Chapter 70: 70
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"Something the matter, Azrael?" I ask in mock concern, pulling my face down into a belittling pout at the clear discomforting shifting on Azrael's sullen face. Azrael's eyes narrow further.
"No, I was just admiring what an extensive range of vocabulary your fox friend seems to be shouting in my head. It is quite the racket," he says through his teeth, face contorting into a pained grimace despite his best efforts to appear wilfully unbothered. I do my best to hide the mocking smirk that has begun to stretch the corners of my mouth.
"Yes he is quite amazing, an excellent guard, a fighter too," I say, glancing down at Ithuriel, who stops short for a moment to give me what must have been a smile, if a fox could smile. His two-toned eyes beam with joy, a firm proudness glittering in their depths.
"Now," I affirm with a light cough, brushing myself off, "If you don't mind, I have things to do." I dip my head at Azrael, more out of the habit of politeness than actually wanting to be polite, clutching the book more tightly in my arms, as if that might help to shield it from the vampire's view. Just as I am about to I turn to leave, Azrael catches me by the wrist, his long fingers curling round my in a stony grip. My body goes cold. Gingerly, I peek my head over my shoulder back at him.
"Say hello to the prisoner for me, if you are heading that way," he asks languidly, almost casually, lifting his lips to my hand and gently pressing his lips against the skin. "I am sure she will enjoy your brief company," he utters knowingly, offering me a crooked smile, flashing his pointed fangs as he lifts his head to shoot me a cold, dead stare, his fangs so close to my skin that I don't dare let myself think about the horror of him sinking them into me. Never in my life have I heard something so casual sound so much like a threat.
But that doesn't make me any less annoyed.
I wrench my hand from him firmly.
"Perhaps I will," I state blandly, rubbing my sore wrist in my other hand, skin indented by the harsh grip of his nails. Azrael shoots me a wicked feline smile, in that moment becoming so like his brother I almost begin to wonder whether it is Soren after all. Then he is gone, wisping into the shadows, consuming his form like the darkness of night consumes the day, enveloping him until all that is left is the echoed memory of his words, and the tang of irony blood that lingers in the air like a death sentence.
"Come on Ithuriel," I whisper, my voice dropping to a dead and defeated murmur. "I guess we have a prisoner to find,"
***
Fortunately, using the books from the library, and the numerous reams of scrolls that Ithuriel had brought with him, it wasn't that hard to locate the prison.
No, indeed, finding it isn't wasn't, but the same can not so easily be said for the decent into it. Why? Well, I shall tell you: because the prison is located ten metres underground.
Dawn's occupation in the dungeons has been a weight on my mind ever since the news arrived that she had been captured, and getting her out of there is certainly something I should strive to do in my now not so limited stay here. She is so young, so helpless, and perhaps a little naïve, but if I helped her escape now, I know exactly where the blame would be placed, and with the progress I have been making, I could not afford to mess it up. Her escape would have to wait.
Yet as the smell of death and decay hits us like a tidal wave crashing into the side of a very small ship, making my head woozy from the sheer stench of it all, I start to wonder if the poor little angel will be sympathetic to my reasoning at all.
As we descend down the winding stairwell on the west wing of the palace- a dark and dingy sector of the Palace placed two stories underground that is lit by only the passing light of guards with candles or the pale luminescence of floating lanterns, I try to make conversation with Ithuriel, however futile that may be, if only to take my mind off the matter at hand. And to distract me from the smell.
The guards watch us pass in silent judgement, vampire guards, not elves, whose spears have been sharpened to deadly points, and bear long fangs that protrude against their lips as a second set of miniature knives. They appear almost a different breed- stocky and rigid, their faces scarred from prior battles and long since passed wars, their eyes so dark that even the blackness of the night would have a hard time contending.
I try not to let them see me shudder.
How long have you known? I ask Ithuriel tentatively in my mind. About my powers, that is. The souls.
The little white foxes antenna glow, perhaps in anger, or grief, but either way, he continues to forge ahead down the stone steps, tail drooping and catching in the dust that swirls of the floor in tornado-like torrents. Guilt pangs through me.
After you left for the forest, He replies, slowly enough for me to hear the hesitation in his voice. I continued reading the book. Even before you left, I felt something was off, I was going to warn you…
Ithuriel pauses as we come to the opening at the foot of the stairwell that branches of into to identical poorly lit hallways, thronged with flaming torches that provide little aid against the gloom. He raises his head to the air, sniffing this way, and then that, deliberating for a second, and then veers off to the right, leaving me close behind his tail. As he scammers along, there is a visible wince as he trudges on with each step. I grimace.
If the smell is bad for me, that dingy reek of rotten decay that seems to leach off the walls, embedded in the very fabric of the narrow corridors, swimming against the half gloom of the light, I can't even begin to imagine what it must smell like for him.
Despite everything, he continues:
I didn't want to believe it at first. All this soul business. More so, you being... mated to that vile creature, he adds, and I wince a little, something that Ithuriel certainly notices, but he doesn't seem to care.
I suppose I deserve that, anyway. He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement.
But the more I thought about it, the more it started making sense.
How so? I ask, raising my eyebrows a little in confusion. I had never in my life stopped to think about my powers. I was always told I had the powers of the royal bloodline, and the powers I trained so hard to form as a divinist for the Illistrae clan. The council had told me this for years, who was I to defy their word? At least, I never used to defy their word. Now look at me.
I almost laugh out loud.
As we walk, our staggered speech resumes into an empty silence, filling the air with unsaid words, bitter worries and a nervous vigour that lingers with the rise and fall of the putrid stink that hits us in waves of nauseating sickness. Gradually, my mind wanders, and I start to wonder whether perhaps the council aren't exactly the right people to believe anymore. All this time I thought we were the better race, the superior, the right, but would a race so bound by good hack of the wings of an angel for simply falling in love?
A sick feeling rises in my gut, spilling up into my throat.
Perhaps we really are no better than the vampires.
Ithuriel tilts his head around to look at me as we walk, his eyes barely a glimmer in the low light of the dungeon corridors. If he knows the ailments of what I am thinking, he does not say. Instead, he surprises me with something else.
Ever since you were little, you had been calling out to him, to the vampires. I always put it down to a phase, that you would get over it, I thought with this mission, you would finally see sense, understand what the vampires are truly like.
He shakes his head, muzzle scrunching up in pain as he turns back round to stare ahead of us, his pace slowing a little- but from distraught or kindness for my slowness I cannot tell.
I suppose your soul has been calling to this place for a long time now. And maybe I should be thankful for all this- I have never seen someone's aura be so delighted as when you are with him. He has made you happy in ways that perhaps you do not even fully realise yourself, he admits, and if foxes could, then I am sure he would have barked a half-hearted laugh. I pick over the hem of my sleeves nervously, not looking at him in the eye.
I don't suppose the council cares much for happiness, though, I would probably be cast out if they found out. I add quietly, perhaps a little bitterly, and begin to gnaw on my lips to fight the resentment building inside my body, burning at my insides. I can feel power shooting through me, tempting me with its possibilities, threatening to burst through every pore in my body and flood this room in a glorious golden light and purify its walls. Soren had been right, my power is unstable. Anger, resent... They only fuel the flames.
Ithuriel inclines his head.
It is not my place to tell you what to and what not to do, only advise you. But I will stay by you whatever your choice, my Queen.
And that is all.
We walk the rest of the way to Dawn's cell in empty silence, an air of worry and misgiving floating around us like a thick fog. Every now and then Ithuriel stops to smell the air, ears flicking back and forth, tuning in to various sounds and the rare, steady heartbeat, before plodding off again down the weary stone pathways, antenna glowing faintly on top of his head. It is due to these psychic antennae that sway and curl and twist on top of his head that I wonder if he has already come to realise the problem that lies in my own heart. And what he makes of my solution- if it could be called that.
But there is one thing for certain, one lingering dread that sinks into the cold depths of my bereaved heart.
Once he knows my plan, what I intent to do, he will hate me.
And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
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"Something the matter, Azrael?" I ask in mock concern, pulling my face down into a belittling pout at the clear discomforting shifting on Azrael's sullen face. Azrael's eyes narrow further.
"No, I was just admiring what an extensive range of vocabulary your fox friend seems to be shouting in my head. It is quite the racket," he says through his teeth, face contorting into a pained grimace despite his best efforts to appear wilfully unbothered. I do my best to hide the mocking smirk that has begun to stretch the corners of my mouth.
"Yes he is quite amazing, an excellent guard, a fighter too," I say, glancing down at Ithuriel, who stops short for a moment to give me what must have been a smile, if a fox could smile. His two-toned eyes beam with joy, a firm proudness glittering in their depths.
"Now," I affirm with a light cough, brushing myself off, "If you don't mind, I have things to do." I dip my head at Azrael, more out of the habit of politeness than actually wanting to be polite, clutching the book more tightly in my arms, as if that might help to shield it from the vampire's view. Just as I am about to I turn to leave, Azrael catches me by the wrist, his long fingers curling round my in a stony grip. My body goes cold. Gingerly, I peek my head over my shoulder back at him.
"Say hello to the prisoner for me, if you are heading that way," he asks languidly, almost casually, lifting his lips to my hand and gently pressing his lips against the skin. "I am sure she will enjoy your brief company," he utters knowingly, offering me a crooked smile, flashing his pointed fangs as he lifts his head to shoot me a cold, dead stare, his fangs so close to my skin that I don't dare let myself think about the horror of him sinking them into me. Never in my life have I heard something so casual sound so much like a threat.
But that doesn't make me any less annoyed.
I wrench my hand from him firmly.
"Perhaps I will," I state blandly, rubbing my sore wrist in my other hand, skin indented by the harsh grip of his nails. Azrael shoots me a wicked feline smile, in that moment becoming so like his brother I almost begin to wonder whether it is Soren after all. Then he is gone, wisping into the shadows, consuming his form like the darkness of night consumes the day, enveloping him until all that is left is the echoed memory of his words, and the tang of irony blood that lingers in the air like a death sentence.
"Come on Ithuriel," I whisper, my voice dropping to a dead and defeated murmur. "I guess we have a prisoner to find,"
***
Fortunately, using the books from the library, and the numerous reams of scrolls that Ithuriel had brought with him, it wasn't that hard to locate the prison.
No, indeed, finding it isn't wasn't, but the same can not so easily be said for the decent into it. Why? Well, I shall tell you: because the prison is located ten metres underground.
Dawn's occupation in the dungeons has been a weight on my mind ever since the news arrived that she had been captured, and getting her out of there is certainly something I should strive to do in my now not so limited stay here. She is so young, so helpless, and perhaps a little naïve, but if I helped her escape now, I know exactly where the blame would be placed, and with the progress I have been making, I could not afford to mess it up. Her escape would have to wait.
Yet as the smell of death and decay hits us like a tidal wave crashing into the side of a very small ship, making my head woozy from the sheer stench of it all, I start to wonder if the poor little angel will be sympathetic to my reasoning at all.
As we descend down the winding stairwell on the west wing of the palace- a dark and dingy sector of the Palace placed two stories underground that is lit by only the passing light of guards with candles or the pale luminescence of floating lanterns, I try to make conversation with Ithuriel, however futile that may be, if only to take my mind off the matter at hand. And to distract me from the smell.
The guards watch us pass in silent judgement, vampire guards, not elves, whose spears have been sharpened to deadly points, and bear long fangs that protrude against their lips as a second set of miniature knives. They appear almost a different breed- stocky and rigid, their faces scarred from prior battles and long since passed wars, their eyes so dark that even the blackness of the night would have a hard time contending.
I try not to let them see me shudder.
How long have you known? I ask Ithuriel tentatively in my mind. About my powers, that is. The souls.
The little white foxes antenna glow, perhaps in anger, or grief, but either way, he continues to forge ahead down the stone steps, tail drooping and catching in the dust that swirls of the floor in tornado-like torrents. Guilt pangs through me.
After you left for the forest, He replies, slowly enough for me to hear the hesitation in his voice. I continued reading the book. Even before you left, I felt something was off, I was going to warn you…
Ithuriel pauses as we come to the opening at the foot of the stairwell that branches of into to identical poorly lit hallways, thronged with flaming torches that provide little aid against the gloom. He raises his head to the air, sniffing this way, and then that, deliberating for a second, and then veers off to the right, leaving me close behind his tail. As he scammers along, there is a visible wince as he trudges on with each step. I grimace.
If the smell is bad for me, that dingy reek of rotten decay that seems to leach off the walls, embedded in the very fabric of the narrow corridors, swimming against the half gloom of the light, I can't even begin to imagine what it must smell like for him.
Despite everything, he continues:
I didn't want to believe it at first. All this soul business. More so, you being... mated to that vile creature, he adds, and I wince a little, something that Ithuriel certainly notices, but he doesn't seem to care.
I suppose I deserve that, anyway. He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement.
But the more I thought about it, the more it started making sense.
How so? I ask, raising my eyebrows a little in confusion. I had never in my life stopped to think about my powers. I was always told I had the powers of the royal bloodline, and the powers I trained so hard to form as a divinist for the Illistrae clan. The council had told me this for years, who was I to defy their word? At least, I never used to defy their word. Now look at me.
I almost laugh out loud.
As we walk, our staggered speech resumes into an empty silence, filling the air with unsaid words, bitter worries and a nervous vigour that lingers with the rise and fall of the putrid stink that hits us in waves of nauseating sickness. Gradually, my mind wanders, and I start to wonder whether perhaps the council aren't exactly the right people to believe anymore. All this time I thought we were the better race, the superior, the right, but would a race so bound by good hack of the wings of an angel for simply falling in love?
A sick feeling rises in my gut, spilling up into my throat.
Perhaps we really are no better than the vampires.
Ithuriel tilts his head around to look at me as we walk, his eyes barely a glimmer in the low light of the dungeon corridors. If he knows the ailments of what I am thinking, he does not say. Instead, he surprises me with something else.
Ever since you were little, you had been calling out to him, to the vampires. I always put it down to a phase, that you would get over it, I thought with this mission, you would finally see sense, understand what the vampires are truly like.
He shakes his head, muzzle scrunching up in pain as he turns back round to stare ahead of us, his pace slowing a little- but from distraught or kindness for my slowness I cannot tell.
I suppose your soul has been calling to this place for a long time now. And maybe I should be thankful for all this- I have never seen someone's aura be so delighted as when you are with him. He has made you happy in ways that perhaps you do not even fully realise yourself, he admits, and if foxes could, then I am sure he would have barked a half-hearted laugh. I pick over the hem of my sleeves nervously, not looking at him in the eye.
I don't suppose the council cares much for happiness, though, I would probably be cast out if they found out. I add quietly, perhaps a little bitterly, and begin to gnaw on my lips to fight the resentment building inside my body, burning at my insides. I can feel power shooting through me, tempting me with its possibilities, threatening to burst through every pore in my body and flood this room in a glorious golden light and purify its walls. Soren had been right, my power is unstable. Anger, resent... They only fuel the flames.
Ithuriel inclines his head.
It is not my place to tell you what to and what not to do, only advise you. But I will stay by you whatever your choice, my Queen.
And that is all.
We walk the rest of the way to Dawn's cell in empty silence, an air of worry and misgiving floating around us like a thick fog. Every now and then Ithuriel stops to smell the air, ears flicking back and forth, tuning in to various sounds and the rare, steady heartbeat, before plodding off again down the weary stone pathways, antenna glowing faintly on top of his head. It is due to these psychic antennae that sway and curl and twist on top of his head that I wonder if he has already come to realise the problem that lies in my own heart. And what he makes of my solution- if it could be called that.
But there is one thing for certain, one lingering dread that sinks into the cold depths of my bereaved heart.
Once he knows my plan, what I intent to do, he will hate me.
And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
"Something the matter, Azrael?" I ask in mock concern, pulling my face down into a belittling pout at the clear discomforting shifting on Azrael's sullen face. Azrael's eyes narrow further."No, I was just admiring what an extensive range of vocabulary your fox friend seems to be shouting in my head. It is quite the racket," he says through his teeth, face contorting into a pained grimace despite his best efforts to appear wilfully unbothered. I do my best to hide the mocking smirk that has begun to stretch the corners of my mouth. "Yes he is quite amazing, an excellent guard, a fighter too," I say, glancing down at Ithuriel, who stops short for a moment to give me what must have been a smile, if a fox could smile. His two-toned eyes beam with joy, a firm proudness glittering in their depths."Now," I affirm with a light cough, brushing myself off, "If you don't mind, I have things to do." I dip my head at Azrael, more out of the habit of politeness than actually wanting to be polite, clutching the book more tightly in my arms, as if that might help to shield it from the vampire's view. Just as I am about to I turn to leave, Azrael catches me by the wrist, his long fingers curling round my in a stony grip. My body goes cold. Gingerly, I peek my head over my shoulder back at him."Say hello to the prisoner for me, if you are heading that way," he asks languidly, almost casually, lifting his lips to my hand and gently pressing his lips against the skin. "I am sure she will enjoy your brief company," he utters knowingly, offering me a crooked smile, flashing his pointed fangs as he lifts his head to shoot me a cold, dead stare, his fangs so close to my skin that I don't dare let myself think about the horror of him sinking them into me. Never in my life have I heard something so casual sound so much like a threat.But that doesn't make me any less annoyed.I wrench my hand from him firmly."Perhaps I will," I state blandly, rubbing my sore wrist in my other hand, skin indented by the harsh grip of his nails. Azrael shoots me a wicked feline smile, in that moment becoming so like his brother I almost begin to wonder whether it is Soren after all. Then he is gone, wisping into the shadows, consuming his form like the darkness of night consumes the day, enveloping him until all that is left is the echoed memory of his words, and the tang of irony blood that lingers in the air like a death sentence. "Come on Ithuriel," I whisper, my voice dropping to a dead and defeated murmur. "I guess we have a prisoner to find,"***Fortunately, using the books from the library, and the numerous reams of scrolls that Ithuriel had brought with him, it wasn't that hard to locate the prison. No, indeed, finding it isn't wasn't, but the same can not so easily be said for the decent into it. Why? Well, I shall tell you: because the prison is located ten metres underground.Dawn's occupation in the dungeons has been a weight on my mind ever since the news arrived that she had been captured, and getting her out of there is certainly something I should strive to do in my now not so limited stay here. She is so young, so helpless, and perhaps a little nave, but if I helped her escape now, I know exactly where the blame would be placed, and with the progress I have been making, I could not afford to mess it up. Her escape would have to wait.Yet as the smell of death and decay hits us like a tidal wave crashing into the side of a very small ship, making my head woozy from the sheer stench of it all, I start to wonder if the poor little angel will be sympathetic to my reasoning at all.As we descend down the winding stairwell on the west wing of the palace- a dark and dingy sector of the Palace placed two stories underground that is lit by only the passing light of guards with candles or the pale luminescence of floating lanterns, I try to make conversation with Ithuriel, however futile that may be, if only to take my mind off the matter at hand. And to distract me from the smell. The guards watch us pass in silent judgement, vampire guards, not elves, whose spears have been sharpened to deadly points, and bear long fangs that protrude against their lips as a second set of miniature knives. They appear almost a different breed- stocky and rigid, their faces scarred from prior battles and long since passed wars, their eyes so dark that even the blackness of the night would have a hard time contending. I try not to let them see me shudder. How long have you known? I ask Ithuriel tentatively in my mind. About my powers, that is. The souls.The little white foxes antenna glow, perhaps in anger, or grief, but either way, he continues to forge ahead down the stone steps, tail drooping and catching in the dust that swirls of the floor in tornado-like torrents. Guilt pangs through me.After you left for the forest, He replies, slowly enough for me to hear the hesitation in his voice. I continued reading the book. Even before you left, I felt something was off, I was going to warn you Ithuriel pauses as we come to the opening at the foot of the stairwell that branches of into to identical poorly lit hallways, thronged with flaming torches that provide little aid against the gloom. He raises his head to the air, sniffing this way, and then that, deliberating for a second, and then veers off to the right, leaving me close behind his tail. As he scammers along, there is a visible wince as he trudges on with each step. I grimace.If the smell is bad for me, that dingy reek of rotten decay that seems to leach off the walls, embedded in the very fabric of the narrow corridors, swimming against the half gloom of the light, I can't even begin to imagine what it must smell like for him.Despite everything, he continues:I didn't want to believe it at first. All this soul business. More so, you being... mated to that vile creature, he adds, and I wince a little, something that Ithuriel certainly notices, but he doesn't seem to care. I suppose I deserve that, anyway. He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement.But the more I thought about it, the more it started making sense. How so? I ask, raising my eyebrows a little in confusion. I had never in my life stopped to think about my powers. I was always told I had the powers of the royal bloodline, and the powers I trained so hard to form as a divinist for the Illistrae clan. The council had told me this for years, who was I to defy their word? At least, I never used to defy their word. Now look at me.I almost laugh out loud.As we walk, our staggered speech resumes into an empty silence, filling the air with unsaid words, bitter worries and a nervous vigour that lingers with the rise and fall of the putrid stink that hits us in waves of nauseating sickness. Gradually, my mind wanders, and I start to wonder whether perhaps the council aren't exactly the right people to believe anymore. All this time I thought we were the better race, the superior, the right, but would a race so bound by good hack of the wings of an angel for simply falling in love?A sick feeling rises in my gut, spilling up into my throat.Perhaps we really are no better than the vampires.Ithuriel tilts his head around to look at me as we walk, his eyes barely a glimmer in the low light of the dungeon corridors. If he knows the ailments of what I am thinking, he does not say. Instead, he surprises me with something else.Ever since you were little, you had been calling out to him, to the vampires. I always put it down to a phase, that you would get over it, I thought with this mission, you would finally see sense, understand what the vampires are truly like.He shakes his head, muzzle scrunching up in pain as he turns back round to stare ahead of us, his pace slowing a little- but from distraught or kindness for my slowness I cannot tell. I suppose your soul has been calling to this place for a long time now. And maybe I should be thankful for all this- I have never seen someone's aura be so delighted as when you are with him. He has made you happy in ways that perhaps you do not even fully realise yourself, he admits, and if foxes could, then I am sure he would have barked a half-hearted laugh. I pick over the hem of my sleeves nervously, not looking at him in the eye.I don't suppose the council cares much for happiness, though, I would probably be cast out if they found out. I add quietly, perhaps a little bitterly, and begin to gnaw on my lips to fight the resentment building inside my body, burning at my insides. I can feel power shooting through me, tempting me with its possibilities, threatening to burst through every pore in my body and flood this room in a glorious golden light and purify its walls. Soren had been right, my power is unstable. Anger, resent... They only fuel the flames.Ithuriel inclines his head. It is not my place to tell you what to and what not to do, only advise you. But I will stay by you whatever your choice, my Queen.And that is all. We walk the rest of the way to Dawn's cell in empty silence, an air of worry and misgiving floating around us like a thick fog. Every now and then Ithuriel stops to smell the air, ears flicking back and forth, tuning in to various sounds and the rare, steady heartbeat, before plodding off again down the weary stone pathways, antenna glowing faintly on top of his head. It is due to these psychic antennae that sway and curl and twist on top of his head that I wonder if he has already come to realise the problem that lies in my own heart. And what he makes of my solution- if it could be called that. But there is one thing for certain, one lingering dread that sinks into the cold depths of my bereaved heart.Once he knows my plan, what I intent to do, he will hate me. And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
