Chapter 58: 58
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The little angel is held aloft by a reaper-like figure, axe dangling precariously from one hand, chains bound tightly to the girl in another. The crowd at the foot of the dais have parted, as if repelled by the sight of mangled wings and feathers, yet simultaneously rooted to the spot, enchanted by the rarity of a public execution.
The small, winged figure whimpers, to young to be trained to keep such sounds of fear at bay as many of those in my clan often have been. The sound of it is almost pitiful- at least it would be had a roiling pit of guilt and torment not been welling in the pit of my stomach, consuming my conscience and threatening to break me down in the notion that I alone am the soul cause of this.
My failure.
Somewhere from within the crowd, Ithuriel's voice lulls me in the back of my mind, driving back the panic with soothing words that I am too tense to hear. Yet still a foreign calmness worms it's way into my bones, laying waste to the brewing of my stomach and I settle, breathing out a long, heavy breath.
I can do this.
The girl whimpers again, the cacophony of sounds echoing around the throne room louder this time, a sickening mix of pain and anguish cracking at the edges of her voice. At this, some within the crowd giggle.
Soren, however, does not.
A terrible look, one I had seldom seen before, deepens on his face. And as he arises from his throne, he trails an inexorable wickedness behind him, a pure, unadulterated fear that causes the crowd to shift with nervous unease, and the murmurs of cruel laughter swelling around the room cease to exist. All sounds blinks from existence.
This is the power of a Prince with no mercy.
"Drop her," he orders to the hangman, who, lingering only for a second, drops the winged figure to the marble flooring with the careless ease a hangman has with handling all it's victims: blazon nonchalance. A dull crack resides around the room. I wince.
"What is your name, little one?" Soren asks, calm yet cold, the way one would expect the tyrant prince of darkness to address all things, his voice simmering with the promise of untold violence. Yet his tone is so soft it is barely a whisper among the crowd, so much so that I find myself straining to catch every word, too fearful not to listen, yet entirely enamoured all the same.
Silently, I start to tiptoe around the crowd.
"D-dawn," the little angel stutters out, her voice wobbly and thick with tears. I grind my teeth against it, determined not to let it get to me. Over the sea of heads and delicate pointed horns, I can barely make out her form- just a small pair of wings and a white pixie cut… Something inside me goes cold. I have seen her before.
"And what, may I ask, were you planning to do roaming so near to our city walls?" Soren asks, circling her like a shark- the same way he had me, only now there is no game, no playful toying. If the little angel messes up, he will not hesitate to separate her head from her shoulders and spare her no further remorse. This much is clear.
"I was looking for a rare herb, not found in our parts of the realm. I strayed too far, too near to your walls." Soren raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into what might be a smirk. He looks as though it is a tale he has heard many times before, and certainly one that would not save from an execution, but continues on nevertheless, eyes gleaming with a gleeful villainy.
"A shame, we have caught you now. If only you had been a bit more careful, hmm?" He stops circling, pausing for a moment to glare down at her through reddened eyes. Then: "I suppose we will have to kill you now."
On these words, my heart quickens and I edge closer, weaving round the throng of the crowd as quickly as my feet will let me, on the outer borders, sticking to the shadows, where perhaps I will not be seen- at least this is what I hope. My breath sticks like glue in my lungs as I move, yet no one even looks in my direction. I keep walking.
A heart wrenching sob quivers in the air, grieved moans of agony, as the girl is hoisted into the air by tangles of black, clawing vines. She hangs suspended, head lolling, blood draining from the wounded wings on her back, half ripped from their sockets. It is as the stories had always told: The vampires of Sezeria have no mercy for the angels.
Fear tightens in my gut. What exactly did that mean for me, then?
"You are a foolish girl. And I could hardly let an angel from an enemy camp go free. So before you start, save the begging. I promise, I will make it quick," The crowd- at least the vampire portion of it, snickers, as though sharing some inside joke.
From the gruesome red brewing in Soren's eyes, and the flashes of sharp satisfied teeth around the room, I get the feeling the execution will be anything but quick. The angel whimpers once more. The laughs louden. My breath hastens as I walk; I have almost made my way to the foot of the dais, but fear is settling in, and the rush of adrenaline is subsiding. Ithuriel has been long since lost in the crowd, and although neither Soren nor Azrael seem to have detected my presence, that fact does not stand as a guarantee.
Soren raises his arm, and the coils of black tendrils tighten, further, further, impossibly tight, crushing the little angel's- Dawn's, arms, legs, in their spiny grip. Like a rag doll she is raised further and further off the ground, her body limp, chest heaving as though about to burst.
The Prince sinks his fangs into the palm of his hand, and droplets of blood ooze out, pooling in his palm until, with a flash of bright ruby from behind his eyes, the very same drops begin to rise. Twisting up, solid, yet impossibly fluid, one minute shaping bloody tendrils, the next sharp pointed spikes. I quickly make to hide my gasp. Magic like this, some sort of strange blood magic, I have never seen before- in fact, I have not even known it existed until seeing it right before my eyes. A vampire's normal powers extend to glamour, coercion, brute strength and shadowshifting, but using blood as an asset, as a weapon… It's like something out of a living hell. Perhaps the tales of the vampires being products of the devil aren't so far-fetched after all.
The blood forms a globule in mid air, hovering, quivering over Dawn's body- slowly draining of energy and life through the festering gashes in her wings, and forms a spear above her, glistening as the lights of the room lower with the sheer power of Soren's being. I stumble, faster, faster, until:
"Wait!"
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The little angel is held aloft by a reaper-like figure, axe dangling precariously from one hand, chains bound tightly to the girl in another. The crowd at the foot of the dais have parted, as if repelled by the sight of mangled wings and feathers, yet simultaneously rooted to the spot, enchanted by the rarity of a public execution.
The small, winged figure whimpers, to young to be trained to keep such sounds of fear at bay as many of those in my clan often have been. The sound of it is almost pitiful- at least it would be had a roiling pit of guilt and torment not been welling in the pit of my stomach, consuming my conscience and threatening to break me down in the notion that I alone am the soul cause of this.
My failure.
Somewhere from within the crowd, Ithuriel's voice lulls me in the back of my mind, driving back the panic with soothing words that I am too tense to hear. Yet still a foreign calmness worms it's way into my bones, laying waste to the brewing of my stomach and I settle, breathing out a long, heavy breath.
I can do this.
The girl whimpers again, the cacophony of sounds echoing around the throne room louder this time, a sickening mix of pain and anguish cracking at the edges of her voice. At this, some within the crowd giggle.
Soren, however, does not.
A terrible look, one I had seldom seen before, deepens on his face. And as he arises from his throne, he trails an inexorable wickedness behind him, a pure, unadulterated fear that causes the crowd to shift with nervous unease, and the murmurs of cruel laughter swelling around the room cease to exist. All sounds blinks from existence.
This is the power of a Prince with no mercy.
"Drop her," he orders to the hangman, who, lingering only for a second, drops the winged figure to the marble flooring with the careless ease a hangman has with handling all it's victims: blazon nonchalance. A dull crack resides around the room. I wince.
"What is your name, little one?" Soren asks, calm yet cold, the way one would expect the tyrant prince of darkness to address all things, his voice simmering with the promise of untold violence. Yet his tone is so soft it is barely a whisper among the crowd, so much so that I find myself straining to catch every word, too fearful not to listen, yet entirely enamoured all the same.
Silently, I start to tiptoe around the crowd.
"D-dawn," the little angel stutters out, her voice wobbly and thick with tears. I grind my teeth against it, determined not to let it get to me. Over the sea of heads and delicate pointed horns, I can barely make out her form- just a small pair of wings and a white pixie cut… Something inside me goes cold. I have seen her before.
"And what, may I ask, were you planning to do roaming so near to our city walls?" Soren asks, circling her like a shark- the same way he had me, only now there is no game, no playful toying. If the little angel messes up, he will not hesitate to separate her head from her shoulders and spare her no further remorse. This much is clear.
"I was looking for a rare herb, not found in our parts of the realm. I strayed too far, too near to your walls." Soren raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into what might be a smirk. He looks as though it is a tale he has heard many times before, and certainly one that would not save from an execution, but continues on nevertheless, eyes gleaming with a gleeful villainy.
"A shame, we have caught you now. If only you had been a bit more careful, hmm?" He stops circling, pausing for a moment to glare down at her through reddened eyes. Then: "I suppose we will have to kill you now."
On these words, my heart quickens and I edge closer, weaving round the throng of the crowd as quickly as my feet will let me, on the outer borders, sticking to the shadows, where perhaps I will not be seen- at least this is what I hope. My breath sticks like glue in my lungs as I move, yet no one even looks in my direction. I keep walking.
A heart wrenching sob quivers in the air, grieved moans of agony, as the girl is hoisted into the air by tangles of black, clawing vines. She hangs suspended, head lolling, blood draining from the wounded wings on her back, half ripped from their sockets. It is as the stories had always told: The vampires of Sezeria have no mercy for the angels.
Fear tightens in my gut. What exactly did that mean for me, then?
"You are a foolish girl. And I could hardly let an angel from an enemy camp go free. So before you start, save the begging. I promise, I will make it quick," The crowd- at least the vampire portion of it, snickers, as though sharing some inside joke.
From the gruesome red brewing in Soren's eyes, and the flashes of sharp satisfied teeth around the room, I get the feeling the execution will be anything but quick. The angel whimpers once more. The laughs louden. My breath hastens as I walk; I have almost made my way to the foot of the dais, but fear is settling in, and the rush of adrenaline is subsiding. Ithuriel has been long since lost in the crowd, and although neither Soren nor Azrael seem to have detected my presence, that fact does not stand as a guarantee.
Soren raises his arm, and the coils of black tendrils tighten, further, further, impossibly tight, crushing the little angel's- Dawn's, arms, legs, in their spiny grip. Like a rag doll she is raised further and further off the ground, her body limp, chest heaving as though about to burst.
The Prince sinks his fangs into the palm of his hand, and droplets of blood ooze out, pooling in his palm until, with a flash of bright ruby from behind his eyes, the very same drops begin to rise. Twisting up, solid, yet impossibly fluid, one minute shaping bloody tendrils, the next sharp pointed spikes. I quickly make to hide my gasp. Magic like this, some sort of strange blood magic, I have never seen before- in fact, I have not even known it existed until seeing it right before my eyes. A vampire's normal powers extend to glamour, coercion, brute strength and shadowshifting, but using blood as an asset, as a weapon… It's like something out of a living hell. Perhaps the tales of the vampires being products of the devil aren't so far-fetched after all.
The blood forms a globule in mid air, hovering, quivering over Dawn's body- slowly draining of energy and life through the festering gashes in her wings, and forms a spear above her, glistening as the lights of the room lower with the sheer power of Soren's being. I stumble, faster, faster, until:
"Wait!"
The little angel is held aloft by a reaper-like figure, axe dangling precariously from one hand, chains bound tightly to the girl in another. The crowd at the foot of the dais have parted, as if repelled by the sight of mangled wings and feathers, yet simultaneously rooted to the spot, enchanted by the rarity of a public execution.The small, winged figure whimpers, to young to be trained to keep such sounds of fear at bay as many of those in my clan often have been. The sound of it is almost pitiful- at least it would be had a roiling pit of guilt and torment not been welling in the pit of my stomach, consuming my conscience and threatening to break me down in the notion that I alone am the soul cause of this.My failure.Somewhere from within the crowd, Ithuriel's voice lulls me in the back of my mind, driving back the panic with soothing words that I am too tense to hear. Yet still a foreign calmness worms it's way into my bones, laying waste to the brewing of my stomach and I settle, breathing out a long, heavy breath.I can do this.The girl whimpers again, the cacophony of sounds echoing around the throne room louder this time, a sickening mix of pain and anguish cracking at the edges of her voice. At this, some within the crowd giggle.Soren, however, does not.A terrible look, one I had seldom seen before, deepens on his face. And as he arises from his throne, he trails an inexorable wickedness behind him, a pure, unadulterated fear that causes the crowd to shift with nervous unease, and the murmurs of cruel laughter swelling around the room cease to exist. All sounds blinks from existence.This is the power of a Prince with no mercy."Drop her," he orders to the hangman, who, lingering only for a second, drops the winged figureto the marble flooring with the careless ease a hangman has with handling all it's victims: blazon nonchalance. A dull crack resides around the room. I wince."What is your name, little one?" Soren asks, calm yet cold, the way one would expect the tyrant prince of darkness to address all things, his voice simmering with the promise of untold violence. Yet his tone is so soft it is barely a whisper among the crowd, so much so that I find myself straining to catch every word, too fearful not to listen, yet entirely enamoured all the same.Silently, I start to tiptoe around the crowd."D-dawn," the little angel stutters out, her voice wobbly and thick with tears. I grind my teeth against it, determined not to let it get to me. Over the sea of heads and delicate pointed horns, I can barely make out her form- just a small pair of wings and a white pixie cut Something inside me goes cold. I have seen her before."And what, may I ask, were you planning to do roaming so near to our city walls?" Soren asks, circling her like a shark- the same way he had me, only now there is no game, no playful toying. If the little angel messes up, he will not hesitate to separate her head from her shoulders and spare her no further remorse. This much is clear."I was looking for a rare herb, not found in our parts of the realm. I strayed too far, too near to your walls." Soren raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into what might be a smirk. He looks as though it is a tale he has heard many times before, and certainly one that would not save from an execution, but continues on nevertheless, eyes gleaming with a gleeful villainy."A shame, we have caught you now. If only you had been a bit more careful, hmm?" He stops circling, pausing for a moment to glare down at her through reddened eyes. Then: "I suppose we will have to kill you now."On these words, my heart quickens and I edge closer, weaving round the throng of the crowd as quickly as my feet will let me, on the outer borders, sticking to the shadows, where perhaps I will not be seen- at least this is what I hope. My breath sticks like glue in my lungs as I move, yet no one even looks in my direction. I keep walking.A heart wrenching sob quivers in the air, grieved moans of agony, as the girl is hoisted into the air by tangles of black, clawing vines. She hangs suspended, head lolling, blood draining from the wounded wings on her back, half ripped from their sockets. It is as the stories had always told: The vampires of Sezeria have no mercy for the angels.Fear tightens in my gut. What exactly did that mean for me, then?"You are a foolish girl. And I could hardly let an angel from an enemy camp go free. So before you start, save the begging. I promise, I will make it quick," The crowd- at least the vampire portion of it, snickers, as though sharing some inside joke.From the gruesome red brewing in Soren's eyes, and the flashes of sharp satisfied teeth around the room, I get the feeling the execution will be anything but quick. The angel whimpers once more. The laughs louden. My breath hastens as I walk; I have almost made my way to the foot of the dais, but fear is settling in, and the rush of adrenaline is subsiding. Ithuriel has been long since lost in the crowd, and although neither Soren nor Azrael seem to have detected my presence, that fact does not stand as a guarantee.Soren raises his arm, and the coils of black tendrils tighten, further, further, impossibly tight, crushing the little angel's- Dawn's, arms, legs, in their spiny grip. Like a rag doll she is raised further and further off the ground, her body limp, chest heaving as though about to burst.The Prince sinks his fangs into the palm of his hand, and droplets of blood ooze out, pooling in his palm until, with a flash of bright ruby from behind his eyes, the very same drops begin to rise. Twisting up, solid, yet impossibly fluid, one minute shaping bloody tendrils, the next sharp pointed spikes. I quickly make to hide my gasp. Magic like this, some sort of strange blood magic, I have never seen before- in fact, I have not even known it existed until seeing it right before my eyes. A vampire's normal powers extend to glamour, coercion, brute strength and shadowshifting, but using blood as an asset, as a weapon It's like something out of a living hell. Perhaps the tales of the vampires being products of the devil aren't so far-fetched after all.The blood forms a globule in mid air, hovering, quivering over Dawn's body- slowly draining of energy and life through the festering gashes in her wings, and forms a spear above her, glistening as the lights of the room lower with the sheer power of Soren's being. I stumble, faster, faster, until:"Wait!"
