Chapter 104: 104
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(Soren's perspective)
In truth I am not sure whether Serena will wake up at all. Her body is weak, so weak, and so incredibly fragile that any minor ailment, any inconvenience, even another drop of blood lost could send her spiralling into a permanent blackness that no amount of desperate searching could retrieve her from. Heavily, I breathe out a sigh, bringing my hand to my forehead to steady the pounding of my head. I can't lose her. Not now. Not ever. There has to be a way to save her- there must be.
I struggle to maintain composure against the lurching sob that rises in my throat, cradling her in my hands as I pick her up and carry her to my room. She feels incredibly fragile, as though one slip might send her crumbling into dust, the thought of which is enough to send my gorge rising. Fancy a vampire caring about a mortal, or caring at all for that matter. Maybe she is right after all, maybe I am not so much of a monster as I make myself out to be.
As I carry her, I run the pad of my thumb lovingly over her cheek. A stupid action really, sentimental, yet still there is a part of me that naively hopes that my touch might restore some colour in her cheeks, or wash away that icy pallor that has settled over her body. Her skin is cold, stiff, and as wintry as a lake on an icy morning, bleached white against the paleness of the sun hidden behind the careless clouds. Coiling tendrils of darkness- my darkness- swirl around her being, reducing her breath to a shallow smoulder in her chest, and drawing out that delicate flush of her cheeks into little more than an ashen parody of what it once was. She might almost look dead if it weren't for the twitch of her eyes under their lids, thrown into the lulling softness of a never ending dream. But the thought unsettles me, so I hastily shove it aside. I am not going to let her die. Not now, not ever.
Gently, I place her down on my bed, fetching a blanket from my cupboard to throw over her as I offer her one more kiss on her forehead, stroking her hair with a tender softness.
"I will save you," I promise, bowing my head low. "Whatever it takes."
Silently, I beg to whatever deities bless this earth that she might have heard my call. Then with one final breath and a stroke of her head for good luck, I whisk myself away into the blackness. Time will wait for no one, not the immortal, and especially not the dying. It is a fact I know all too well.
Seconds later I am in the dining halls, standing in the huge, arching entrance of gold flanked pillars, the white marble gleaming with the reflection of elves and faeries and sprites eating their dinner, and of pale vampires who gleam like diamonds under the light of the candles and floating lanterns, drinking blood and feasting on half raw steaks of meat in a manner that is somehow both enchanting and revolting at the same time. I never did much enjoy feasting with them, but I am not here for feasting, I am here to talk. With one hideous vampire in particular.
Azrael is where anyone would expect him to find: swaggering among crowds of swooning girls and pretty Faey folk, all bedecked in jewellery and wealth as if the only display of power in this place was one of finery. How wrong they are. From both his heart and the languid posture he sets himself in, hips cocked at one side, a hand half pulled through his hair, shirt open to reveal the scar that he boasts like a war trophy, it isn't difficult to tell that he has forgotten all about our little conversation.
That is until I walk in.
At the sight of me, Azrael's body goes stiff, and from outward appearance one might presume the culprit of such an action to be fear, or suspense, but the emotional turmoil of his heart tells me differently- Azrael is not afraid to see me, no. He is frustrated.
It never used to be like this.
Azrael and I, for the most part, got on rather amicably as young princes. We hunted together through the forests fearlessly with the boast of immortality on our side, we laughed together, we shared blood wine, and drunk until we were drunk over meals in the private dining halls when our parents were still around. But there is one indisputable fact that separates him from me, a fact that manifested an immovable wedge of hatred in our later years.
Azrael was born practically powerless. The only thing he ever excelled at was glamouring women and sweet talking the masses to compel them into his bedroom- and perhaps that could be considered an asset in itself in the world of lusty vampires, if it weren't for our parents. To them, he was a failure. Against him, I was the perfect child, devious, sly, witty and charming. I had enough good looks to seduce the entire population if I so saw fit, but morals and responsibility enough to understand that I needed a permanent mate if I ever wanted to surpass my parents. Yet this alone would not have compelled Azrael to the bitterness he now harbours, no. It was the fact that I had a soul, and all the power a vampire prince could ever want while he alone stood for nothing, powerless and belittled, while I quelled the masses in fear of my wrath and magic. I was a tyrant, and he was a mouse.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.
I was a fool to leave Azrael unattended for so long, for thinking that he would be fine after countless centuries of my parents belittling him for his hopeless lack of power. It was only until after my parents died that something changed in him. He became obsessed with magic, black magic, demons, souls, and would disappear for hours on end, perhaps to study, or perhaps for other, more questionable things. It was obvious what he wanted: my power, my throne, my place to rule.
Bitterness started to boil in his blood, in his veins, consuming him like the rage that was slowly nibbling away at his heart, tearing him down piece by sullen piece. He became chaotic, defying my rules, creating halflings to run rampant over the palace walls, killing other vampires for little more than the sake of doing so and laughing it off when I reprimanded him. Attempts to sabotage my court meetings became frequent, and pretty soon he had slept with nearly every vampire in the whole of Sezeria. I think he must have done it to show me he had some power, some strength over me, but that didn't matter: he was out of control.
So one day I snapped.
I snapped his neck, too.
And then everything seemed to stop. Azrael... quieted- for the most part. His antics stopped. But a murderer doesn't stop a lifetime of murdering just because you ask him too. I almost laugh out loud to myself.
How foolish I was.
I should have seen the link months after when people started disappearing, people from all over, vampires, tieflings, elves, faeries, and all manner of Folk, simply overnight. It started off slow at first, one or two, and then soon, over thirty were disappearing in a week. Meanwhile, Azrael was making a name for himself in my court, taking what he wanted and fucking any woman who showed even a minor interest in his charms- of course they were all happy to do so. For the first time in his life, Azrael was getting powerful. I should have seen what was happening, should have realised.
Azrael hadn't stopped his schemes. He had just gone undercover.
Raising a hand to my head, I press it against my forehead and breath a lengthy sigh. It's too late to lament about the past now. Even if I have been a first class idiot.
A little white fox breaks me from my thoughts, scampering from out of the shadows of a table to trot by my heels. No one else in the room seems to care, content on dining on the fine cuts of steak and venison, and long aged wines as if they hardly cared for my presence in the room at all, as if it didn't make them nervous to see my shadows sweeping up the room into a false, inky darkness. But the nervous sideways looks they shoot me every few seconds tells me differently. Not that I really care what they think. I spare a small glance downwards.
"Tell me," I say lowly, not to anyone in particular, though the little fox seems to know the question is for him. His ears flick upwards, waiting. "How long have you and Serena known about Azrael's soul? About his powers?"
Something slows in the foxes pace beside me, perhaps taken aback by the seemingly cordial nature of my otherwise threat-less remark, his little antenna glowing tensely as we nearer Azrael from across the room, trained by the phantom red eyes that mark out our pathway across the dining room. Darkness trails in my wake like a tidal wave on the ocean.
We thought you knew, to be honest.
Comes the fox's honest reply, and even with him speaking in my mind, his voice heavy with an air of caution. Woodfoxes certainly are the most curious of creatures- and this one seems to know it's companion well. He alone certainly has made my life (and advances) a rather difficult procedure over the past few weeks, and it would be a blatant lie to say I do not still hold an ounce of resentment for him for breaking Serena's heart once. Yet there is an equal brokenness in this foxes own heart, a solemn ache that makes me believe that perhaps he and I aren't so different after all. I suppose even a fox can have it's heart broken. And if all else, he truly cares about her, deep within his tiny beating heart. I suppose that in itself is rather respectable for a fox. If he truly is a fox.
The voice in my head continues.
After the masquerade my Queen spent hours trying to figure out the nature of his powers after Azrael told her about them. I think it was to threaten her- he probably didn't expect her to take it seriously. But it doesn't matter anyway, his powers can't touch her.
I raise my brow.
Can't touch her?
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(Soren's perspective)
In truth I am not sure whether Serena will wake up at all. Her body is weak, so weak, and so incredibly fragile that any minor ailment, any inconvenience, even another drop of blood lost could send her spiralling into a permanent blackness that no amount of desperate searching could retrieve her from. Heavily, I breathe out a sigh, bringing my hand to my forehead to steady the pounding of my head. I can't lose her. Not now. Not ever. There has to be a way to save her- there must be.
I struggle to maintain composure against the lurching sob that rises in my throat, cradling her in my hands as I pick her up and carry her to my room. She feels incredibly fragile, as though one slip might send her crumbling into dust, the thought of which is enough to send my gorge rising. Fancy a vampire caring about a mortal, or caring at all for that matter. Maybe she is right after all, maybe I am not so much of a monster as I make myself out to be.
As I carry her, I run the pad of my thumb lovingly over her cheek. A stupid action really, sentimental, yet still there is a part of me that naively hopes that my touch might restore some colour in her cheeks, or wash away that icy pallor that has settled over her body. Her skin is cold, stiff, and as wintry as a lake on an icy morning, bleached white against the paleness of the sun hidden behind the careless clouds. Coiling tendrils of darkness- my darkness- swirl around her being, reducing her breath to a shallow smoulder in her chest, and drawing out that delicate flush of her cheeks into little more than an ashen parody of what it once was. She might almost look dead if it weren't for the twitch of her eyes under their lids, thrown into the lulling softness of a never ending dream. But the thought unsettles me, so I hastily shove it aside. I am not going to let her die. Not now, not ever.
Gently, I place her down on my bed, fetching a blanket from my cupboard to throw over her as I offer her one more kiss on her forehead, stroking her hair with a tender softness.
"I will save you," I promise, bowing my head low. "Whatever it takes."
Silently, I beg to whatever deities bless this earth that she might have heard my call. Then with one final breath and a stroke of her head for good luck, I whisk myself away into the blackness. Time will wait for no one, not the immortal, and especially not the dying. It is a fact I know all too well.
Seconds later I am in the dining halls, standing in the huge, arching entrance of gold flanked pillars, the white marble gleaming with the reflection of elves and faeries and sprites eating their dinner, and of pale vampires who gleam like diamonds under the light of the candles and floating lanterns, drinking blood and feasting on half raw steaks of meat in a manner that is somehow both enchanting and revolting at the same time. I never did much enjoy feasting with them, but I am not here for feasting, I am here to talk. With one hideous vampire in particular.
Azrael is where anyone would expect him to find: swaggering among crowds of swooning girls and pretty Faey folk, all bedecked in jewellery and wealth as if the only display of power in this place was one of finery. How wrong they are. From both his heart and the languid posture he sets himself in, hips cocked at one side, a hand half pulled through his hair, shirt open to reveal the scar that he boasts like a war trophy, it isn't difficult to tell that he has forgotten all about our little conversation.
That is until I walk in.
At the sight of me, Azrael's body goes stiff, and from outward appearance one might presume the culprit of such an action to be fear, or suspense, but the emotional turmoil of his heart tells me differently- Azrael is not afraid to see me, no. He is frustrated.
It never used to be like this.
Azrael and I, for the most part, got on rather amicably as young princes. We hunted together through the forests fearlessly with the boast of immortality on our side, we laughed together, we shared blood wine, and drunk until we were drunk over meals in the private dining halls when our parents were still around. But there is one indisputable fact that separates him from me, a fact that manifested an immovable wedge of hatred in our later years.
Azrael was born practically powerless. The only thing he ever excelled at was glamouring women and sweet talking the masses to compel them into his bedroom- and perhaps that could be considered an asset in itself in the world of lusty vampires, if it weren't for our parents. To them, he was a failure. Against him, I was the perfect child, devious, sly, witty and charming. I had enough good looks to seduce the entire population if I so saw fit, but morals and responsibility enough to understand that I needed a permanent mate if I ever wanted to surpass my parents. Yet this alone would not have compelled Azrael to the bitterness he now harbours, no. It was the fact that I had a soul, and all the power a vampire prince could ever want while he alone stood for nothing, powerless and belittled, while I quelled the masses in fear of my wrath and magic. I was a tyrant, and he was a mouse.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.
I was a fool to leave Azrael unattended for so long, for thinking that he would be fine after countless centuries of my parents belittling him for his hopeless lack of power. It was only until after my parents died that something changed in him. He became obsessed with magic, black magic, demons, souls, and would disappear for hours on end, perhaps to study, or perhaps for other, more questionable things. It was obvious what he wanted: my power, my throne, my place to rule.
Bitterness started to boil in his blood, in his veins, consuming him like the rage that was slowly nibbling away at his heart, tearing him down piece by sullen piece. He became chaotic, defying my rules, creating halflings to run rampant over the palace walls, killing other vampires for little more than the sake of doing so and laughing it off when I reprimanded him. Attempts to sabotage my court meetings became frequent, and pretty soon he had slept with nearly every vampire in the whole of Sezeria. I think he must have done it to show me he had some power, some strength over me, but that didn't matter: he was out of control.
So one day I snapped.
I snapped his neck, too.
And then everything seemed to stop. Azrael... quieted- for the most part. His antics stopped. But a murderer doesn't stop a lifetime of murdering just because you ask him too. I almost laugh out loud to myself.
How foolish I was.
I should have seen the link months after when people started disappearing, people from all over, vampires, tieflings, elves, faeries, and all manner of Folk, simply overnight. It started off slow at first, one or two, and then soon, over thirty were disappearing in a week. Meanwhile, Azrael was making a name for himself in my court, taking what he wanted and fucking any woman who showed even a minor interest in his charms- of course they were all happy to do so. For the first time in his life, Azrael was getting powerful. I should have seen what was happening, should have realised.
Azrael hadn't stopped his schemes. He had just gone undercover.
Raising a hand to my head, I press it against my forehead and breath a lengthy sigh. It's too late to lament about the past now. Even if I have been a first class idiot.
A little white fox breaks me from my thoughts, scampering from out of the shadows of a table to trot by my heels. No one else in the room seems to care, content on dining on the fine cuts of steak and venison, and long aged wines as if they hardly cared for my presence in the room at all, as if it didn't make them nervous to see my shadows sweeping up the room into a false, inky darkness. But the nervous sideways looks they shoot me every few seconds tells me differently. Not that I really care what they think. I spare a small glance downwards.
"Tell me," I say lowly, not to anyone in particular, though the little fox seems to know the question is for him. His ears flick upwards, waiting. "How long have you and Serena known about Azrael's soul? About his powers?"
Something slows in the foxes pace beside me, perhaps taken aback by the seemingly cordial nature of my otherwise threat-less remark, his little antenna glowing tensely as we nearer Azrael from across the room, trained by the phantom red eyes that mark out our pathway across the dining room. Darkness trails in my wake like a tidal wave on the ocean.
We thought you knew, to be honest.
Comes the fox's honest reply, and even with him speaking in my mind, his voice heavy with an air of caution. Woodfoxes certainly are the most curious of creatures- and this one seems to know it's companion well. He alone certainly has made my life (and advances) a rather difficult procedure over the past few weeks, and it would be a blatant lie to say I do not still hold an ounce of resentment for him for breaking Serena's heart once. Yet there is an equal brokenness in this foxes own heart, a solemn ache that makes me believe that perhaps he and I aren't so different after all. I suppose even a fox can have it's heart broken. And if all else, he truly cares about her, deep within his tiny beating heart. I suppose that in itself is rather respectable for a fox. If he truly is a fox.
The voice in my head continues.
After the masquerade my Queen spent hours trying to figure out the nature of his powers after Azrael told her about them. I think it was to threaten her- he probably didn't expect her to take it seriously. But it doesn't matter anyway, his powers can't touch her.
I raise my brow.
Can't touch her?
Soren's perspectiveIn truth I am not sure whether Serena will wake up at all. Her body is weak, so weak, and so incredibly fragile that any minor ailment, any inconvenience, even another drop of blood lost could send her spiralling into a permanent blackness that no amount of desperate searching could retrieve her from. Heavily, I breathe out a sigh, bringing my hand to my forehead to steady the pounding of my head. I can't lose her. Not now. Not ever. There has to be a way to save her- there must be.I struggle to maintain composure against the lurching sob that rises in my throat, cradling her in my hands as I pick her up and carry her to my room. She feels incredibly fragile, as though one slip might send her crumbling into dust, the thought of which is enough to send my gorge rising. Fancy a vampire caring about a mortal, or caring at all for that matter. Maybe she is right after all, maybe I am not so much of a monster as I make myself out to be.As I carry her, I run the pad of my thumb lovingly over her cheek. A stupid action really, sentimental, yet still there is a part of me that naively hopes that my touch might restore some colour in her cheeks, or wash away that icy pallor that has settled over her body. Her skin is cold, stiff, and as wintry as a lake on an icy morning, bleached white against the paleness of the sun hidden behind the careless clouds. Coiling tendrils of darkness- my darkness- swirl around her being, reducing her breath to a shallow smoulder in her chest, and drawing out that delicate flush of her cheeks into little more than an ashen parody of what it once was. She might almost look dead if it weren't for the twitch of her eyes under their lids, thrown into the lulling softness of a never ending dream. But the thought unsettles me, so I hastily shove it aside. I am not going to let her die. Not now, not ever.Gently, I place her down on my bed, fetching a blanket from my cupboard to throw over her as I offer her one more kiss on her forehead, stroking her hair with a tender softness. "I will save you," I promise, bowing my head low. "Whatever it takes."Silently, I beg to whatever deities bless this earth that she might have heard my call. Then with one final breath and a stroke of her head for good luck, I whisk myself away into the blackness. Time will wait for no one, not the immortal, and especially not the dying. It is a fact I know all too well.Seconds later I am in the dining halls, standing in the huge, arching entrance of gold flanked pillars, the white marble gleaming with the reflection of elves and faeries and sprites eating their dinner, and of pale vampires who gleam like diamonds under the light of the candles and floating lanterns, drinking blood and feasting on half raw steaks of meat in a manner that is somehow both enchanting and revolting at the same time. I never did much enjoy feasting with them, but I am not here for feasting, I am here to talk. With one hideous vampire in particular.Azrael is where anyone would expect him to find: swaggering among crowds of swooning girls and pretty Faey folk, all bedecked in jewellery and wealth as if the only display of power in this place was one of finery. How wrong they are. From both his heart and the languid posture he sets himself in, hips cocked at one side, a hand half pulled through his hair, shirt open to reveal the scar that he boasts like a war trophy, it isn't difficult to tell that he has forgotten all about our little conversation. That is until I walk in. At the sight of me, Azrael's body goes stiff, and from outward appearance one might presume the culprit of such an action to be fear, or suspense, but the emotional turmoil of his heart tells me differently- Azrael is not afraid to see me, no. He is frustrated. It never used to be like this. Azrael and I, for the most part, got on rather amicably as young princes. We hunted together through the forests fearlessly with the boast of immortality on our side, we laughed together, we shared blood wine, and drunk until we were drunk over meals in the private dining halls when our parents were still around. But there is one indisputable fact that separates him from me, a fact that manifested an immovable wedge of hatred in our later years.Azrael was born practically powerless. The only thing he ever excelled at was glamouring women and sweet talking the masses to compel them into his bedroom- and perhaps that could be considered an asset in itself in the world of lusty vampires, if it weren't for our parents. To them, he was a failure. Against him, I was the perfect child, devious, sly, witty and charming. I had enough good looks to seduce the entire population if I so saw fit, but morals and responsibility enough to understand that I needed a permanent mate if I ever wanted to surpass my parents. Yet this alone would not have compelled Azrael to the bitterness he now harbours, no. It was the fact that I had a soul, and all the power a vampire prince could ever want while he alone stood for nothing, powerless and belittled, while I quelled the masses in fear of my wrath and magic. I was a tyrant, and he was a mouse.In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.I was a fool to leave Azrael unattended for so long, for thinking that he would be fine after countless centuries of my parents belittling him for his hopeless lack of power. It was only until after my parents died that something changed in him. He became obsessed with magic, black magic, demons, souls, and would disappear for hours on end, perhaps to study, or perhaps for other, more questionable things. It was obvious what he wanted: my power, my throne, my place to rule. Bitterness started to boil in his blood, in his veins, consuming him like the rage that was slowly nibbling away at his heart, tearing him down piece by sullen piece. He became chaotic, defying my rules, creating halflings to run rampant over the palace walls, killing other vampires for little more than the sake of doing so and laughing it off when I reprimanded him. Attempts to sabotage my court meetings became frequent, and pretty soon he had slept with nearly every vampire in the whole of Sezeria. I think he must have done it to show me he had some power, some strength over me, but that didn't matter: he was out of control.So one day I snapped.I snapped his neck, too.And then everything seemed to stop. Azrael... quieted- for the most part. His antics stopped. But a murderer doesn't stop a lifetime of murdering just because you ask him too. I almost laugh out loud to myself.How foolish I was.I should have seen the link months after when people started disappearing, people from all over, vampires, tieflings, elves, faeries, and all manner of Folk, simply overnight. It started off slow at first, one or two, and then soon, over thirty were disappearing in a week. Meanwhile, Azrael was making a name for himself in my court, taking what he wanted and fucking any woman who showed even a minor interest in his charms- of course they were all happy to do so. For the first time in his life, Azrael was getting powerful. I should have seen what was happening, should have realised. Azrael hadn't stopped his schemes. He had just gone undercover.Raising a hand to my head, I press it against my forehead and breath a lengthy sigh. It's too late to lament about the past now. Even if I have been a first class idiot.A little white fox breaks me from my thoughts, scampering from out of the shadows of a table to trot by my heels. No one else in the room seems to care, content on dining on the fine cuts of steak and venison, and long aged wines as if they hardly cared for my presence in the room at all, as if it didn't make them nervous to see my shadows sweeping up the room into a false, inky darkness. But the nervous sideways looks they shoot me every few seconds tells me differently. Not that I really care what they think. I spare a small glance downwards. "Tell me," I say lowly, not to anyone in particular, though the little fox seems to know the question is for him. His ears flick upwards, waiting. "How long have you and Serena known about Azrael's soul? About his powers?"Something slows in the foxes pace beside me, perhaps taken aback by the seemingly cordial nature of my otherwise threat-less remark, his little antenna glowing tensely as we nearer Azrael from across the room, trained by the phantom red eyes that mark out our pathway across the dining room. Darkness trails in my wake like a tidal wave on the ocean.We thought you knew, to be honest.Comes the fox's honest reply, and even with him speaking in my mind, his voice heavy with an air of caution. Woodfoxes certainly are the most curious of creatures- and this one seems to know it's companion well. He alone certainly has made my life and advances a rather difficult procedure over the past few weeks, and it would be a blatant lie to say I do not still hold an ounce of resentment for him for breaking Serena's heart once. Yet there is an equal brokenness in this foxes own heart, a solemn ache that makes me believe that perhaps he and I aren't so different after all. I suppose even a fox can have it's heart broken. And if all else, he truly cares about her, deep within his tiny beating heart. I suppose that in itself is rather respectable for a fox. If he truly is a fox. The voice in my head continues. After the masquerade my Queen spent hours trying to figure out the nature of his powers after Azrael told her about them. I think it was to threaten her- he probably didn't expect her to take it seriously. But it doesn't matter anyway, his powers can't touch her.I raise my brow.Can't touch her?
