispered like a promise, and they drowned.

————————————————————

The dreams he had after Varris was gone were both horrid and wonderful in the blessing they gave. Varrisidan remained in his dreams where he didn’t in reality. His mind refusing to adapt like it had with Ariette. It clung, desperately trying to keep a place for the drow in his world.

The result was a shade of the man that adored him, content and smiling, far from the stricken betrayed gasp and mounting fury that had been his last offering to him. This Varrisidan absentmindedly drummed his fingers against Kyrian’s skin, while he stared off into the horizon, feet swaying in the current, happy.

The waves lapped red and thick at their feet, staining the skin darker and darker shades of crimson where the clots didn’t stick. It was a lazy day, barely a cloud in the sky, despite the blood marking its path along their skin. Kyrian sank into these dreams as an addict to his seduction of choice, collapsing against the Varrisidan’s side, clinging desperately to the imagined fabric of the man’s clothes.

“I love you,” he said, a confession.

“I love you,” he said, an apology.

“I love you,” he said, an excuse.

And Varrisidan just smiled.

#original work #kyris #varrisidan #khayani #kyrian #zephyr #nathair #atrioch #.

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horizoncrew · 4 years ago

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The Decay of Ashes

(Part One)

He did not often dream alone.

It could be what he subconsciously sought or something he was drawn into. Either way loneliness never hung on him in dreams, the way it shackled him in waking. For good or ill.

Atrioch was his most frequent visitor.

Those dreams hung in stasis. A dark space with a location he was never sure of. It could’ve been his mind as easy as it could’ve been his patron’s, or perhaps it was in the tome that joined the two of them. A prison for them both. No matter the case, it was a place defined by Atrioch. He shouldn’t expect anything less. Those dreams were dark and choked with the acrid smell of ash. He knew his benefactor was there by the mere hum of the place, a consistent background static like crackling fire. The creature was never there in his physical form, the smoke made man he had glimpsed upon their contract, but he was there all the same. He was there in the same way air is a constant companion, hovering just against you but untouchable. Watching.

It was a game of sorts between them, those dreams, of who would speak first. Each testing the other to see who was desperate enough to crack, to reach out to the other. A game of isolation. He broke more often than he held in those dreams, if just for the fact that speaking was the only sensation left to him in that void.

However, he wasn’t the only one who ever broke. Centuries of being sealed away could make a creature just as desperate as a halfling on his own. When those times came, the dream dragged on, refusing to end until Atrioch was satisfied. His benefactor was petty in that way. If Atrioch was to even hint at weakness, he’d turn it into an advantage. Those were dreams of endless chatter, quips, and questions more for the sake of drawing out any kind of conversation than purposeful manipulation. No real thought to how much information was given away or if the words spoken would push his vessel farther away from his goal than towards it. He could almost appreciate the dreams where Atrioch broke for the mere context they gave, but It had disrupted his scheduling enough times for him to ignore Atrioch out of spite more often than not.

However the start, the dreams between the two of them always ended the same, with a tribute. A choice between the two to chose the poison the other provided by the mere presence of their continued existence in exchange for potential benefits as the alternatives were unthinkable. Sometimes it felt as if something was taken from him. It left him hollow and aching as if for a lost limb. Yet even scarier were the times he felt as if the other had left something behind. Where he’d awaken to the stark chill of sweat and his grimoire humming with light.

————————————————————

His more frequent dreams were of eyes.

Of hollowed faces that watched him with sunken eyes, stark white against their sullied dirt stained bodies. Of the low whine of pumps that hummed and screeched percussion as he ran from the eyes, as if his flight would hide him.

No matter the corridor he turned or if he curled and wept like a child, the eyes were there. Some hanging out of half gnarled sockets, where the flesh sloshed off from the bone like butter in the breeze. Others stood piecing and glowing violet in the dark, belonging to bodies he couldn’t see in the darkness. Only one pair mattered. The pair that watched him at the end of the dream. Familiar yellow worn eyes that flared with hatred. His uncle’s eyes. They were hungry, determined, and watching. They demanded retribution.

Atrioch followed him into these dreams at times he could tell. A thick undercurrent of foreign emotion hanging in the air above the guilt and fear. At times it was amusement and satisfaction. The bright feelings clashing harshly with his own enough to draw him from the dream. Other times it was resentment and distaste, broiling low under his own thoughts. He never felt the emotions directed towards him in the biting pointed way they got in their shared dreams, but rather towards the existence of the dream itself. He couldn’t help but wonder how the positive and negative reaction could coexist in the same being.

Neither reaction ever helped the conclusion much. Nor did they stop the shade of his uncle from wrapping bony claws around his neck, digging holes into his skin, as he hefted him off the ground. He felt the eyes converge around him, watching the judgement and execution with eagerness. Staring as Nylan tighten his grip, His withering horns twisted to jab against his neck and his half rotted face twisted in a snarl. Nylan would squeeze till his vision would darken in increments like the coming dusk.

“I’m sorry.” He choked through both emotion and pain. The yellow eyes the only thing he could see. A sun dipping below the horizon.

“Then why did you leave me here?”

————————————————————-

His dreams weren’t all of darkness and half ignored hauntings. His favorite was much lighter. It was one that had edged at his brain since childhood. A dream of the sea.

He had never been to the sea. Not as a child of a Halfling family who feared swimming in much bigger than a bathtub. Nor as child of a tiefling who made her home in the frozen North where he would get Mountain streams and hot springs over “that damn salty fish infested pond.” Still, he had read well enough to dream. Read of the swelling tides, of the sun tanned sand, gatherings of shells, and the salty waters. Seen pictures enough to want and wonder.

It was a puzzle. A welcome challenge of constructing his imagined sea. Something to pass the time when he was young and stashed under blankets sick without his books. A habit picked up again for the long recognizance trips he managed to convince Ariette to send him on.

His dreams usually started the same. His feet in the water, the flowing water pushing the tufts of hair on his feet in and out with the tide. He kept the waters crystal clear and the sand hugging his feet like slick mud. The sun hung high in the sky, birds blinking in and out behind clouds, or settling on the distant cliffs. Peaceful. An escape far more mundane then any who knew him would expect in his mind.

When he first dreamed the sea he was alone but soon his little escape populated. First, Ariette calling him in a silent voice from the shore. Then, Nylan tossing Rechana in the air praising her work on a sandcastle. For a time Natavine was there. A mistake. He evicted her soon enough. If she didn’t consider him family neither would he. He was more than content with her replacement. The tiefling whose shine sparked in the morning sun. Khayani, who was always watching something off on the cliffs where the sunlight would hover on the rock. He could never bring himself to look at what she saw. It didn’t feel like it was for him. That was fine, not all things here were for them either.

No, he had a place all his own. A cliff side cave. A place far from his starting point, past rocky shorelines and cliffs nesting birds. It was a quiet place. The tide barely brushing the shore of grey rock, where it pooled and formed a little pond for the cave. A few stalactites jutted from the ground but overall the place was worn smooth by waters and time. He would sit at the pool side, lazily kicking his feet in the water as the sun sunk over the horizon, framed perfectly by the entrance.

Far in the back of the cave was a pathway that shone with the low blue of some far off light source. He couldn’t find it in himself to take that path. Fear seized him at even the glimpse of it. It called to him, though, with a familiar voice he couldn’t place. There wasn’t anything terrible beyond the light, no it felt kind, but he couldn’t go, not yet. Maybe not ever.

He’d content himself with cooling his feet in the pool and watch the setting sun. The ever steady blue glow at his back.

————————————————————

As his travels took him further and into the company of more people, his dream grew.

Lysvan stood on the cliff top Khayani watched. The dwarf watched the horizon with a mistrustful gaze but protection in her stance. Below, Zephyr climbed like a goat amongst the rocks, intent on following after Lysvan or finding his own path, no one could tell. Nathair was half buried in the sand by Orla, sleeping but with the hanging threat of a furious embarrassed blustering when they awoke. For now Nathair slept, the feeling was calm, and Orla turned them into a rather beautiful sand mermaid.

Each relationship had a mark on his escape. Even Atrioch had a place. The seagulls that once perched in nests near his cliffside cave turned to Crows by his benefactor. Each bird calling his name in crackling tones as he passed. They were unwelcome, but familiar enough now that it would be unnatural for them not to be there to greet him.

————————————————————

His own imagination often surprised him. He found he was never bored in his own mind. He was always looking for what exactly he had concocted with his half supported imaginings.

For example: once he tasted the water in his dream. It was, as expected, fervently disgusting, but not as it should. It was a disappointing revelation. The taste was the bitterness of plant life and stream fish, not salt and algae. He had only ever known river water, he couldn’t yet picture what salt water would taste like.

Disgusting, probably.

————————————————————

Atrioch didn’t often come to his sea dreams despite his mark upon them. There was something uncomfortable about it to the creature. A sense of wrongness that would surge and swell at the corner of his mind when his patreon came to those dreams. It would be pointed and upset at one particular thing or another. Sometimes the feeling would simmer in discontent and he would continue his dream ignoring his brooding benefactor. However, sometimes the feeling would boil over. A hissing whisper floating past his ear as he tried to skim the water, leaving him only with the smell of charcoal and a statement.

“The sand is wrong.”

Spoken as if it was a grievous crime, and the foreign emotion would vanish. Completely fed up with him.

————————————————————

He wondered if Varrisidan would like the sea. If he would appear in his mind amidst the waves, calling him deeper into the waters.

He had read that the sea called to elves in a way few other races felt. That it sang to their blood when the time came and sent seagulls to flit amongst their sleeping hours to call them home across the sea. Did Varrisidan already dream of gulls on the horizon?

Or perhaps Varrisidan would love the pooling lake of cave water that matched a homeland he had never seen. Would watch the steady drip from the stalactites with a peaceful comforted smile. Maybe Varrisidan would sit with him, legs awkwardly intertwined, watching the tides pool in their little cave.

Perhaps Varrisidan would love the sea.

It was a foolish thought to dwell upon.

————————————————————

Sometimes he wished the shades in his dreams would speak to him. They felt more like manikins with his friends faces as he passed like the wind among them barely causing them to stir.

Lysvan would forever watch from the cliffs. Nathair would forever dream. Orla would forever hum as she buried him. Zephyr would forever be deaf to his calls up on the cliff face. Every once in awhile he swore Khayani saw him, when she broke from watching the cliffs. Her gaze darting like she had seen a ghost before shaking it off. It was never permanent. They weren’t meant for him.

He could watch them, enjoy their happiness, but he couldn’t have them. Not for longer than they were willing to give and certainly no deeper than this. It was fair, for he was no more willing to give them himself. It was selfish to want without giving. Still he didn’t want someone like Ariette again. He didn’t want that kind of pain.

The only one he had was Ariette, and only that was for a time. Once she had hailed him in from the sea, smiled on his arrival, and shepherded him to the shade of the cliffside. It was a curse that he forced his dreams to reflect reality. It was a curse because he couldn’t let himself have that version of her. Not when she was lost by his mistakes.

Now she watched blankly at the ocean, sitting against the cliff, worry creasing her face, a lonely figure watching the tides and holding the sleeping form of Rechana. At times he smoothed the lines away from her face and closed her eyes. Other times he couldn’t even look at her. What a model son he was.

She couldn’t hear his words that turned to ash on the wind, stinging his throat as he tried to make his thoughts known. None of them could. Perhaps they were better for it.

————————————————————

The first time Varrisidan appeared in his sea dream was a surprise to the both of them. Well both of them, he supposed wasn’t the right word, to tell any waking person of his dreams would be an embarrassment or a vulnerability too great for him. It was a surprise to himself and the dream version of Varrisidan.

He had found him on the wave to his cave. The drow had been picking amongst the rocks, followed like a mama duck by a line of crows. It had caught him by surprise because no one, for all the people he met, had come near the cave and they certainly didn’t notice him. It had caught Varrisidan by surprise because he had nearly tripped over the Halfling.

Varrisidan made, for what all appearances showed, a yelp. It was silent as many words here were but unlike the rest of his silent companions, Varrisidan’s voice was chased by wisps of smoke. The fact seemed to shock the drow as much as it did him. He had long known what smoke meant in his dreams. There was some layer of deception between the two of them that was mutual, clouding their words. Testing, he attempted to speak to his new guest, and smoke ran bitter over his tongue as expected.

Varris watched the trails of ash float into the sky with something akin to wonder. Their eyes meeting with understanding. He couldn’t fathom what secrets his subconscious had picked up on in regards to the other man, and neither did he suspect did the waking Varrisidan. At least here, they traded the knowledge of their duplicity like a secret too sweet to be spoiled just yet.

They appraised each other for a while, the crows hopping impatiently around them until flying off to nests above. Then, instinctively, Kyrian beckoned Varrisidan to follow him to the cave. After a beat, Varris followed.

————————————————————

They spoke easily enough in his dreams, Varrisidan and him. Their language forming out of a variety of gestures and half quirked eyebrows. It was a companionable silence that followed them and too often was he content to just sit as the tides splashed against his legs, Varrisidan beside him.

Noticing him.

His.

And what a terrifying and wonderful thought that was.

————————————————————

He had seen the sea today. A mercenary job had taken them to the eastern port of Greystone to protect the rather unruly heir of a noblewoman. It was degrading work that set Lysvan’s hackles raising, but they were low on funds and a job was a job.

The beach was in some ways the same and far different from his dreams. The waves rolled and crashed against the shore as he pictured, but the rose to great troughs that he couldn’t picture the height of. The sand didn’t stick and pry at his feet the way mud did. It cushioned his steps softly where it wasn’t touched by water, and sank below him where it was. It had a smell all of its own unlike river banks defined by the nature around them. He couldn’t find it in himself to be put off by the smell of the sea. It’s breeze too sweetly brushed against his face, gentle and cool.

It was wonderful. A dream and unspoken desire fulfilled before his eyes. He could almost feel his dreams shifting with his new knowledge but Varrisidan wasn’t here with them. He couldn’t put a name to why, but that fact left him unfulfilled despite the experience.

He wasn’t left wondering for long. Lysvan called from the ship head.

“We have work, Darkstone. Don’t dally.”

Their dwarven leader had stood rigid and watching at the helm, unaware or ignoring the mounting chaos behind her. Zephyr had somehow been driven up the mast and clung to it half transformed like a frightened cat unable to get down. Kyrian got the distinct feeling he was dared to as Orla looked to be cheering on the distressed Druid while Khayani and Nathair seemed to be trading something. Money for a new bet if he could get down perhaps. The actual ship crew was having a time trying to get him down. Kyrian had the good fortune to watch Zephyr give quite a solid kick to a poor crewman’s nose. The man had the ill sense to try to catch the Druid’s attention by grabbing his leg resulting in a bloody nose that Nathair and Orla could be proud of and probably a shiner that would be a bright purple reminder to not mess with their Druid.

Kyrian couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice when he replied.

“Aye aye, Captain. Just give me a moment.”

He leaned down and tasted the water.

Disgusting.

————————————————————

Varrisidan met him in sleeping with an eagerness it seemed, placing them both sitting amongst the tide from the get go. While it splashed a little past the waist on Varrisidan, he had the misfortune of it surging up to his chest. His put off expression must have been a sight, for Varrisidan quickly turned to laughing at his state. Feeling vengeful, he flicked some water at Varrisidan’s face. Soon he had to stifle his own laugh at the way the drow’s face puckered with the new taste.

Varrisidan didn’t begrudge him for it.

————————————————————

He wondered if building a bungalow for the shades would be a bit too much. They didn’t have to be affected by the heat if he didn’t want them to, but beaches were supposed to be tropical. In any case a family deserved a home.

Family?

They were family weren’t they?

He built the bungalow.

————————————————————

#original work #kyris #varrisidan #khayani #kyrian #atrioch #zephyr #lysvan #orla #nathair

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horizoncrew · 4 years ago

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The Promise a Knife Makes

It was a mistake. He felt it rising in his gut over dinner, setting his haunches on edge. A sickening twist of fear and regret that made his stomach curl and left him fighting to keep his food down. Christopher's eyes pinning him down all the while. Even half way across the room, he could nearly feel the way the boy's knife tore into their meal. It set a flightiness through his body. His legs buzzing and shaking in his seat. Always ready to spring like a rabbit to safety as soon as there was a hint of movement. Still, there was no place that would hold out for long, not in the dining hall at least. So he went about the meal as always, manners perfect head down but always aware of trailing eyes watching each bite go down.

It was nervousness that sent Varrisidan fleeing from the dinning hall at a quick measured pace. If he ran Christopher would be on him in a moment. It's best to let him think his prey was unaware, let him amuse himself in a job well done and slip away when he caught up in self congratulation. So he settled on an almost lazy pacing of the halls, trying his best not to cast glances over his shoulder.

Four hallways that's all he needed to get through. The study had a lock on it and had long served him as a hideaway. A quick right down a side hallway, frequented by staff Christopher wouldn't get him here. He slackened his pace as he took the next turns, pausing every once in awhile to fake at appraising the artwork. Even stopping to make small talk with a maid that passed by, practice keeping the panicked canter of his heart out of his voice, using the moment to cast casual glances over his shoulder. Nothing, not a single sign.

Even as he paced through the corridors, the nothing continued. Stone walls that seemed to wind and weave around his view, giving plenty of places for a volatile boy to hide, gave no stranger around the corner. While groans and creaks gave the signs of a peruser, not a single hair of Christopher was to be found.

Then there was the door to his study. Just within arms reach. Just a few few steps away. He could hide out till Christopher blew off his steam or just got distracted. Maybe breeze through a few more books on Exandrian history. All he had to do was push open the old oak door, slide the lock, and his safe space would be his again. There was nothing stopping him after all. He had not seen a single trace of the other noble.

His paranoia had probably gotten to him again, tricked him into thinking Christopher was angrier than he was. One lucky match was not going to strip Chistopher's title of king of the blade. Why would he care about the leech getting the better of him once. He was over thinking things again. It would not have been the first time he had heard footsteps that were only a figments of fear. No, Varrisidan thought gripping the doorknob and turning, this time was a false alarm.

Then his jaw collided with a solid. He wobbled, careening back from the wall. His feet tripping to keep balance before a hand tangled in his hair and yanked. The grip reacquainting his face with the wall and his knees to the floor. Grinding flesh against stone till his skin burned and bit. He focused hard on the wall, ignoring the hard pull of the hand in his hair or the person it belonged to. However he could not ignore the growling rasp next to his ear.

"Where do you think you're going leech?"

Spittle flew where Christopher bit at his words. Varrisidan trying not to flinch as it left a layer of saliva on his ear. His gaze stayed steady. He’d rather not see the triumphant smirk on Christopher’s face.

"Thought you would slink off after that stunt? Cheat out on a punishment?”

He never assumed he’d get off scott free.

“Well?”

It was foolish to even allow the Swordsmaster to wheedle him into a fight.

“ANSWER ME!”

The man had obviously only wanted to see him lose to his prize pupil after all.

A sharp twist to his head startled him out of his thoughts. His neck straining at an unnatural angle, aching with the force that now brought him face to face with blazing eyes.

“I will not be ignored by something as pathetic as you. Don’t you know better than to disregard your betters. A fluke giving a worm a spine?”

The drow affixed him with a blank gaze, that drove the older boy to fury. Grating his captives face again against the wall. Thin slices of dark red breaking out of the grey skin. Settling unnaturally with their bright contrast. Still the gaze stayed.

“Do you have nothing to say? You knife eared bastard?”

Varrisidan knew laying limp was always the best bet. Prevent whatever satisfaction they would get from seeing if ‘the spiderblood was as violent as the tales’, but a rising bitterness was growing in him. He fought off a growl.

Perhaps Christopher was right; something as simple as a fluke win had given him a spine, or perhaps this was something that had been festering for far longer. A burning resentment held down for too long to now bubble over the edge. Either way his actions were the same.

He is gaze grew sharper, a dark grin managing to flicker through his mangled face and the speckled bits of blood that flecked his teeth. It was a feral triumphant snarl that even Christopher has to stagger at. An expression solely of teeth and rancor.

“Better?” Varrisidan spat. “In what? Swordsmanship? I’d give you that. My win was from a lucky shot, but I won did I not?”

Chistopher’s face flickered. Mouth setting into a thin line.

“What then? Studies? Tactics? Diplomacy?” Varrisidan threw out before his mouth settled into a look of soft satisfaction. “Please we are both smart enough to know you would not fool yourself with such notions.”

Varrisidan relished in the anger that jolted through the other boy’s eyes. Then he saw something different. Resentment? No. Acceptance. So that was it.

“A better heir? Is that what you think?”

The stupefied surprise in which Christopher regarded nearly drew Varrisidan to laugh.

“Of course! Of course,” The drow continued in mocking joviality.

Christopher seemed to regain his voice. “Well? In what world would a half borne whelp like you be better than me?”

A defiant fire rose in Varrisidan then, pulling his expression into a smug smirk.

“This one.”

Christopher’s eyes snapped to the drow. The smoldering embers of anger flaring back to life. Varrisidan held the gaze.

“What?” Christopher growled.

“This world Lord Christopher, if you were worthy of being named heir you would be. My father has made no inclinations he would not replace me the moment he desires it. You are not the heir not because of any favoritism. You are not the heir because Father thinks you are less than me. Less than a ‘leech’ and never will be.”

The trance over the older boy broke and his fury crashed like a wave. Christopher savagely yanked on his hair. Hand smashing Varrisidan’s head into the wall. The drow ricocheting off the surface, bouncing like a coiled spring. The noble wrenched Varrisidan up by the collar, and slammed his knee into the boy’s chest again and again, till the boy’s breathes came in hiccuping gasps and that dammed smirk was nowhere in sight.

Varrisidan could barely make out the other boy in his daze clouded vision. His panic shocked body focusing on heaving to get whatever semblance of air it could. He barely noticed when the blows stopped till his vision returned and saw a furious gaze meet him. It far from the quick burning anger he expected. The kind that blew off and left him nursing his wounds. There was a crazed vengeful light behind it that Varrisidan did not understand till he felt something cold against his neck. His eyes flickered to the source and ice replaced the blood in his veins. It was a carving knife from the dining room.

“Well that’s a new look” Christopher sneered. “So I cannot be King then. While you are so capable Fine!” Some twisted laugh escaped the boy. “Fine! I’ll carve you till I can.”

A nauseous wave flooded through Varrisidan as soon as he felt the first prick of the metal. “Y-you are not s-second in line,” the drow just barely managed to quail. “You would be exiled the moment you laid a blade to anyone but me.”

There must have been some semblance of reason behind the crazed haze for Christopher stopped. Leaving a trickle of blood to flow under the cold metal. But the pause of consideration was momentary, as a new grin snaked onto the young noble’s face and he spoke in a manic flurry.

“Fine then. I make myself like a king. You will help me of course. I’ll have you begging to serve me like a whimpering whore. Waiting on my every need Your Majesty. My name as close as carved upon your back and the throne by your volition.”

“Why?” Varrisidan breathed.

Christopher’s face turned stone solid, his breathe rasping against the half drow’s skin as the expression hardened and his tone grew taught.

“Because if you in anyway stop me from getting what I want, now or ever again, I’ll mutilate you till even the carrion can’t recognize you.” Christopher’s lips curled back into that unsettling half smile. “Understood... partner?”

With a quavering breath Varrisidan faintly nodded.

“I couldn’t hear that.” The boy spat.

“Understood.”

“Good.” And with that the knife was drawn away. The young noble cackled as he tossed the halfdrow away. The boy crumpling like a rag doll when he hit the floor with unceremonious thud. The faint trailing of a phrase could be heard as Christopher sauntered off around the corner “Mother is going to be oh so proud.”

As soon as the young noble rounded the corner, Varrisidan allowed a low keening whimper to finally escape him. His breath came in hitching sobs that he struggled futilely to muffle. The young drow curled in on himself, checking along his neck and face for the cuts he had been left with. At least I’m fine for now.

He laid there as minutes passed simply attempting to level his breathe and dab at his neck when the pooling blood grew to irritation. That was when he heard the clicking of heavy boots. Varrisidian’s eyes darted to the entry ways fearing it was Christopher again or someone with less restraint than him. At his level on the floor he watched as ornate metal shod boots approached him, a dark fur lined cloak swaying behind him. Varrisidan struggled to look up at the golden haired man that towered above him with a blank stare.

“F-Father.”

The man’s expression barely changed the only sign of acknowledgement being a twitch of his brow, as he turned, entered the study, and locked the door.

#original work #varrisidan #christopher

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