Chapter 209: 209
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Fortunately, Kal does not argue with my request, or question me at all, but seems to realise the gravity of my request as he gives a tentative glance over to the middle of the room. It is a fact that I am exceedingly grateful for at this moment in time, as having either Soren or Azrael question what I'm up to (or even notice) might just scupper it altogether. But just to ensure the vitality of this plan, I duck down under Kal's thick scaly tail, hiding myself from the view of the snarling, crimson eyed brothers.
Kal the dragon gives a small nod, not daring to voice another word as he bows his head down, nose extending towards the pendant, until he stops, several inches away. He hesitates for a moment, black eyes shimmering with an iridescent purple and blue, before a puff of black shimmer smoke expels from his mouth in a short, sharp breath, glittering like stardust and black as obsidian. Stifling my cough, I attempt to bat away the smoke with my free hand, but much to my dismay, it only spreads further, sending those glittering shards of magic flying. So I simply sit there, not breathing, and suck up my fate.
When the flurry of magic settles, and I have just about withheld the choking coughs from my lungs, I look down to my palm, a flicker of unease running through me. Of course, I had not expected any other outcome from a creature as practised as Kal, but I still can't shake the apprehension when I realise that the pendant has indeed completely disappeared.
Yet I can feel the chilling weight in my palm, the heaviness of the thud as it lands against my chest. But the emptiness that greets me as I look down is unsettling at best, the thought that the object that I have come to so greatly rely on being non existent to the eye is certainly enough to set my teeth on edge. From now on, I suppose I will have to be far more scrupulous about checking it.
Serena, comes a soft, familiar voice that grabs at my attention. Encumbered in my own thoughts, I look down.
Next to me, Ithuriel nuzzles against my arm, wet nose pressing against my skin as he glosses over what is going on, his eyes sparked with alertness. Perhaps he already knows what wild frenzies are whizzing inside my head, what plans are brewing in the cracks and crevices of my already broken mind. And soon enough, my suspicions are confirmed as a blinks his two toned orb eyes at me, a little voice saying:
You do not think Soren will win this fight, do you?
Expectantly, he looks at me for an answer, but for a few seconds, no answer comes, for the answer I am looking for is not so simple. After all, I know Soren has the capacity to win, that much is indisputable. Already five minutes into the fight and Azrael limbs have been scratched and worn by a number of Soren's attempts on his life. Soren's magic is virulent, dangerous, and the thousand year old vampire has enough power stored up in his veins that he could wipe half of Faey out in a single day, I have no doubt. By sheer strength, he could win against Azrael. But I have been subject to enough of Azrael's tortuous experiments and wicked tricks to know one thing, and one thing only. Azrael doesn't play by strength. He plays by deception.
After a long spell of hesitation, at last I answer.
Not exactly, its just- I glance over to where Azrael prowls, my eyes washing over his cruel smile, his glee, and the seeing ease of his stance against his soon to be killer. Even if Azrael is a psychopathic murderer with no regards for the scale of death and destruction, intent on the ruination of his kind simply to reshape the world in a perverted vision of his own creation, that is not the face of someone who knows he is about to die.
That is the face of someone who is certain they are going to live. Absolutely, one hundred percent, certain.
The Prince of Deception. That is what we shall name him when we get out of here. Azrael has always been a tricky snake, slimy and cruel and prone to all manner of ruthless trickery. For now, his plan eludes me, but I shall not rule myself out of the game just yet.
Because I too have a plan- albeit a last minute one, but perhaps, if all goes horribly wrong, it might be the edge I need.
I don't trust Azrael to die, I say to Ithuriel at last, resuming my gaze to the fight at hand. But, I add, dropping the now invisible pendant in the air. If everything goes to hell, I can get Azrael to trust me.
Play him at his own game, I add silently to myself. Deception.
Ithuriel's eyes flicker to the empty space on my chest, the cogs working behind his eyes as he pieces together my plan bit by bit, the antenna on his eyes glowing with a strange, enigmatic curiosity. Gently, he paws my arm, grabbing my attention from the fight as he faces me, two toned eyes pleading under the half light of the room.
Don't do anything reckless, Serena. He pleas, grip tightening as his claws graze the surface of my marble skin, a stinging reminded of how greatly I have failed him. Pushing aside the guilt that wobbles in my heart, I give him a sad smile.
I will try not to, but no promises. I can't afford to let Azrael slip from our grasp one more time. Not when there are souls on the line. The fate of Faey even.
With a melancholic wisdom, Ithuriel bows his head, defeated. I can tell there is much more he would like to say, to scold me, to nag me, perhaps even ask me to involve him with whatever plan I will inevitably scheme up. But it occurs to me then that- with a tragic skip of my heart against the prison of its chest- the time for Ithuriel's and I's adventures are soon coming to an end.
There is no question in the fact that Ithuriel is, and always will be, my best friend, my sidekick, my partner, and one of the only people I can truly rely upon. But time, and romantic desolation has put a void between us, a chasm that can't quite be crossed, leaving us reaching, but apart, a shard of difference jutted between us. I am no longer the angel I once was, no longer the boisterous wild child who would fall in line for his orders. No younger the naïve girl who couldn't handle herself under the whim of the council, a puppet with no real will of her own. I am no longer the girl who longs to be free of her home with a spark in her heart, wishing for something greater, yet knows that her future is forever bound to her people, and not herself.
Because now I have found what I am looking for. And so has he.
Now I am a changed woman. A Queen with a king by her side, intent on turning the world upside down, to unite two feuding sides in peace not war, and bring ruination to the soul creature who intends to do the opposite. Now I have a will, a conscience, a power of my own that is not governed by the hands of another. I am not an angel anymore. And not a vampire either. But a hybrid of the future, and eternal proof that change will be inevitable.
There is no question that Ithuriel sees these differences in me. He sees what I am and remembers what I was, and finds the two visions are not keyed alike in image.
We are different now, him and I, apart in many forms, but tethered by the bond of friendship- a bond that despite our differences, will never bend or break. But it is this bond, this irreversible link between us that gives me enough courage to ask:
If all goes wrong, tell Soren what I mean to do, would you? Tell him what I have done.
Respectfully, Ithuriel bows his head, wet nose butting against my arm one more time.
As you wish, my Queen. I will always, always have your back. Forever and always.
A little spark lights in my heart. Bowing, I kiss the top of his furry head.
Thank you, Ithuriel.
And that is all that is said as the two of us return our gazes to the fight, hearts aching in joint unison as we try to push aside the notion that perhaps everything is not coming to an end after all.
The two Princes circle each other like lions of two opposition prides, hair windswept and messy, their eyes ablaze with a hungry fervour and a wicked taste for death and destruction. Between my conversations with Ithuriel, several projectiles have been lobbed around the room, leaving smoking craters in the walls, the floor, sending rippling waves of darkness springing from the source. The room zaps with an unspoken tension, white and black streaks cutting through the pungent air in streaks of flashing lights, enough to leave dizzying imprints against the back of my eyes. Soren looks agitated, fed up with toying with his prey, rather more appealed to the notion of digging in his claws and ripping his opponent limb from limb- a fitting way to serve for his crimes. Yet Azrael maintains that peculiar laid back smile, contorting the scars down his face into a gruesome array of raw, red flesh, the picture of apathy.
Soren doesn't seem to notice.
But I do.
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
Fortunately, Kal does not argue with my request, or question me at all, but seems to realise the gravity of my request as he gives a tentative glance over to the middle of the room. It is a fact that I am exceedingly grateful for at this moment in time, as having either Soren or Azrael question what I'm up to (or even notice) might just scupper it altogether. But just to ensure the vitality of this plan, I duck down under Kal's thick scaly tail, hiding myself from the view of the snarling, crimson eyed brothers.
Kal the dragon gives a small nod, not daring to voice another word as he bows his head down, nose extending towards the pendant, until he stops, several inches away. He hesitates for a moment, black eyes shimmering with an iridescent purple and blue, before a puff of black shimmer smoke expels from his mouth in a short, sharp breath, glittering like stardust and black as obsidian. Stifling my cough, I attempt to bat away the smoke with my free hand, but much to my dismay, it only spreads further, sending those glittering shards of magic flying. So I simply sit there, not breathing, and suck up my fate.
When the flurry of magic settles, and I have just about withheld the choking coughs from my lungs, I look down to my palm, a flicker of unease running through me. Of course, I had not expected any other outcome from a creature as practised as Kal, but I still can't shake the apprehension when I realise that the pendant has indeed completely disappeared.
Yet I can feel the chilling weight in my palm, the heaviness of the thud as it lands against my chest. But the emptiness that greets me as I look down is unsettling at best, the thought that the object that I have come to so greatly rely on being non existent to the eye is certainly enough to set my teeth on edge. From now on, I suppose I will have to be far more scrupulous about checking it.
Serena, comes a soft, familiar voice that grabs at my attention. Encumbered in my own thoughts, I look down.
Next to me, Ithuriel nuzzles against my arm, wet nose pressing against my skin as he glosses over what is going on, his eyes sparked with alertness. Perhaps he already knows what wild frenzies are whizzing inside my head, what plans are brewing in the cracks and crevices of my already broken mind. And soon enough, my suspicions are confirmed as a blinks his two toned orb eyes at me, a little voice saying:
You do not think Soren will win this fight, do you?
Expectantly, he looks at me for an answer, but for a few seconds, no answer comes, for the answer I am looking for is not so simple. After all, I know Soren has the capacity to win, that much is indisputable. Already five minutes into the fight and Azrael limbs have been scratched and worn by a number of Soren's attempts on his life. Soren's magic is virulent, dangerous, and the thousand year old vampire has enough power stored up in his veins that he could wipe half of Faey out in a single day, I have no doubt. By sheer strength, he could win against Azrael. But I have been subject to enough of Azrael's tortuous experiments and wicked tricks to know one thing, and one thing only. Azrael doesn't play by strength. He plays by deception.
After a long spell of hesitation, at last I answer.
Not exactly, its just- I glance over to where Azrael prowls, my eyes washing over his cruel smile, his glee, and the seeing ease of his stance against his soon to be killer. Even if Azrael is a psychopathic murderer with no regards for the scale of death and destruction, intent on the ruination of his kind simply to reshape the world in a perverted vision of his own creation, that is not the face of someone who knows he is about to die.
That is the face of someone who is certain they are going to live. Absolutely, one hundred percent, certain.
The Prince of Deception. That is what we shall name him when we get out of here. Azrael has always been a tricky snake, slimy and cruel and prone to all manner of ruthless trickery. For now, his plan eludes me, but I shall not rule myself out of the game just yet.
Because I too have a plan- albeit a last minute one, but perhaps, if all goes horribly wrong, it might be the edge I need.
I don't trust Azrael to die, I say to Ithuriel at last, resuming my gaze to the fight at hand. But, I add, dropping the now invisible pendant in the air. If everything goes to hell, I can get Azrael to trust me.
Play him at his own game, I add silently to myself. Deception.
Ithuriel's eyes flicker to the empty space on my chest, the cogs working behind his eyes as he pieces together my plan bit by bit, the antenna on his eyes glowing with a strange, enigmatic curiosity. Gently, he paws my arm, grabbing my attention from the fight as he faces me, two toned eyes pleading under the half light of the room.
Don't do anything reckless, Serena. He pleas, grip tightening as his claws graze the surface of my marble skin, a stinging reminded of how greatly I have failed him. Pushing aside the guilt that wobbles in my heart, I give him a sad smile.
I will try not to, but no promises. I can't afford to let Azrael slip from our grasp one more time. Not when there are souls on the line. The fate of Faey even.
With a melancholic wisdom, Ithuriel bows his head, defeated. I can tell there is much more he would like to say, to scold me, to nag me, perhaps even ask me to involve him with whatever plan I will inevitably scheme up. But it occurs to me then that- with a tragic skip of my heart against the prison of its chest- the time for Ithuriel's and I's adventures are soon coming to an end.
There is no question in the fact that Ithuriel is, and always will be, my best friend, my sidekick, my partner, and one of the only people I can truly rely upon. But time, and romantic desolation has put a void between us, a chasm that can't quite be crossed, leaving us reaching, but apart, a shard of difference jutted between us. I am no longer the angel I once was, no longer the boisterous wild child who would fall in line for his orders. No younger the naïve girl who couldn't handle herself under the whim of the council, a puppet with no real will of her own. I am no longer the girl who longs to be free of her home with a spark in her heart, wishing for something greater, yet knows that her future is forever bound to her people, and not herself.
Because now I have found what I am looking for. And so has he.
Now I am a changed woman. A Queen with a king by her side, intent on turning the world upside down, to unite two feuding sides in peace not war, and bring ruination to the soul creature who intends to do the opposite. Now I have a will, a conscience, a power of my own that is not governed by the hands of another. I am not an angel anymore. And not a vampire either. But a hybrid of the future, and eternal proof that change will be inevitable.
There is no question that Ithuriel sees these differences in me. He sees what I am and remembers what I was, and finds the two visions are not keyed alike in image.
We are different now, him and I, apart in many forms, but tethered by the bond of friendship- a bond that despite our differences, will never bend or break. But it is this bond, this irreversible link between us that gives me enough courage to ask:
If all goes wrong, tell Soren what I mean to do, would you? Tell him what I have done.
Respectfully, Ithuriel bows his head, wet nose butting against my arm one more time.
As you wish, my Queen. I will always, always have your back. Forever and always.
A little spark lights in my heart. Bowing, I kiss the top of his furry head.
Thank you, Ithuriel.
And that is all that is said as the two of us return our gazes to the fight, hearts aching in joint unison as we try to push aside the notion that perhaps everything is not coming to an end after all.
The two Princes circle each other like lions of two opposition prides, hair windswept and messy, their eyes ablaze with a hungry fervour and a wicked taste for death and destruction. Between my conversations with Ithuriel, several projectiles have been lobbed around the room, leaving smoking craters in the walls, the floor, sending rippling waves of darkness springing from the source. The room zaps with an unspoken tension, white and black streaks cutting through the pungent air in streaks of flashing lights, enough to leave dizzying imprints against the back of my eyes. Soren looks agitated, fed up with toying with his prey, rather more appealed to the notion of digging in his claws and ripping his opponent limb from limb- a fitting way to serve for his crimes. Yet Azrael maintains that peculiar laid back smile, contorting the scars down his face into a gruesome array of raw, red flesh, the picture of apathy.
Soren doesn't seem to notice.
But I do.
Fortunately, Kal does not argue with my request, or question me at all, but seems to realise the gravity of my request as he gives a tentative glance over to the middle of the room. It is a fact that I am exceedingly grateful for at this moment in time, as having either Soren or Azrael question what I'm up to or even notice might just scupper it altogether. But just to ensure the vitality of this plan, I duck down under Kal's thick scaly tail, hiding myself from the view of the snarling, crimson eyed brothers. Kal the dragon gives a small nod, not daring to voice another word as he bows his head down, nose extending towards the pendant, until he stops, several inches away. He hesitates for a moment, black eyes shimmering with an iridescent purple and blue, before a puff of black shimmer smoke expels from his mouth in a short, sharp breath, glittering like stardust and black as obsidian. Stifling my cough, I attempt to bat away the smoke with my free hand, but much to my dismay, it only spreads further, sending those glittering shards of magic flying. So I simply sit there, not breathing, and suck up my fate.When the flurry of magic settles, and I have just about withheld the choking coughs from my lungs, I look down to my palm, a flicker of unease running through me. Of course, I had not expected any other outcome from a creature as practised as Kal, but I still can't shake the apprehension when I realise that the pendant has indeed completely disappeared.Yet I can feel the chilling weight in my palm, the heaviness of the thud as it lands against my chest. But the emptiness that greets me as I look down is unsettling at best, the thought that the object that I have come to so greatly rely on being non existent to the eye is certainly enough to set my teeth on edge. From now on, I suppose I will have to be far more scrupulous about checking it.Serena, comes a soft, familiar voice that grabs at my attention. Encumbered in my own thoughts, I look down.Next to me, Ithuriel nuzzles against my arm, wet nose pressing against my skin as he glosses over what is going on, his eyes sparked with alertness. Perhaps he already knows what wild frenzies are whizzing inside my head, what plans are brewing in the cracks and crevices of my already broken mind. And soon enough, my suspicions are confirmed as a blinks his two toned orb eyes at me, a little voice saying:You do not think Soren will win this fight, do you?Expectantly, he looks at me for an answer, but for a few seconds, no answer comes, for the answer I am looking for is not so simple. After all, I know Soren has the capacity to win, that much is indisputable. Already five minutes into the fight and Azrael limbs have been scratched and worn by a number of Soren's attempts on his life. Soren's magic is virulent, dangerous, and the thousand year old vampire has enough power stored up in his veins that he could wipe half of Faey out in a single day, I have no doubt. By sheer strength, he could win against Azrael. But I have been subject to enough of Azrael's tortuous experiments and wicked tricks to know one thing, and one thing only. Azrael doesn't play by strength. He plays by deception. After a long spell of hesitation, at last I answer.Not exactly, its just- I glance over to where Azrael prowls, my eyes washing over his cruel smile, his glee, and the seeing ease of his stance against his soon to be killer. Even if Azrael is a psychopathic murderer with no regards for the scale of death and destruction, intent on the ruination of his kind simply to reshape the world in a perverted vision of his own creation, that is not the face of someone who knows he is about to die.That is the face of someone who is certain they are going to live. Absolutely, one hundred percent, certain. The Prince of Deception. That is what we shall name him when we get out of here. Azrael has always been a tricky snake, slimy and cruel and prone to all manner of ruthless trickery. For now, his plan eludes me, but I shall not rule myself out of the game just yet.Because I too have a plan- albeit a last minute one, but perhaps, if all goes horribly wrong, it might be the edge I need.I don't trust Azrael to die, I say to Ithuriel at last, resuming my gaze to the fight at hand. But, I add, dropping the now invisible pendant in the air. If everything goes to hell, I can get Azrael to trust me.Play him at his own game, I add silently to myself. Deception.Ithuriel's eyes flicker to the empty space on my chest, the cogs working behind his eyes as he pieces together my plan bit by bit, the antenna on his eyes glowing with a strange, enigmatic curiosity. Gently, he paws my arm, grabbing my attention from the fight as he faces me, two toned eyes pleading under the half light of the room.Don't do anything reckless, Serena. He pleas, grip tightening as his claws graze the surface of my marble skin, a stinging reminded of how greatly I have failed him. Pushing aside the guilt that wobbles in my heart, I give him a sad smile.I will try not to, but no promises. I can't afford to let Azrael slip from our grasp one more time. Not when there are souls on the line. The fate of Faey even.With a melancholic wisdom, Ithuriel bows his head, defeated. I can tell there is much more he would like to say, to scold me, to nag me, perhaps even ask me to involve him with whatever plan I will inevitably scheme up. But it occurs to me then that- with a tragic skip of my heart against the prison of its chest- the time for Ithuriel's and I's adventures are soon coming to an end.There is no question in the fact that Ithuriel is, and always will be, my best friend, my sidekick, my partner, and one of the only people I can truly rely upon. But time, and romantic desolation has put a void between us, a chasm that can't quite be crossed, leaving us reaching, but apart, a shard of difference jutted between us. I am no longer the angel I once was, no longer the boisterous wild child who would fall in line for his orders. No younger the nave girl who couldn't handle herself under the whim of the council, a puppet with no real will of her own. I am no longer the girl who longs to be free of her home with a spark in her heart, wishing for something greater, yet knows that her future is forever bound to her people, and not herself.Because now I have found what I am looking for. And so has he.Now I am a changed woman. A Queen with a king by her side, intent on turning the world upside down, to unite two feuding sides in peace not war, and bring ruination to the soul creature who intends to do the opposite. Now I have a will, a conscience, a power of my own that is not governed by the hands of another. I am not an angel anymore. And not a vampire either. But a hybrid of the future, and eternal proof that change will be inevitable.There is no question that Ithuriel sees these differences in me. He sees what I am and remembers what I was, and finds the two visions are not keyed alike in image.We are different now, him and I, apart in many forms, but tethered by the bond of friendship- a bond that despite our differences, will never bend or break. But it is this bond, this irreversible link between us that gives me enough courage to ask:If all goes wrong, tell Soren what I mean to do, would you? Tell him what I have done.Respectfully, Ithuriel bows his head, wet nose butting against my arm one more time.As you wish, my Queen. I will always, always have your back. Forever and always.A little spark lights in my heart. Bowing, I kiss the top of his furry head.Thank you, Ithuriel. And that is all that is said as the two of us return our gazes to the fight, hearts aching in joint unison as we try to push aside the notion that perhaps everything is not coming to an end after all.The two Princes circle each other like lions of two opposition prides, hair windswept and messy, their eyes ablaze with a hungry fervour and a wicked taste for death and destruction. Between my conversations with Ithuriel, several projectiles have been lobbed around the room, leaving smoking craters in the walls, the floor, sending rippling waves of darkness springing from the source. The room zaps with an unspoken tension, white and black streaks cutting through the pungent air in streaks of flashing lights, enough to leave dizzying imprints against the back of my eyes. Soren looks agitated, fed up with toying with his prey, rather more appealed to the notion of digging in his claws and ripping his opponent limb from limb- a fitting way to serve for his crimes. Yet Azrael maintains that peculiar laid back smile, contorting the scars down his face into a gruesome array of raw, red flesh, the picture of apathy.Soren doesn't seem to notice.But I do.
