Chapter 57: 57
If audio player doesn't work, press Stop then Play button again
"Execution…?" I ask tentatively. Ithuriel taps a nervous tune on the blankets. The reluctance to tell me is written all over his face. If I had my sword to threaten him, I might have reached for it, except it is no longer at my hip, but balanced precariously against the side of the bedroom wardrobe. I grit my teeth. Just as I am about to burst, he sighs mournfully:
"Is one of ours."
I am up before Ithuriel can even get a hold of me.
I start pulling on clothes from the wardrobe: a red velvet dress- floor length and tight hugging to my body. The type of dress I would never usually wear, but Lilyana had packed my outfits to make a statement, not for comfort. Silently, I thank her for it.
The bodice is embroidered with swirling lace thorns and other shapeless patterns, patterns which trail down the draping, open sleeves that run down either side of my body like the wings of a hawk. Predatory, intimidating. The perfect outfit to stroll into the throne room and stop and execution. Ithuriel grabs my wrist as I am about to strap my sword to the belt tightly looped around my waist.
"You aren't leaving here, you'll get yourself killed Serena" he says firmly, the first signs of anger dwelling in the depths of his two toned eyes. I try to shake him off, but his grip is firm, and my efforts only serve to make him hold on tighter.
"Let me go, Ithuriel," I tell him, channelling my inner Soren, the tones of my voice sinking in to a harsh, gyrating cold. Something flickers past his eyes. Fleeting, and then:
"What do you think you can do? Tell them to call it off? Let them go? We have been enemies for centuries, do you really think you can change that?" I look him dead in the eye.
"No, but I won't have to."
"Don't give yourself away now, Serena," he warns.
"I'm not going to, Ithuriel."
Perhaps it is the determination of my voice, or perhaps he has given up hope of stopping me now, but Ithuriel's grip on my hand loosens a little. I move to affix a crown of spikes on top of my head between my braided hair, shards of glass thrusting up like a spear from the ground. For once, I feel just as menacing as the vampires, and with the shock of unadulterated glee that runs through me, I am quick to realise it is a feeling that I like. A rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins.
"You are doing this, aren't you," he says, the deathly whisper echoing around the empty room. Slowly I turn to him and nod. Ithuriel's shoulders fall. I have never seen him look so sad, so… defeated, as if after all this time of telling me to do my own thing, he can't bear to see me do so. As if a small part of him, some part that he was holding together for me, has cracked. That his role as a knight, my knight, had someone come to mean nothing at all. As if after all these years, he has finally found himself powerless.
And then, with the braveness of a soldier in the face of certain doom, he musters a smile.
"Then... I will come with you, my Queen. If this is your wish, then let it be done," he puts a fist over his heart, and bows a low sweeping bow, taking my hand in his and brushing his lips against it, the way he had when he was first appointed my knight. To his credit, he does well to hide the pain that swims in the shadows of his face. I dip my head in silent thanks, then make towards the door. Ithuriel slips on his ring. My pendant glows.
There is no time to waste. I have an execution to crash.
***
The throne room has been transformed. No more are the dancers, and the vampires who flit in their finery and jewels and raunchy attire from end to end, sniggering and smirking, lifting glass goblets to their lips thick with blood. Gone are the well dressed butlers tip-toeing around hungry mouths and grasping claws, bowing their service to the prince, or anyone else who cared to acknowledge their presence.
The ball gown dresses and rich silks of the Faey folk have been replaced with dark leathers and rigid cloth so that the air runs thick with a rare formality, and the lingering smell of death. The chandeliers burn low, as if the light itself is quashed by some external force. That same force sits on the dais, smouldering, holding a bloodied purple rose.
I peer round the corner to where the corridor opens up to the throne room and Ithuriel, too small to be taken notice of, skitters headfirst into the crowd. No one blinks an eye. Despite the high eaves and swell of the ceiling, and the hundreds of candles flickering above us, the room is dark, stagnant almost. As if the light itself had left the room in place for another, much happier place, as if even it couldn't bear to linger in such a sinful place.
I thank myself that my own light, that mysterious glow, has not returned since the night before. At least, not yet. Glowing like a beacon would only serve to make my life more difficult. Besides, it would mean that he would see.
Soren sits on his throne of twisted thorns, drawing idle circles with his foot, his face deadpan, cold, and perhaps a little bored. There is an unusual dullness to his gaze that makes me doubt less his accusations of the court being boring- he looks like he has done this a million times before. Perhaps he has.
I have said before he is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, and that fact, undoubtedly, still remains true. Soren's hair is swept low over his face, dark curls concealing one eye from view. The fact I cannot see his face properly unnerves me. Perhaps the notion that his gaze may shift to my direction without my notice is part of the reason. Soren is sly, and vastly cunning, there is no telling whether he realises I am here, or not.
A crown is braced on his head: a crown of thorns, glinting gold and deep umber in the shifting shadows that dart around him. Despite his inability to feel the cold, he is draped in a thick cloak, trimmed with woollen fur from what might be the pelts of dire wolves, or foxes. He looks positively menacing.
Azrael lingers at his side, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm in silent disregard. Yet there is a grin on his face that leaves little of his sharp canine fangs to the imagination. Like a shark in the clothing of a dolphin. I'm not sure which I fear more: the wrath of Soren, or the fear of Azrael's mind tricks. The elixir would not be ready for another day, I am unprotected, and vulnerable, and with no training to shield my mind, Azrael could invade it at any time. The thought alone makes me shiver.
And though I doubt he would try anything in the presence of Soren- especially with what happened to him last time, it is hardly a chance I would ordinarily like to take risking. But I have no choice.
I have an angel's life to save.
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
"Execution…?" I ask tentatively. Ithuriel taps a nervous tune on the blankets. The reluctance to tell me is written all over his face. If I had my sword to threaten him, I might have reached for it, except it is no longer at my hip, but balanced precariously against the side of the bedroom wardrobe. I grit my teeth. Just as I am about to burst, he sighs mournfully:
"Is one of ours."
I am up before Ithuriel can even get a hold of me.
I start pulling on clothes from the wardrobe: a red velvet dress- floor length and tight hugging to my body. The type of dress I would never usually wear, but Lilyana had packed my outfits to make a statement, not for comfort. Silently, I thank her for it.
The bodice is embroidered with swirling lace thorns and other shapeless patterns, patterns which trail down the draping, open sleeves that run down either side of my body like the wings of a hawk. Predatory, intimidating. The perfect outfit to stroll into the throne room and stop and execution. Ithuriel grabs my wrist as I am about to strap my sword to the belt tightly looped around my waist.
"You aren't leaving here, you'll get yourself killed Serena" he says firmly, the first signs of anger dwelling in the depths of his two toned eyes. I try to shake him off, but his grip is firm, and my efforts only serve to make him hold on tighter.
"Let me go, Ithuriel," I tell him, channelling my inner Soren, the tones of my voice sinking in to a harsh, gyrating cold. Something flickers past his eyes. Fleeting, and then:
"What do you think you can do? Tell them to call it off? Let them go? We have been enemies for centuries, do you really think you can change that?" I look him dead in the eye.
"No, but I won't have to."
"Don't give yourself away now, Serena," he warns.
"I'm not going to, Ithuriel."
Perhaps it is the determination of my voice, or perhaps he has given up hope of stopping me now, but Ithuriel's grip on my hand loosens a little. I move to affix a crown of spikes on top of my head between my braided hair, shards of glass thrusting up like a spear from the ground. For once, I feel just as menacing as the vampires, and with the shock of unadulterated glee that runs through me, I am quick to realise it is a feeling that I like. A rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins.
"You are doing this, aren't you," he says, the deathly whisper echoing around the empty room. Slowly I turn to him and nod. Ithuriel's shoulders fall. I have never seen him look so sad, so… defeated, as if after all this time of telling me to do my own thing, he can't bear to see me do so. As if a small part of him, some part that he was holding together for me, has cracked. That his role as a knight, my knight, had someone come to mean nothing at all. As if after all these years, he has finally found himself powerless.
And then, with the braveness of a soldier in the face of certain doom, he musters a smile.
"Then... I will come with you, my Queen. If this is your wish, then let it be done," he puts a fist over his heart, and bows a low sweeping bow, taking my hand in his and brushing his lips against it, the way he had when he was first appointed my knight. To his credit, he does well to hide the pain that swims in the shadows of his face. I dip my head in silent thanks, then make towards the door. Ithuriel slips on his ring. My pendant glows.
There is no time to waste. I have an execution to crash.
***
The throne room has been transformed. No more are the dancers, and the vampires who flit in their finery and jewels and raunchy attire from end to end, sniggering and smirking, lifting glass goblets to their lips thick with blood. Gone are the well dressed butlers tip-toeing around hungry mouths and grasping claws, bowing their service to the prince, or anyone else who cared to acknowledge their presence.
The ball gown dresses and rich silks of the Faey folk have been replaced with dark leathers and rigid cloth so that the air runs thick with a rare formality, and the lingering smell of death. The chandeliers burn low, as if the light itself is quashed by some external force. That same force sits on the dais, smouldering, holding a bloodied purple rose.
I peer round the corner to where the corridor opens up to the throne room and Ithuriel, too small to be taken notice of, skitters headfirst into the crowd. No one blinks an eye. Despite the high eaves and swell of the ceiling, and the hundreds of candles flickering above us, the room is dark, stagnant almost. As if the light itself had left the room in place for another, much happier place, as if even it couldn't bear to linger in such a sinful place.
I thank myself that my own light, that mysterious glow, has not returned since the night before. At least, not yet. Glowing like a beacon would only serve to make my life more difficult. Besides, it would mean that he would see.
Soren sits on his throne of twisted thorns, drawing idle circles with his foot, his face deadpan, cold, and perhaps a little bored. There is an unusual dullness to his gaze that makes me doubt less his accusations of the court being boring- he looks like he has done this a million times before. Perhaps he has.
I have said before he is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, and that fact, undoubtedly, still remains true. Soren's hair is swept low over his face, dark curls concealing one eye from view. The fact I cannot see his face properly unnerves me. Perhaps the notion that his gaze may shift to my direction without my notice is part of the reason. Soren is sly, and vastly cunning, there is no telling whether he realises I am here, or not.
A crown is braced on his head: a crown of thorns, glinting gold and deep umber in the shifting shadows that dart around him. Despite his inability to feel the cold, he is draped in a thick cloak, trimmed with woollen fur from what might be the pelts of dire wolves, or foxes. He looks positively menacing.
Azrael lingers at his side, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm in silent disregard. Yet there is a grin on his face that leaves little of his sharp canine fangs to the imagination. Like a shark in the clothing of a dolphin. I'm not sure which I fear more: the wrath of Soren, or the fear of Azrael's mind tricks. The elixir would not be ready for another day, I am unprotected, and vulnerable, and with no training to shield my mind, Azrael could invade it at any time. The thought alone makes me shiver.
And though I doubt he would try anything in the presence of Soren- especially with what happened to him last time, it is hardly a chance I would ordinarily like to take risking. But I have no choice.
I have an angel's life to save.
"Execution?" I ask tentatively. Ithuriel taps a nervous tune on the blankets. The reluctance to tell me is written all over his face. If I had my sword to threaten him, I might have reached for it, except it is no longer at my hip, but balanced precariously against the side of the bedroom wardrobe. I grit my teeth. Just as I am about to burst, he sighs mournfully:"Is one of ours."I am up before Ithuriel can even get a hold of me. I start pulling on clothes from the wardrobe: a red velvet dress- floor length and tight hugging to my body. The type of dress I would never usually wear, but Lilyana had packed my outfits to make a statement, not for comfort. Silently, I thank her for it. The bodice is embroidered with swirling lace thorns and other shapeless patterns, patterns which trail down the draping, open sleeves that run down either side of my body like the wings of a hawk. Predatory, intimidating. The perfect outfit to stroll into the throne room and stop and execution. Ithuriel grabs my wrist as I am about to strap my sword to the belt tightly looped around my waist."You aren't leaving here, you'll get yourself killed Serena" he says firmly, the first signs of anger dwelling in the depths of his two toned eyes. I try to shake him off, but his grip is firm, and my efforts only serve to make him hold on tighter. "Let me go, Ithuriel," I tell him, channelling my inner Soren, the tones of my voice sinking in to a harsh, gyrating cold. Something flickers past his eyes. Fleeting, and then:"What do you think you can do? Tell them to call it off? Let them go? We have been enemies for centuries, do you really think you can change that?" I look him dead in the eye."No, but I won't have to.""Don't give yourself away now, Serena," he warns."I'm not going to, Ithuriel."Perhaps it is the determination of my voice, or perhaps he has given up hope of stopping me now, but Ithuriel's grip on my hand loosens a little. I move to affix a crown of spikes on top of my head between my braided hair, shards of glass thrusting up like a spear from the ground. For once, I feel just as menacing as the vampires, and with the shock of unadulterated glee that runs through me, I am quick to realise it is a feeling that I like. A rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins. "You are doing this, aren't you," he says, the deathly whisper echoing around the empty room. Slowly I turn to him and nod. Ithuriel's shoulders fall. I have never seen him look so sad, so defeated, as if after all this time of telling me to do my own thing, he can't bear to see me do so. As if a small part of him, some part that he was holding together for me, has cracked. That his role as a knight, my knight, had someone come to mean nothing at all. As if after all these years, he has finally found himself powerless. And then, with the braveness of a soldier in the face of certain doom, he musters a smile."Then... I will come with you, my Queen. If this is your wish, then let it be done," he puts a fist over his heart, and bows a low sweeping bow, taking my hand in his and brushing his lips against it, the way he had when he was first appointed my knight. To his credit, he does well to hide the pain that swims in the shadows of his face. I dip my head in silent thanks, then make towards the door. Ithuriel slips on his ring. My pendant glows.There is no time to waste. I have an execution to crash.***The throne room has been transformed. No more are the dancers, and the vampires who flit in their finery and jewels and raunchy attire from end to end, sniggering and smirking, lifting glass goblets to their lips thick with blood. Gone are the well dressed butlers tip-toeing around hungry mouths and grasping claws, bowing their service to the prince, or anyone else who cared to acknowledge their presence. The ball gown dresses and rich silks of the Faey folk have been replaced with dark leathers and rigid cloth so that the air runs thick with a rare formality, and the lingering smell of death. The chandeliers burn low, as if the light itself is quashed by some external force. That same force sits on the dais, smouldering, holding a bloodied purple rose. I peer round the corner to where the corridor opens up to the throne room and Ithuriel, too small to be taken notice of, skitters headfirst into the crowd. No one blinks an eye. Despite the high eaves and swell of the ceiling, and the hundreds of candles flickering above us, the room is dark, stagnant almost. As if the light itself had left the room in place for another, much happier place, as if even it couldn't bear to linger in such a sinful place. I thank myself that my own light, that mysterious glow, has not returned since the night before. At least, not yet. Glowing like a beacon would only serve to make my life more difficult. Besides, it would mean that he would see. Soren sits on his throne of twisted thorns, drawing idle circles with his foot, his face deadpan, cold, and perhaps a little bored. There is an unusual dullness to his gaze that makes me doubt less his accusations of the court being boring- he looks like he has done this a million times before. Perhaps he has. I have said before he is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, and that fact, undoubtedly, still remains true. Soren's hair is swept low over his face, dark curls concealing one eye from view. The fact I cannot see his face properly unnerves me. Perhaps the notion that his gaze may shift to my direction without my notice is part of the reason. Soren is sly, and vastly cunning, there is no telling whether he realises I am here, or not.A crown is braced on his head: a crown of thorns, glinting gold and deep umber in the shifting shadows that dart around him. Despite his inability to feel the cold, he is draped in a thick cloak, trimmed with woollen fur from what might be the pelts of dire wolves, or foxes. He looks positively menacing. Azrael lingers at his side, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm in silent disregard. Yet there is a grin on his face that leaves little of his sharp canine fangs to the imagination. Like a shark in the clothing of a dolphin. I'm not sure which I fear more: the wrath of Soren, or the fear of Azrael's mind tricks. The elixir would not be ready for another day, I am unprotected, and vulnerable, and with no training to shield my mind, Azrael could invade it at any time. The thought alone makes me shiver. And though I doubt he would try anything in the presence of Soren- especially with what happened to him last time, it is hardly a chance I would ordinarily like to take risking. But I have no choice.I have an angel's life to save.
