Chapter 196: 196
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"If I got that necklace off you, I could make you anything I want. I could enchant your mind, reform it, make you susceptible to my every command. And there would be nothing you could do to stop it."
Such a thought is almost as repulsive as the vampire who swoons in front of me, enough to make my skin tingle with unease and my head flame with an unrestricted rage.
So angrily I turn away, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.
As if I was ever going to take off my necklace for him. As if I am ever going to become his wife. I am never going to so much as touch a foul creature as himself, the thought is too revolting to even sustain.
So I flash him the finger and turn swiftly from his sight, content not to waste another second letting him dote with his fantasies of world domination and sexual prowess.
Instead, I train my eyes on the lengthening shadows, over the two figures that have caught my attention from across the room, one rustling with life, the other slumped and lifeless, as though asleep. I know displaying any signs of affection towards them would only give Azrael incentive to hurt them, to force me to watch as he prods and pokes them and splinters their skin open like the shell of an egg. Because in the sadistic way that Azrael does, aside from asserting his dominance sexually on the Folk of Faey, he rather enjoys electing pain too- if only for the fun of it.
By the look of it, things have already gone down in this small little prison of a room that would demonstrate as such.
Ithuriel- still in fox form, has blood covering his muzzle, sticky and matted to the fur as his two toned eyes dart, his heart beating frantically in his chest. After inspection, taking a small sniff of the air to test my theory, I conclude that the blood is not the angel warrior's but of vampire origin. More specially, the bitter sweet scent of Azrael's blood, fresh with the scent of anger and a thick, maniacal glee.
There are other things that point to that same conclusion too.
There is a fresh binding around his muzzle, likely to stop any more incidents from occurring, but the bindings appear too tight, the skin around the muzzle constricting with red marked welts.
Glancing back at Azrael- whose body is sheened with a fine array of bloody claw marks and a slowly healing bite on his right leg, I can only deduce that the scratches and tears at Azrael's arms and legs are from none other but the warrior himself. Although the majority of them are healing- some even as I watch, closing over the loose skin until nothing remains but a fresh layer of smooth marble flesh, the feat is impressive in itself. After all, not just anyone can wound a vampire and get away with it. Given more time and the fact that nobody's life is on the line, I might have even congratulated him on that.
Truly, he is a wonderfully skilled warrior.
Then, over the clinking and chiming of bottles as Azrael works away at his station, a little voice calls out to me, frail yet familiar, and wearied by the toil of time and many, many restless nights.
Serena, Ithuriel's voice calls out to me in my mind. Are you alright?
From the side of my head, I nod, unwilling to reveal anything to the little white fox, just in case Azrael decides to slip into his mind once more. I can't risk having the plan revealed, not while we are so close to scuppering his own altogether.
So instead I say:
Don't worry about me, Ithuriel. I chose this path, now I just have to walk it. I know what lies before me.
Realising my apprehensiveness about talking, Ithuriel settles down, his fox eyes glimmering in the darkness, his body stilling as some sort of understanding rolls through him. Perhaps he already has realised I didn't come here alone.
Alright, I trust you. Ithuriel whispers in the back of my mind, giving me a small foxy smile that makes me long to see the real face of my companion once more- to be held in his arms, comforted, assured. Perhaps after this is all over, I will be able to, too.
When Angels and Vampires are joined once again.
Sighing fortuitously, my gaze drifts to the figure beside him. Noticing the shift in my gaze, Azrael calls out from behind me, a snide chuckle in his voice:
"Surprisingly, he didn't say a lot, my brother," he snickers, the tap of a heeled boot against the ground catching in my ears. A puff of purple smoke rolls us behind us as Azrael pours another vial into the chalice, swirling it around with long, bony fingers. "I thought maybe he had forgotten about you. Until he started muttering your name when he was half asleep, so I gave him some silver shots- that shut him up. He hasn't moved for ages, perhaps he has died," he cackles, but I pay him no mind.
True enough, the other form beside him looks barely alive. Sickly pale and all the more deathly looking, my stomach lurches at the sight of him, horror gnawing at my gut as I wonder whether there is some truth to Azrael's words after all.
Soren is slumped in silver chains: his body marred with red branding marks, glowing red hot where they touch the skin. There are signs of obvious struggle, the bruises on his chest- his shirt flung open and draped with crimson waterfalls of blood. There is a gash down his face, one that was likely created from Azrael's sadism rather than a pure struggle. Ordinarily these cuts and bruises, scratches and scraps would have all but disappeared by now, washed away by the magnificent healing properties of a vampire's blood. But silver laces his veins, poisoning his system as the silver chains around him burn into his flesh like molten rock. His recovery is slowed, everything put on hold to preserve the essential parts of life inside him.
The only sign of life is the flicker of movement beneath his eyelids, his consciousness caught deep in dream and lost to the tragedies of reality.
"Oh Soren," I murmur, just low enough that Azrael (who is still busy with some drastic looking preparations) does not catch my woeful laments.
I find it hard to believe, looking at his broken and crumpled form, that Soren had a plan for this to begin with, that he knew by coming down here he would not be killed. Perhaps he did not quite expect the extent of Azrael's preparations, or his willingness to so blindly head into violence, or perhaps he did, and simply let it happen.
At this point, I would not be surprised if he had used this as an opportunity to train me, to grow my powers, see the limits of my capabilities, and give me the courage to truly believe in them. For previously, my powers I relied on as a backup, not a viable weapon of war. My sword was my primary skill- it was trusty, and that is all that could be said about it. But choosing not to use my powers was foolish, and I think I must have realised a little too late just how useful they were. But down here in the maze, my powers were pushed to the limits- as was the boundaries on my mind.
I can only hope that Soren's soul is now re-merging with his corporeal form, after all, I am not sure how much longer I can keep Azrael busy for. Right on time, the monster himself chuckles darkly:
"Are you done staring at your little friends or do I have to drag you over here myself?" Azrael asks without looking, continuing his work over at his bench containing a marvellous array of deadly looking potions. Pursing my lips, I turn on my heel, giving him a cold hard glare from across the room.
"You don't. I am very much capable of moving myself. I was just inspecting your handiwork," I growl lowly, causing Azrael to slow for a moment. His nails tap insistently against the glass vials, a small smile lacing the corners of his mouth as the room slowly darkens.
"Handiwork," he chuckles to himself, but there is a poison lacing the edge of his voice. Tiptoeing my way around the chalked patterns etched onto the floor, fearing what I might conjure if I do. I'm not sure what is more terrifying: Azrael's wrath, or accidentally summoning a load of demons from who knows where.
"I still don't understand how you did it," I state, peering over to the contents of Azrael's desk, well enough away that the smoke does not fumigate my lungs. Azrael glances over.
"Did what?"
I gesture behind me, where the figures slump like corpses in the shadows.
"Managed to take them down," I sniff, trying to hide my disdain, and failing miserably. It is not particularly in my interest to seem intrigued into Azrael's wrong doings, but considering I am in great need to leech time off him, and would rather like to be prepared if he ever pulls that little stunt on me, I do so anyway. Better to be safe than sorry- is what Lilyana always used to say.
Continuing to pour a strange concoction of mixtures into the two chalices, Azrael ponders over the matter for a moment....
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"If I got that necklace off you, I could make you anything I want. I could enchant your mind, reform it, make you susceptible to my every command. And there would be nothing you could do to stop it."
Such a thought is almost as repulsive as the vampire who swoons in front of me, enough to make my skin tingle with unease and my head flame with an unrestricted rage.
So angrily I turn away, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.
As if I was ever going to take off my necklace for him. As if I am ever going to become his wife. I am never going to so much as touch a foul creature as himself, the thought is too revolting to even sustain.
So I flash him the finger and turn swiftly from his sight, content not to waste another second letting him dote with his fantasies of world domination and sexual prowess.
Instead, I train my eyes on the lengthening shadows, over the two figures that have caught my attention from across the room, one rustling with life, the other slumped and lifeless, as though asleep. I know displaying any signs of affection towards them would only give Azrael incentive to hurt them, to force me to watch as he prods and pokes them and splinters their skin open like the shell of an egg. Because in the sadistic way that Azrael does, aside from asserting his dominance sexually on the Folk of Faey, he rather enjoys electing pain too- if only for the fun of it.
By the look of it, things have already gone down in this small little prison of a room that would demonstrate as such.
Ithuriel- still in fox form, has blood covering his muzzle, sticky and matted to the fur as his two toned eyes dart, his heart beating frantically in his chest. After inspection, taking a small sniff of the air to test my theory, I conclude that the blood is not the angel warrior's but of vampire origin. More specially, the bitter sweet scent of Azrael's blood, fresh with the scent of anger and a thick, maniacal glee.
There are other things that point to that same conclusion too.
There is a fresh binding around his muzzle, likely to stop any more incidents from occurring, but the bindings appear too tight, the skin around the muzzle constricting with red marked welts.
Glancing back at Azrael- whose body is sheened with a fine array of bloody claw marks and a slowly healing bite on his right leg, I can only deduce that the scratches and tears at Azrael's arms and legs are from none other but the warrior himself. Although the majority of them are healing- some even as I watch, closing over the loose skin until nothing remains but a fresh layer of smooth marble flesh, the feat is impressive in itself. After all, not just anyone can wound a vampire and get away with it. Given more time and the fact that nobody's life is on the line, I might have even congratulated him on that.
Truly, he is a wonderfully skilled warrior.
Then, over the clinking and chiming of bottles as Azrael works away at his station, a little voice calls out to me, frail yet familiar, and wearied by the toil of time and many, many restless nights.
Serena, Ithuriel's voice calls out to me in my mind. Are you alright?
From the side of my head, I nod, unwilling to reveal anything to the little white fox, just in case Azrael decides to slip into his mind once more. I can't risk having the plan revealed, not while we are so close to scuppering his own altogether.
So instead I say:
Don't worry about me, Ithuriel. I chose this path, now I just have to walk it. I know what lies before me.
Realising my apprehensiveness about talking, Ithuriel settles down, his fox eyes glimmering in the darkness, his body stilling as some sort of understanding rolls through him. Perhaps he already has realised I didn't come here alone.
Alright, I trust you. Ithuriel whispers in the back of my mind, giving me a small foxy smile that makes me long to see the real face of my companion once more- to be held in his arms, comforted, assured. Perhaps after this is all over, I will be able to, too.
When Angels and Vampires are joined once again.
Sighing fortuitously, my gaze drifts to the figure beside him. Noticing the shift in my gaze, Azrael calls out from behind me, a snide chuckle in his voice:
"Surprisingly, he didn't say a lot, my brother," he snickers, the tap of a heeled boot against the ground catching in my ears. A puff of purple smoke rolls us behind us as Azrael pours another vial into the chalice, swirling it around with long, bony fingers. "I thought maybe he had forgotten about you. Until he started muttering your name when he was half asleep, so I gave him some silver shots- that shut him up. He hasn't moved for ages, perhaps he has died," he cackles, but I pay him no mind.
True enough, the other form beside him looks barely alive. Sickly pale and all the more deathly looking, my stomach lurches at the sight of him, horror gnawing at my gut as I wonder whether there is some truth to Azrael's words after all.
Soren is slumped in silver chains: his body marred with red branding marks, glowing red hot where they touch the skin. There are signs of obvious struggle, the bruises on his chest- his shirt flung open and draped with crimson waterfalls of blood. There is a gash down his face, one that was likely created from Azrael's sadism rather than a pure struggle. Ordinarily these cuts and bruises, scratches and scraps would have all but disappeared by now, washed away by the magnificent healing properties of a vampire's blood. But silver laces his veins, poisoning his system as the silver chains around him burn into his flesh like molten rock. His recovery is slowed, everything put on hold to preserve the essential parts of life inside him.
The only sign of life is the flicker of movement beneath his eyelids, his consciousness caught deep in dream and lost to the tragedies of reality.
"Oh Soren," I murmur, just low enough that Azrael (who is still busy with some drastic looking preparations) does not catch my woeful laments.
I find it hard to believe, looking at his broken and crumpled form, that Soren had a plan for this to begin with, that he knew by coming down here he would not be killed. Perhaps he did not quite expect the extent of Azrael's preparations, or his willingness to so blindly head into violence, or perhaps he did, and simply let it happen.
At this point, I would not be surprised if he had used this as an opportunity to train me, to grow my powers, see the limits of my capabilities, and give me the courage to truly believe in them. For previously, my powers I relied on as a backup, not a viable weapon of war. My sword was my primary skill- it was trusty, and that is all that could be said about it. But choosing not to use my powers was foolish, and I think I must have realised a little too late just how useful they were. But down here in the maze, my powers were pushed to the limits- as was the boundaries on my mind.
I can only hope that Soren's soul is now re-merging with his corporeal form, after all, I am not sure how much longer I can keep Azrael busy for. Right on time, the monster himself chuckles darkly:
"Are you done staring at your little friends or do I have to drag you over here myself?" Azrael asks without looking, continuing his work over at his bench containing a marvellous array of deadly looking potions. Pursing my lips, I turn on my heel, giving him a cold hard glare from across the room.
"You don't. I am very much capable of moving myself. I was just inspecting your handiwork," I growl lowly, causing Azrael to slow for a moment. His nails tap insistently against the glass vials, a small smile lacing the corners of his mouth as the room slowly darkens.
"Handiwork," he chuckles to himself, but there is a poison lacing the edge of his voice. Tiptoeing my way around the chalked patterns etched onto the floor, fearing what I might conjure if I do. I'm not sure what is more terrifying: Azrael's wrath, or accidentally summoning a load of demons from who knows where.
"I still don't understand how you did it," I state, peering over to the contents of Azrael's desk, well enough away that the smoke does not fumigate my lungs. Azrael glances over.
"Did what?"
I gesture behind me, where the figures slump like corpses in the shadows.
"Managed to take them down," I sniff, trying to hide my disdain, and failing miserably. It is not particularly in my interest to seem intrigued into Azrael's wrong doings, but considering I am in great need to leech time off him, and would rather like to be prepared if he ever pulls that little stunt on me, I do so anyway. Better to be safe than sorry- is what Lilyana always used to say.
Continuing to pour a strange concoction of mixtures into the two chalices, Azrael ponders over the matter for a moment....
"If I got that necklace off you, I could make you anything I want. I could enchant your mind, reform it, make you susceptible to my every command. And there would be nothing you could do to stop it."Such a thought is almost as repulsive as the vampire who swoons in front of me, enough to make my skin tingle with unease and my head flame with an unrestricted rage.So angrily I turn away, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.As if I was ever going to take off my necklace for him. As if I am ever going to become his wife. I am never going to so much as touch a foul creature as himself, the thought is too revolting to even sustain. So I flash him the finger and turn swiftly from his sight, content not to waste another second letting him dote with his fantasies of world domination and sexual prowess.Instead, I train my eyes on the lengthening shadows, over the two figures that have caught my attention from across the room, one rustling with life, the other slumped and lifeless, as though asleep. I know displaying any signs of affection towards them would only give Azrael incentive to hurt them, to force me to watch as he prods and pokes them and splinters their skin open like the shell of an egg. Because in the sadistic way that Azrael does, aside from asserting his dominance sexually on the Folk of Faey, he rather enjoys electing pain too- if only for the fun of it.By the look of it, things have already gone down in this small little prison of a room that would demonstrate as such.Ithuriel- still in fox form, has blood covering his muzzle, sticky and matted to the fur as his two toned eyes dart, his heart beating frantically in his chest. After inspection, taking a small sniff of the air to test my theory, I conclude that the blood is not the angel warrior's but of vampire origin. More specially, the bitter sweet scent of Azrael's blood, fresh with the scent of anger and a thick, maniacal glee.There are other things that point to that same conclusion too.There is a fresh binding around his muzzle, likely to stop any more incidents from occurring, but the bindings appear too tight, the skin around the muzzle constricting with red marked welts. Glancing back at Azrael- whose body is sheened with a fine array of bloody claw marks and a slowly healing bite on his right leg, I can only deduce that the scratches and tears at Azrael's arms and legs are from none other but the warrior himself. Although the majority of them are healing- some even as I watch, closing over the loose skin until nothing remains but a fresh layer of smooth marble flesh, the feat is impressive in itself. After all, not just anyone can wound a vampire and get away with it. Given more time and the fact that nobody's life is on the line, I might have even congratulated him on that.Truly, he is a wonderfully skilled warrior.Then, over the clinking and chiming of bottles as Azrael works away at his station, a little voice calls out to me, frail yet familiar, and wearied by the toil of time and many, many restless nights.Serena, Ithuriel's voice calls out to me in my mind. Are you alright?From the side of my head, I nod, unwilling to reveal anything to the little white fox, just in case Azrael decides to slip into his mind once more. I can't risk having the plan revealed, not while we are so close to scuppering his own altogether.So instead I say:Don't worry about me, Ithuriel. I chose this path, now I just have to walk it. I know what lies before me.Realising my apprehensiveness about talking, Ithuriel settles down, his fox eyes glimmering in the darkness, his body stilling as some sort of understanding rolls through him. Perhaps he already has realised I didn't come here alone.Alright, I trust you. Ithuriel whispers in the back of my mind, giving me a small foxy smile that makes me long to see the real face of my companion once more- to be held in his arms, comforted, assured. Perhaps after this is all over, I will be able to, too. When Angels and Vampires are joined once again.Sighing fortuitously, my gaze drifts to the figure beside him. Noticing the shift in my gaze, Azrael calls out from behind me, a snide chuckle in his voice:"Surprisingly, he didn't say a lot, my brother," he snickers, the tap of a heeled boot against the ground catching in my ears. A puff of purple smoke rolls us behind us as Azrael pours another vial into the chalice, swirling it around with long, bony fingers. "I thought maybe he had forgotten about you. Until he started muttering your name when he was half asleep, so I gave him some silver shots- that shut him up. He hasn't moved for ages, perhaps he has died," he cackles, but I pay him no mind.True enough, the other form beside him looks barely alive. Sickly pale and all the more deathly looking, my stomach lurches at the sight of him, horror gnawing at my gut as I wonder whether there is some truth to Azrael's words after all.Soren is slumped in silver chains: his body marred with red branding marks, glowing red hot where they touch the skin. There are signs of obvious struggle, the bruises on his chest- his shirt flung open and draped with crimson waterfalls of blood. There is a gash down his face, one that was likely created from Azrael's sadism rather than a pure struggle. Ordinarily these cuts and bruises, scratches and scraps would have all but disappeared by now, washed away by the magnificent healing properties of a vampire's blood. But silver laces his veins, poisoning his system as the silver chains around him burn into his flesh like molten rock. His recovery is slowed, everything put on hold to preserve the essential parts of life inside him.The only sign of life is the flicker of movement beneath his eyelids, his consciousness caught deep in dream and lost to the tragedies of reality."Oh Soren," I murmur, just low enough that Azrael who is still busy with some drastic looking preparations does not catch my woeful laments. I find it hard to believe, looking at his broken and crumpled form, that Soren had a plan for this to begin with, that he knew by coming down here he would not be killed. Perhaps he did not quite expect the extent of Azrael's preparations, or his willingness to so blindly head into violence, or perhaps he did, and simply let it happen. At this point, I would not be surprised if he had used this as an opportunity to train me, to grow my powers, see the limits of my capabilities, and give me the courage to truly believe in them. For previously, my powers I relied on as a backup, not a viable weapon of war. My sword was my primary skill- it was trusty, and that is all that could be said about it. But choosing not to use my powers was foolish, and I think I must have realised a little too late just how useful they were. But down here in the maze, my powers were pushed to the limits- as was the boundaries on my mind.I can only hope that Soren's soul is now re-merging with his corporeal form, after all, I am not sure how much longer I can keep Azrael busy for. Right on time, the monster himself chuckles darkly:"Are you done staring at your little friends or do I have to drag you over here myself?" Azrael asks without looking, continuing his work over at his bench containing a marvellous array of deadly looking potions. Pursing my lips, I turn on my heel, giving him a cold hard glare from across the room."You don't. I am very much capable of moving myself. I was just inspecting your handiwork," I growl lowly, causing Azrael to slow for a moment. His nails tap insistently against the glass vials, a small smile lacing the corners of his mouth as the room slowly darkens."Handiwork," he chuckles to himself, but there is a poison lacing the edge of his voice. Tiptoeing my way around the chalked patterns etched onto the floor, fearing what I might conjure if I do. I'm not sure what is more terrifying: Azrael's wrath, or accidentally summoning a load of demons from who knows where."I still don't understand how you did it," I state, peering over to the contents of Azrael's desk, well enough away that the smoke does not fumigate my lungs. Azrael glances over."Did what?"I gesture behind me, where the figures slump like corpses in the shadows."Managed to take them down," I sniff, trying to hide my disdain, and failing miserably. It is not particularly in my interest to seem intrigued into Azrael's wrong doings, but considering I am in great need to leech time off him, and would rather like to be prepared if he ever pulls that little stunt on me, I do so anyway. Better to be safe than sorry- is what Lilyana always used to say.Continuing to pour a strange concoction of mixtures into the two chalices, Azrael ponders over the matter for a moment....
