#I didn't think Bal would latch onto the words that closely

[thewolfisawake]

The gaunt face and wispy locks of their mother peered down. Today it was scowling...she wasn't pleased. They couldn't quite understand her words but memorized them still. It would centuries before understanding her words were ramblings of disdain. That day particular cursing their appearance, their nature. How pitiable they were the last shot. A flitting sense passed them...they weren't sure on it.

You're just like him.

They stared at ghillie dhu, mismatched eyes wide. Not quite sure of the details but they knew that they were being sent away. With the people--fae--they were told to avoid. Not good folks. And Mawr had been the one to head the exchange. He said such unkind words and though they didn't understand, it brought a pain in their chest. How could they be hurt without bleeding? How could it hurt so much? How could he do this?

You're just like him.

They spat out that horrid concoction. The bile a combination of a sickly green and the silver of his blood. It burned and threatened to make their innards raw. Despite their effort, they retched again and again. Acid shearing their throat, the physical battering secondary to the pain from it. And seeing their own vitality splattered across the dirt was a crawling, chilling realization that some part of them was destroyed. A rasp escaping them making it evident, their voice was lost. A broken yet frenzied gaze turned to the perpetrators. One jubilant. One sorry, pitying. And it was the latter that brought it all about and did nothing to spare them.

You're just like him.

He was splayed beneath the man. Painted with a coyness while revulsion roiled within. It was one thing to sleep with the commander. It was another to do so knowing Mhoirbheinn watched him be dragged off. He hadn't wished to leave his friend but the commander was fickle. Especially when Mhoirbheinn pissed him off. The superior gave no thought as he inserted himself and while painful, it wasn't the worst that's been done to him. There were three goals in mind that night: butter up the bastard (as he's been doing), to reconsider his plans an upcoming skirmish, and most importantly, keep him from doing any further retribution to his friend. If it meant being taken with all the grace of horsetail, so be it.

Yet, he had woefully underestimated the irritation and the disdain the commander held for his association. Blood and ashes, it hurt. Of course, the other was uncaring of the pain. Nor did he care of bites and bruises that ravaged his frame. To his superior, he was an object of desire and tool for his games.

You're just like him.

He knew Foirtchern was playing some game. He had too much confidence about coming to the throne room. Despite having never been present in Unseelie in centuries, almost seemed to understand its workings still. And he knew what to bring up. Balmoral was suspicious of him from the beginning. Yet he decided to avoided speaking the link between them. Because he knew his misdeeds were interspersed with the topic. He thought he could avoid much of it if he was decisive and could speak the right words. And Foirtchern knew he would. And he had said it hadn't he? How he inherited the same skill...though Balmoral could only now see he was nascent compared to Abyssborn's use. How Balmoral too would weave through deceit and omission.

You're just like him.

Witnessing the perpetrator to a massacre had shaken some up. However, Bal remained undeterred. Red and silver gore trailed up and down the manor. And a certain trail led to a man. Shattered around his entrails and sinew were remnants of a mask. He only knew of him through tales but something told him this was one that his mother wished vengeance on. Already taken out. He didn't know why.

No, that was untrue. At least now it was. He knew this man died because of his cruelty and disregard. Balmoral knew that he had two childred, the younger he disdained yet would not waste. He told that child he was mistake, a spare and that he should have been grateful for his purpose. Then continued to ignore that child despite the unknowing squalor he let him be raised in and the mistreatment from his 'heir.' Bhaltair Rathais died a death that was likely deplorable in his own eyes. He was abhorrent in memory and reason to his killer--his so called spare--and he was unforgivable in every sense to Balmoral.

And he was just like him.

It drove the fae to consciousness. Balmoral shot up, a stinging permeating in his chest. A stinging that became a stab as he noticed...sensed...the coldness and emptiness beside him. He expected no less.

He was a swindler. He was a betrayer. He was an accomplice to misery. He was a user, uncaring of whom he took advantage of. He was manipulator. He was cause for suffering for someone he said innumerable times he loved. This was just deserving of his sins throughout his existence.

Balmoral looked down at his hand. Slowly unfurling his clutched hand, showed a signet ring. The edges having cut into his palm, staining it alongside another. There on his middle finger was a band of silver, vibrant against the dried blood. He closed his hand again to see the dark stone housed within. A gift he was wholly unworthy of.

"...Ha..." he said resting his head against it. To still wish despite all he's done, "...what a wretched creature I am."