Chapter 94: 94
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What on earth could Soren have done?
There is no logical answer to my question, no reasoning, that would make any outcome even a mildly rational one. Whatever factor had resulted in the amassing crowds of Sezeria being entirely absent when Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth was by no means a good one.
My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer, threatening to rocket out at any minute and land in the waiting grips of Fangorn's ragged hands. Slowly, he licks his pointed tongue over his lips.
"The day Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth, he plunged the entire city of Sezeria into darkness. It lasted for several days-the air was filled with a black fog, so dense it was impossible to see through- not that it mattered anyway, as soon as you breathed it in, you were lying half dead on the ground. Stasis magic, he called it- part of the soul. Stopped the mind and the body, preserved the entire city in an icy encapsulation of a singular moment until the Prince saw it fit to release them from their slumber. For days the city of Sezeria lost its consciousness while the Scarlet Prince schemed his scheme under the depths of the palace. I should know, I watched it spread, I watched my people fall to the ground in a state of half death, wreathed in shadows, their eyes unseeing as whatever nightmare of darkness they were given took hold of them."
Fangorn stops to take a break, allowing himself a moment to run his hands back past his dark fluffy hair, breathing a heavy, desperate sigh that his lifeless lungs have no need to breathe. And perhaps it is a trick of the light, or a fatigue in my brain that twists and turns my vision before me, distorting the minor details of whatever I am seeing and transforming it into an altered version of the truth, but I swear for a moment I can see a shake in Fangorn's hands with sorrow. There is something deeper behind this, there has to be. Gingerly, I raise my hand to offer a secondary question.
"You said you watched it spread, does that mean you weren't effected, then?"
If that is the case, maybe, maybe, there is some hope- that Fangorn might have a vague inclination of what lurks within the depths of Soren's tier and my questing would be in vain after all, but to my great dismay my fragile hopes are swiftly cut short. Sadly Fangorn shakes his head.
"That day I was with Lilyana, tucked away in the Great forest, under the illusion that the trees, in all our desperation, would shield us from the deadly mist that began seeping its way until the cracks of the land, rising up in billowing clouds to run its toil over the horizon. We watched in silent disregard as it carved out its wave of destruction across the land, consuming all consciousness in its wake, all awareness, and leaving in its place an empty silence. Yes, we were so sure it wouldn't reach us." Fangorns throat works.
"And then we woke up, and realised it was already too late."
A cold feeling stirs in my gut. Cautiously, I make my way over to Fangorn, my hand hovering in the air between us, half way between wanting to comfort him, yet simultaneously being too entrapped in the possibility of being turned on to fully lay my hand to rest of the cold unfeeling harshness of his undead skin. He must see that look in me, the repulsion mixed with an ill timed terror, the sympathy and the chronic heartache. Yes- seen it all welling up in the depths of my face, threatening to spill over in floods of emotions like a tidal wave breaking across the bay, because within seconds his face relaxes, features settling to that characteristic stony calm. At last I place my hand on his arm, offering up a small comfort against his formerly rigid anger. The only acknowledgement of my actions is the howling wind outside the window.
"That is how he found you two, isn't it? Soren I mean."
Fangorn's answer is a short one, sharp to the point it is almost startling, but in reality, I know there is no need for further explanation- after all, I had spent enough long years staring at the gaping gashes on Lilyana's back to imagine the situation well enough for myself.
"Yes,"
Gradually, I bring myself to rest upon the table, tapping out a hollow tune as a dull throb settles itself upon my heart. Then something else occurs to me.
"But he let her go," I state, turning myself to meet the icy stare of his crimson gaze, trying my best to push aside the shudder that runs through me as I do so. After all this time, the unsettling emptiness of those ruby eyes is never something I have found myself getting used to. A vampire's gaze has always been hard to place, only ever becoming increasingly more difficult to determine whether their wild eyes and sharpened gaze portrays lust, or hate, or pure, embittered resent. I can only pray to the heavens that Fangorn's is neither of the latter.
There is a short pause between us, then:
"...yes."
It doesn't take a genius to predict my next question.
"But why?"
You see, long before I came into the picture, long, long before the meagre 18 years of my life had merely passed in the brief flashing of time, when wars were fought with glory on a battlefield and not in the tricky depths of the mind, when the ranks of the angels were more plentiful and a Queen was a Queen and not just a figurehead, Soren had ruled with an iron fist, a true tyrant among his people. His earliest accounts in his diary tell as much, and even if that fails to suffice the evidence in favour of the cruel nature of his ways. The tales of my people are certainly favourable enough to justify such a hefty accusation. Soren is, and always has been, a monster- capable of slaughtering half the continent and moping up their blood with reams of ashes from his fires of destruction. It is therefore little wonder that he is the embodiment of the soul of hell. However, whether or not he choses to act upon such instincts is another matter entirely.
Back then, on a good day Soren would fill a bathtub with some of the most delectable women in Faey, (naked, in true vampire fashion) and spend the day beguiling them with his looks and charms and incantations of love and delicate beauty, he would woo them with the sweetness of his words and glamour them with the honeyed tones of his voice. Soren, it would seem, is an irresistible pleasure, and a guilty one at that, for while the occasional glamour was necessary to lure these women into his quarters, the seductive nature of his kind, and indeed, his body- something I can certainly testify for, meant that most women went willingly to his call. And willingly to their demise.
It is not in a vampire's nature, nor in the nature of the animal kingdom, to prey alive longer than the necessary parameters of toying and feasting allow.
But to Soren, a vampire whose personality is about as ordinary as the glimmering golden orbs of his eyes, is not exactly a 'normal vampire'. And so on these good days, he would drain these women, drop by drop, feasting on their bodies and the guilty secrets of their hearts like a fine wine, draining each thick drop of crimson blood until the waters ran red with lust and the dizzy heat of a feverish demise. He would keep these women upon the edges of their life, feeding, drinking, draining, his appetite insatiable, his lust unquenchable.
And on a bad day?
On a bad day the lands of Faey would be terrorised by his anger, the agonising wrath of a creature who cannot die, and whose anguished heart has long since ceased to beat out across the timeless chasm of the world. On those days, blood would wet the soil like rain from the heavens, sinking into the cracks in the earth and reddening the mud with a permanent stain of deathly crimson- a flawless reminder of the terror that stalked the lightless lands. Bodies all across Faey would fall in the heavy unison of a bell ringing out its death toll across the world, for on a bad day, those who crossed paths with the Scarlet Prince would not even be alive long enough to recall his name.
The tyranny of the Scarlet Prince was about as great as his hungry lusting for blood.
Some days, I can still see that wild side in him, the riotous raging of his more youthful days, the terrifying capability he has to draw his claws on me as though he is no longer a rational being, but a monster.
But back then, a rational Soren didn't even exist to begin with.
So, why would he let her go? Why not kill her?
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What on earth could Soren have done?
There is no logical answer to my question, no reasoning, that would make any outcome even a mildly rational one. Whatever factor had resulted in the amassing crowds of Sezeria being entirely absent when Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth was by no means a good one.
My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer, threatening to rocket out at any minute and land in the waiting grips of Fangorn's ragged hands. Slowly, he licks his pointed tongue over his lips.
"The day Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth, he plunged the entire city of Sezeria into darkness. It lasted for several days-the air was filled with a black fog, so dense it was impossible to see through- not that it mattered anyway, as soon as you breathed it in, you were lying half dead on the ground. Stasis magic, he called it- part of the soul. Stopped the mind and the body, preserved the entire city in an icy encapsulation of a singular moment until the Prince saw it fit to release them from their slumber. For days the city of Sezeria lost its consciousness while the Scarlet Prince schemed his scheme under the depths of the palace. I should know, I watched it spread, I watched my people fall to the ground in a state of half death, wreathed in shadows, their eyes unseeing as whatever nightmare of darkness they were given took hold of them."
Fangorn stops to take a break, allowing himself a moment to run his hands back past his dark fluffy hair, breathing a heavy, desperate sigh that his lifeless lungs have no need to breathe. And perhaps it is a trick of the light, or a fatigue in my brain that twists and turns my vision before me, distorting the minor details of whatever I am seeing and transforming it into an altered version of the truth, but I swear for a moment I can see a shake in Fangorn's hands with sorrow. There is something deeper behind this, there has to be. Gingerly, I raise my hand to offer a secondary question.
"You said you watched it spread, does that mean you weren't effected, then?"
If that is the case, maybe, maybe, there is some hope- that Fangorn might have a vague inclination of what lurks within the depths of Soren's tier and my questing would be in vain after all, but to my great dismay my fragile hopes are swiftly cut short. Sadly Fangorn shakes his head.
"That day I was with Lilyana, tucked away in the Great forest, under the illusion that the trees, in all our desperation, would shield us from the deadly mist that began seeping its way until the cracks of the land, rising up in billowing clouds to run its toil over the horizon. We watched in silent disregard as it carved out its wave of destruction across the land, consuming all consciousness in its wake, all awareness, and leaving in its place an empty silence. Yes, we were so sure it wouldn't reach us." Fangorns throat works.
"And then we woke up, and realised it was already too late."
A cold feeling stirs in my gut. Cautiously, I make my way over to Fangorn, my hand hovering in the air between us, half way between wanting to comfort him, yet simultaneously being too entrapped in the possibility of being turned on to fully lay my hand to rest of the cold unfeeling harshness of his undead skin. He must see that look in me, the repulsion mixed with an ill timed terror, the sympathy and the chronic heartache. Yes- seen it all welling up in the depths of my face, threatening to spill over in floods of emotions like a tidal wave breaking across the bay, because within seconds his face relaxes, features settling to that characteristic stony calm. At last I place my hand on his arm, offering up a small comfort against his formerly rigid anger. The only acknowledgement of my actions is the howling wind outside the window.
"That is how he found you two, isn't it? Soren I mean."
Fangorn's answer is a short one, sharp to the point it is almost startling, but in reality, I know there is no need for further explanation- after all, I had spent enough long years staring at the gaping gashes on Lilyana's back to imagine the situation well enough for myself.
"Yes,"
Gradually, I bring myself to rest upon the table, tapping out a hollow tune as a dull throb settles itself upon my heart. Then something else occurs to me.
"But he let her go," I state, turning myself to meet the icy stare of his crimson gaze, trying my best to push aside the shudder that runs through me as I do so. After all this time, the unsettling emptiness of those ruby eyes is never something I have found myself getting used to. A vampire's gaze has always been hard to place, only ever becoming increasingly more difficult to determine whether their wild eyes and sharpened gaze portrays lust, or hate, or pure, embittered resent. I can only pray to the heavens that Fangorn's is neither of the latter.
There is a short pause between us, then:
"...yes."
It doesn't take a genius to predict my next question.
"But why?"
You see, long before I came into the picture, long, long before the meagre 18 years of my life had merely passed in the brief flashing of time, when wars were fought with glory on a battlefield and not in the tricky depths of the mind, when the ranks of the angels were more plentiful and a Queen was a Queen and not just a figurehead, Soren had ruled with an iron fist, a true tyrant among his people. His earliest accounts in his diary tell as much, and even if that fails to suffice the evidence in favour of the cruel nature of his ways. The tales of my people are certainly favourable enough to justify such a hefty accusation. Soren is, and always has been, a monster- capable of slaughtering half the continent and moping up their blood with reams of ashes from his fires of destruction. It is therefore little wonder that he is the embodiment of the soul of hell. However, whether or not he choses to act upon such instincts is another matter entirely.
Back then, on a good day Soren would fill a bathtub with some of the most delectable women in Faey, (naked, in true vampire fashion) and spend the day beguiling them with his looks and charms and incantations of love and delicate beauty, he would woo them with the sweetness of his words and glamour them with the honeyed tones of his voice. Soren, it would seem, is an irresistible pleasure, and a guilty one at that, for while the occasional glamour was necessary to lure these women into his quarters, the seductive nature of his kind, and indeed, his body- something I can certainly testify for, meant that most women went willingly to his call. And willingly to their demise.
It is not in a vampire's nature, nor in the nature of the animal kingdom, to prey alive longer than the necessary parameters of toying and feasting allow.
But to Soren, a vampire whose personality is about as ordinary as the glimmering golden orbs of his eyes, is not exactly a 'normal vampire'. And so on these good days, he would drain these women, drop by drop, feasting on their bodies and the guilty secrets of their hearts like a fine wine, draining each thick drop of crimson blood until the waters ran red with lust and the dizzy heat of a feverish demise. He would keep these women upon the edges of their life, feeding, drinking, draining, his appetite insatiable, his lust unquenchable.
And on a bad day?
On a bad day the lands of Faey would be terrorised by his anger, the agonising wrath of a creature who cannot die, and whose anguished heart has long since ceased to beat out across the timeless chasm of the world. On those days, blood would wet the soil like rain from the heavens, sinking into the cracks in the earth and reddening the mud with a permanent stain of deathly crimson- a flawless reminder of the terror that stalked the lightless lands. Bodies all across Faey would fall in the heavy unison of a bell ringing out its death toll across the world, for on a bad day, those who crossed paths with the Scarlet Prince would not even be alive long enough to recall his name.
The tyranny of the Scarlet Prince was about as great as his hungry lusting for blood.
Some days, I can still see that wild side in him, the riotous raging of his more youthful days, the terrifying capability he has to draw his claws on me as though he is no longer a rational being, but a monster.
But back then, a rational Soren didn't even exist to begin with.
So, why would he let her go? Why not kill her?
What on earth could Soren have done?There is no logical answer to my question, no reasoning, that would make any outcome even a mildly rational one. Whatever factor had resulted in the amassing crowds of Sezeria being entirely absent when Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth was by no means a good one. My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer, threatening to rocket out at any minute and land in the waiting grips of Fangorn's ragged hands. Slowly, he licks his pointed tongue over his lips. "The day Soren created the final tier of the labyrinth, he plunged the entire city of Sezeria into darkness. It lasted for several days-the air was filled with a black fog, so dense it was impossible to see through- not that it mattered anyway, as soon as you breathed it in, you were lying half dead on the ground. Stasis magic, he called it- part of the soul. Stopped the mind and the body, preserved the entire city in an icy encapsulation of a singular moment until the Prince saw it fit to release them from their slumber. For days the city of Sezeria lost its consciousness while the Scarlet Prince schemed his scheme under the depths of the palace. I should know, I watched it spread, I watched my people fall to the ground in a state of half death, wreathed in shadows, their eyes unseeing as whatever nightmare of darkness they were given took hold of them." Fangorn stops to take a break, allowing himself a moment to run his hands back past his dark fluffy hair, breathing a heavy, desperate sigh that his lifeless lungs have no need to breathe. And perhaps it is a trick of the light, or a fatigue in my brain that twists and turns my vision before me, distorting the minor details of whatever I am seeing and transforming it into an altered version of the truth, but I swear for a moment I can see a shake in Fangorn's hands with sorrow. There is something deeper behind this, there has to be. Gingerly, I raise my hand to offer a secondary question."You said you watched it spread, does that mean you weren't effected, then?"If that is the case, maybe, maybe, there is some hope- that Fangorn might have a vague inclination of what lurks within the depths of Soren's tier and my questing would be in vain after all, but to my great dismay my fragile hopes are swiftly cut short. Sadly Fangorn shakes his head."That day I was with Lilyana, tucked away in the Great forest, under the illusion that the trees, in all our desperation, would shield us from the deadly mist that began seeping its way until the cracks of the land, rising up in billowing clouds to run its toil over the horizon. We watched in silent disregard as it carved out its wave of destruction across the land, consuming all consciousness in its wake, all awareness, and leaving in its place an empty silence. Yes, we were so sure it wouldn't reach us." Fangorns throat works. "And then we woke up, and realised it was already too late."A cold feeling stirs in my gut. Cautiously, I make my way over to Fangorn, my hand hovering in the air between us, half way between wanting to comfort him, yet simultaneously being too entrapped in the possibility of being turned on to fully lay my hand to rest of the cold unfeeling harshness of his undead skin. He must see that look in me, the repulsion mixed with an ill timed terror, the sympathy and the chronic heartache. Yes- seen it all welling up in the depths of my face, threatening to spill over in floods of emotions like a tidal wave breaking across the bay, because within seconds his face relaxes, features settling to that characteristic stony calm. At last I place my hand on his arm, offering up a small comfort against his formerly rigid anger. The only acknowledgement of my actions is the howling wind outside the window."That is how he found you two, isn't it? Soren I mean."Fangorn's answer is a short one, sharp to the point it is almost startling, but in reality, I know there is no need for further explanation- after all, I had spent enough long years staring at the gaping gashes on Lilyana's back to imagine the situation well enough for myself."Yes," Gradually, I bring myself to rest upon the table, tapping out a hollow tune as a dull throb settles itself upon my heart. Then something else occurs to me."But he let her go," I state, turning myself to meet the icy stare of his crimson gaze, trying my best to push aside the shudder that runs through me as I do so. After all this time, the unsettling emptiness of those ruby eyes is never something I have found myself getting used to. A vampire's gaze has always been hard to place, only ever becoming increasingly more difficult to determine whether their wild eyes and sharpened gaze portrays lust, or hate, or pure, embittered resent. I can only pray to the heavens that Fangorn's is neither of the latter.There is a short pause between us, then:"...yes."It doesn't take a genius to predict my next question."But why?"You see, long before I came into the picture, long, long before the meagre 18 years of my life had merely passed in the brief flashing of time, when wars were fought with glory on a battlefield and not in the tricky depths of the mind, when the ranks of the angels were more plentiful and a Queen was a Queen and not just a figurehead, Soren had ruled with an iron fist, a true tyrant among his people. His earliest accounts in his diary tell as much, and even if that fails to suffice the evidence in favour of the cruel nature of his ways. The tales of my people are certainly favourable enough to justify such a hefty accusation. Soren is, and always has been, a monster- capable of slaughtering half the continent and moping up their blood with reams of ashes from his fires of destruction. It is therefore little wonder that he is the embodiment of the soul of hell. However, whether or not he choses to act upon such instincts is another matter entirely.Back then, on a good day Soren would fill a bathtub with some of the most delectable women in Faey, naked, in true vampire fashion and spend the day beguiling them with his looks and charms and incantations of love and delicate beauty, he would woo them with the sweetness of his words and glamour them with the honeyed tones of his voice. Soren, it would seem, is an irresistible pleasure, and a guilty one at that, for while the occasional glamour was necessary to lure these women into his quarters, the seductive nature of his kind, and indeed, his body- something I can certainly testify for, meant that most women went willingly to his call. And willingly to their demise.It is not in a vampire's nature, nor in the nature of the animal kingdom, to prey alive longer than the necessary parameters of toying and feasting allow.But to Soren, a vampire whose personality is about as ordinary as the glimmering golden orbs of his eyes, is not exactly a 'normal vampire'. And so on these good days, he would drain these women, drop by drop, feasting on their bodies and the guilty secrets of their hearts like a fine wine, draining each thick drop of crimson blood until the waters ran red with lust and the dizzy heat of a feverish demise. He would keep these women upon the edges of their life, feeding, drinking, draining, his appetite insatiable, his lust unquenchable.And on a bad day?On a bad day the lands of Faey would be terrorised by his anger, the agonising wrath of a creature who cannot die, and whose anguished heart has long since ceased to beat out across the timeless chasm of the world. On those days, blood would wet the soil like rain from the heavens, sinking into the cracks in the earth and reddening the mud with a permanent stain of deathly crimson- a flawless reminder of the terror that stalked the lightless lands. Bodies all across Faey would fall in the heavy unison of a bell ringing out its death toll across the world, for on a bad day, those who crossed paths with the Scarlet Prince would not even be alive long enough to recall his name. The tyranny of the Scarlet Prince was about as great as his hungry lusting for blood.Some days, I can still see that wild side in him, the riotous raging of his more youthful days, the terrifying capability he has to draw his claws on me as though he is no longer a rational being, but a monster.But back then, a rational Soren didn't even exist to begin with.So, why would he let her go? Why not kill her?
