i'm the one who's out of touch, i'm the one inflicting pain
Caine’s eyes flickered momentarily to the black and white boy when Fia stepped in front of him, lips twisting, eyes blazing. “Get behind me,” she said, though that was entirely unnecessary. He never killed with an audience, and perhaps more importantly, would never so much as touch a hair on someone’s head without proper reason. Premeditation. All of the best assassins knew to worship it like religion — and Agenor had never kept anything but the best.
The boy was merely an unfortunate bystander. Caine paid him little mind. His attention was reserved solely for the girl in front of him.
Her fury — he could only describe it as alive. As demon-flesh as her missing demon, a creature of nightmares and grave bones and fire. Her magic raged, animating her hair to coil around her head like white snakes, demanding to be unleashed. It was long past the point of begging. He knew what was coming.
Caine had been on the receiving end of fury enough times to chisel a portrait of it into marble. The constriction of the pupils. The pinning of the ears. The volatility given flesh and howling soul. (The physical pain that was sure to come in secret lashings or hidden knives.) Every time it sought him, he never failed to watch and wait and bear it — a cliff unmoved against the thunderous sea.
But Caine had forgotten how to be unmoved. His jaw clenched as Fia’s magic ripped through him, tearing his mane from their braids, feasting upon his wings, whipping branches and leaves into his face — and instead of an icy calm, an answering wave of anger rumbled deep in the marrow of his bones. Was that all?
Was that all she would do? As quickly as her magic came the quicker still it died, and Caine was left disheveled but wholly intact. None the worse for wear. He could not understand. Like in their spar, still she refused to draw blood, to wound him — and he could not understand. What was the reason for justice, for punishment, if it was not carried out to the bitter end? All of his life he had abided by such laws. He failed in his tasks. He knew what would come. He succeeded in his tasks. He knew what would come.
His entire life he had always known what and how and when and why, and perhaps his anger was because he was slowly realizing that without this order, this self-justification, then all of it — the curses, the Garde, the killings — were not borne from a man’s devotion to duty, but from a man’s fondness of cruelty. Unreasonable, unjustifiable cruelty.
Yet he had hated the Garde because they had abandoned him, not for what they had done to him. He had joined the Rebellion because he did not know how to live without being sworn to something. How pathetic they are, he’d always scoffed, if they can not stand on their own. He had never once stood on his own.
What made things incomparably worse, however, was that somewhere between Fia’s bandages and their spar and his utterly convincing betrayal — he had lost the ability to stay unmoved.
Her scorching, mismatched eyes dug accusingly, poisonously, righteously into Caine, and it took all of his anger, all of his heartlessness, to keep his gaze tempered in steel. His jaw worked. His chest ached. But he hadn’t lost the ability to wear his expressions like masks, nor the resolve to see a job through to the bitter end.
Just before he’d departed for Denocte he had finally managed to copy down a significant amount of intelligence to pass into Resistance hands. It had taken months of risky work. There could be no doubt, from either Raum or Fia, about where his loyalties lay if he wanted to pull the ruse off.
They needed to remain convinced that his loyalties lay only with himself.
“Caine.”
He dragged strands of loose hair from his eyes and stretched the stiffness from his wings . “Why are you here?” Felt the press of his dagger along his spine. “This place hardly seems safe for birds.” Lifted a cool brow, curbed his scathing smile.
“I came here of my own accord. The king did not send me, if that’s what you were wondering.” He moved delicately closer, picking a leaf from his mane as he did it. Caution disguised as carelessness. Vexation itched to sour Caine’s expression — he detested nothing more than his hair in a mess — until he looked down at the de-winged bird. The sight was sobering. “Though I do hear that he’s somewhere on the island.”
The words left his mouth before he finished contemplating the danger of speaking them. “You should be careful.” He will surely kill you — for good, this time — if he sees you.
Queen Seraphina.
He supposed it had always nagged at him, the reason behind Fia’s vendetta against Raum. Caine didn’t think himself particularly skilled at grasping emotions, at least fundamentally, but even to him her anger had felt personal. It was not until he accidentally witnessed her dreams the night he snuck back into the hideout, that things fell into place. Her scars. Her past as a child soldier. The fallen queen’s missing body. They had called Seraphina the Silver Queen, and Fia was silver from mane to tail. Even her name — Phina. Fia. He had found his own ignorance astonishing.
Nothing had really changed though, once he’d realized. To him she was Fia, the revolutionary, and her history as the queen was not one he was privy to, nor wished to dig too much into. Deception was a practical strategy — one he was intimately familiar with — and besides, he had never much cared for honesty. It was difficult to take creative liberties with.
“What did you do?” Caine blinked. He had forgotten the boy was still there. A barb of annoyance once again worked its way into his chest, though compared to Fia’s fury it was trivial enough to ignore. He narrowed his eyes and pretended to consider.
It was a question with too many answers, and Caine felt disinclined to give even one to him, this Pravda. “Fia and I,” he took care to thicken his learned Solterran accent, mostly out of habit but also out of spite, “have unsettled business. Neither of us wanted to see the other, so you can see how disagreeable this encounter is for everyone.” His brow furrowed in convincing concern.
Convincing, because the mutilated bird and the eerily silent forest concerned him a fair bit when he began to clear his vision — and half of his mind — of the seething girl. Pravda’s earlier comment echoed through his head. None of them were safe here.
“We should probably —” but Caine never finished his sentence, because between one breath and the next he saw it.
Glowing red eyes in the dark between the trees, affixed to a shadow moving at breakneck speed towards Pravda — and Fia’s — backs.
His dagger was out before his thoughts could finish processing. The rubies glinted dully in the light, like drops of dried blood. “Behind you!” But they would never see it in time.
So with a downward sweep of his wings, Caine lunged forwards into the air and collided with a hissing mass of fur and teeth.
The boy was merely an unfortunate bystander. Caine paid him little mind. His attention was reserved solely for the girl in front of him.
Her fury — he could only describe it as alive. As demon-flesh as her missing demon, a creature of nightmares and grave bones and fire. Her magic raged, animating her hair to coil around her head like white snakes, demanding to be unleashed. It was long past the point of begging. He knew what was coming.
Caine had been on the receiving end of fury enough times to chisel a portrait of it into marble. The constriction of the pupils. The pinning of the ears. The volatility given flesh and howling soul. (The physical pain that was sure to come in secret lashings or hidden knives.) Every time it sought him, he never failed to watch and wait and bear it — a cliff unmoved against the thunderous sea.
But Caine had forgotten how to be unmoved. His jaw clenched as Fia’s magic ripped through him, tearing his mane from their braids, feasting upon his wings, whipping branches and leaves into his face — and instead of an icy calm, an answering wave of anger rumbled deep in the marrow of his bones. Was that all?
Was that all she would do? As quickly as her magic came the quicker still it died, and Caine was left disheveled but wholly intact. None the worse for wear. He could not understand. Like in their spar, still she refused to draw blood, to wound him — and he could not understand. What was the reason for justice, for punishment, if it was not carried out to the bitter end? All of his life he had abided by such laws. He failed in his tasks. He knew what would come. He succeeded in his tasks. He knew what would come.
His entire life he had always known what and how and when and why, and perhaps his anger was because he was slowly realizing that without this order, this self-justification, then all of it — the curses, the Garde, the killings — were not borne from a man’s devotion to duty, but from a man’s fondness of cruelty. Unreasonable, unjustifiable cruelty.
Yet he had hated the Garde because they had abandoned him, not for what they had done to him. He had joined the Rebellion because he did not know how to live without being sworn to something. How pathetic they are, he’d always scoffed, if they can not stand on their own. He had never once stood on his own.
What made things incomparably worse, however, was that somewhere between Fia’s bandages and their spar and his utterly convincing betrayal — he had lost the ability to stay unmoved.
Her scorching, mismatched eyes dug accusingly, poisonously, righteously into Caine, and it took all of his anger, all of his heartlessness, to keep his gaze tempered in steel. His jaw worked. His chest ached. But he hadn’t lost the ability to wear his expressions like masks, nor the resolve to see a job through to the bitter end.
Just before he’d departed for Denocte he had finally managed to copy down a significant amount of intelligence to pass into Resistance hands. It had taken months of risky work. There could be no doubt, from either Raum or Fia, about where his loyalties lay if he wanted to pull the ruse off.
They needed to remain convinced that his loyalties lay only with himself.
“Caine.”
He dragged strands of loose hair from his eyes and stretched the stiffness from his wings . “Why are you here?” Felt the press of his dagger along his spine. “This place hardly seems safe for birds.” Lifted a cool brow, curbed his scathing smile.
“I came here of my own accord. The king did not send me, if that’s what you were wondering.” He moved delicately closer, picking a leaf from his mane as he did it. Caution disguised as carelessness. Vexation itched to sour Caine’s expression — he detested nothing more than his hair in a mess — until he looked down at the de-winged bird. The sight was sobering. “Though I do hear that he’s somewhere on the island.”
The words left his mouth before he finished contemplating the danger of speaking them. “You should be careful.” He will surely kill you — for good, this time — if he sees you.
Queen Seraphina.
He supposed it had always nagged at him, the reason behind Fia’s vendetta against Raum. Caine didn’t think himself particularly skilled at grasping emotions, at least fundamentally, but even to him her anger had felt personal. It was not until he accidentally witnessed her dreams the night he snuck back into the hideout, that things fell into place. Her scars. Her past as a child soldier. The fallen queen’s missing body. They had called Seraphina the Silver Queen, and Fia was silver from mane to tail. Even her name — Phina. Fia. He had found his own ignorance astonishing.
Nothing had really changed though, once he’d realized. To him she was Fia, the revolutionary, and her history as the queen was not one he was privy to, nor wished to dig too much into. Deception was a practical strategy — one he was intimately familiar with — and besides, he had never much cared for honesty. It was difficult to take creative liberties with.
“What did you do?” Caine blinked. He had forgotten the boy was still there. A barb of annoyance once again worked its way into his chest, though compared to Fia’s fury it was trivial enough to ignore. He narrowed his eyes and pretended to consider.
It was a question with too many answers, and Caine felt disinclined to give even one to him, this Pravda. “Fia and I,” he took care to thicken his learned Solterran accent, mostly out of habit but also out of spite, “have unsettled business. Neither of us wanted to see the other, so you can see how disagreeable this encounter is for everyone.” His brow furrowed in convincing concern.
Convincing, because the mutilated bird and the eerily silent forest concerned him a fair bit when he began to clear his vision — and half of his mind — of the seething girl. Pravda’s earlier comment echoed through his head. None of them were safe here.
“We should probably —” but Caine never finished his sentence, because between one breath and the next he saw it.
Glowing red eyes in the dark between the trees, affixed to a shadow moving at breakneck speed towards Pravda — and Fia’s — backs.
His dagger was out before his thoughts could finish processing. The rubies glinted dully in the light, like drops of dried blood. “Behind you!” But they would never see it in time.
So with a downward sweep of his wings, Caine lunged forwards into the air and collided with a hissing mass of fur and teeth.
@Seraphina @Pravda | "speaks" | notes: BEAST ALERT
