i still feel you, now and then / slow like pseudo-ephedrine / when you see me, will you say i've changed?
"Now," said Caine, tapping the blunt edge of a silver dagger against the merchant's sweating neck, right where the muscle gave way to jugular vein.
"This vial. Look familiar?" A small glass vial glinted like mercury under the ghoulish light of a single lantern. The merchant, dripping blood from a cut on his lip, took one ragged breath in before spitting a wad of spotted saliva at Caine's hooves. Smiling faintly, Caine knocked his dagger against the man's temple. His resistance now was merely proof of his setting desperation; he was beginning to break, like an egg tapped in all the right places. Caine could feel his tremors magnified through the handle of his blade.
Wiping blood carelessly from a gash across his cheek sustained in the earlier struggle, when his newfound humanity had caused him to strike the heavyset merchant a bit too lightly in the chest, he pushed up from the ground, leaving the man to struggle against his ropes, and walked to where the sandstone wall met the slimy rock face of a cave yawning out to the Terminus. Rummaging amongst a tangle of fishing nets with bits of fish still rotting inside them, Caine stilled when, from behind the bulk of a wooden barrel, out fell a plait of hair as gold as wheat.
Attached to the plait was the whimpering head of a young girl, her body folded in the shadows behind the barrel. "Because I lack the time to convince you in another way," Caine said, his eyes as red as blood as he pulled loosely at the girl's braid, "I took the liberty of bringing someone here before you. Do you recognise her, merchant Mikhail?"
The merchant's answer was a stifled choke, falling into a breath of horrified silence. Finally, a broken, "Annabelle." The girl, bound and gagged, answered her father by leaking forth a round of fresh tears.
"I am terribly sorry, little one," Caine whispered, kneeling down to frown into her eyes, bluer than the sky. "Monster! Do not touch her," came the merchant's cry. A thump as he fell to his side, struggling against his ropes. "You are the sole reason she is here," Caine shrugged, before reaching into his cloak and pulling out another dagger, this one as thin as a basilisk's fang. "Does that not make you the monster?"
Silence, until — "I swore an oath with the Guild," the merchant said hoarsely. "Sealed in magic. They will know." His eyes fell to the curled up form of his daughter. "They will kill me."
"Ah. I see," said Caine, reddened eyes slitting in disgust. "Then I will make it simple. Your death, or hers. Answer my question, or — " Quicker than a cobra strike, the dagger became but a pale blur through her leg, bone against bone, slicker than butter; before shuddering to a stop just before it could slice the tendon. The girl's muffled scream ripped through the dark like glass shattering. " — I continue."
The man moaned through his daughter's sobs. "Stop!" Caine's dagger stilled; the girl's screams died to hiccuping whimpers. "Stop. I yield," he hissed. His hair fell in oily yellow ringlets past his bloodshot eyes. "I know little but this. The star you seek, the leopard-star, the vial is of its blood. And the seller of it... he is gold fading to dark, I recall, scars — scarred all over, and horns sprouting from his — I swear, I swear I am telling the truth!" Mutely Caine nodded; if the merchant's uncertainty vexed him, he let none of it show. There was only the pulsing of his eyes and scars, red to orange to dark, like fading embers.
Shuddering from the cold of the cave floor, the merchant continued. "The man sold the bottles to any of the Guild who would take them. I reckon he's yet to kill the star, to stretch his supply for as long as he needs." His voice rasped to a whisper. "That is all I know. He must be keeping her somewhere. I know not where, he would never tell me, to disclose such secrets to a mere mer —"
"Enough. I've heard about this man from others, always recalled with the same uncertainty," said Caine drily. "I merely needed your confirmation that the leopard-star lives." A black ripple, and over his shoulders appeared the suggestion of a fabric more shadow than anything corporeal. "Now, though, I advise you to work through your bonds quickly. As you talked I felt the magic take; the Guild is, as you'd feared, coming."
Caine rubbed at his eyes. Dead, dull silver. "And give my regards to your Annabelle. Your dreams prove that despite your blackened heart you still have someone you love. In that, you are a better man than me." He stepped away from the barrel. A blink, and the daughter of the merchant's gold braid was naught but white fish bones and tangled netting; her body, the damp cave floor.
A blink, and the assassin was gone.
§
Caine retches three times as he climbs up the punishing incline of the Veneror.
The first, because the nausea of overusing his magic still unseated everything he tried to keep down. The merchant Mikhail was the first to experience his nightmares rendered into reality, yet out of necessity there came two others. The second had been the bloodiest; the wife had needed her limb fully severed off, before the old guild master had squealed.
The second time was when the emptied vial fell from his cloak pocket and shattered on the rocks, reminding him of what he had done to bolster his magic from red phantom ravens to fully reconstructed maimings. He had doubled over, gasping at the cold mountain air, before forcing a lump of grass down his throat to wash out the metallic taste of her blood. The grass had come right back out, covered in glistening silver.
The third, had simply been from exhaustion. He no longer remembered sleep. It came to him like a thief, a dawning of black emptiness before he would find himself back on his hooves again, his memory riddled with holes, his mouth as dry as a husk. Somehow, he would draw himself together again. He'd been through worse.
Yet — No. No, surely this is worse than everything. The image of a star bled out to nothing. Blackness would assault him again yet this time it was not sleep but fury, a core of red-hot rage bottled at the very center of him, violence like he had never known before.
If Warset was dead, then the one who'd drained her of life would follow her soon after. Caine swore this to his Saints, to her sister-stars, to this land's meddlesome gods.
He would kill him. If he could not save the pegasus, then he would bury her with an offering of vengeance.
When he sees the first glimmering drop of star-silver on the rocks, Caine nearly falls to his knees in exuberance. Instead, the scars at his shoulders groan as he shakes out his wings and pushes off into the clouds, so close now that it takes but a moment, until the air grows so thin around him that his breath comes quick and shallow.
It is not the craggy form of a cave nestled into the mountainside that draws him, but her song. It starts off as hollow notes half-lost within the clouds; as the quickening of Caine's pulse as something reaches deep inside him to whisper her, her, her! He strains his ears, desperate, his wings beating as silent as an owl's in the growing dawn.
And then his hooves clip against cave rock as he glides down, half stumbling to the gaping mouth. There are no guards, no dragon, no man, nothing but a black crystal cave and the song crooning out from its very heart. Grimacing, Caine tucks his fury back inside himself, an ember to sear holes against his chest.
His dagger hovers like a torch in front of him. "Warset!" His voice ricochets hoarsely into the dark, and in the resounding echo, Caine listens for a star to sing.
"This vial. Look familiar?" A small glass vial glinted like mercury under the ghoulish light of a single lantern. The merchant, dripping blood from a cut on his lip, took one ragged breath in before spitting a wad of spotted saliva at Caine's hooves. Smiling faintly, Caine knocked his dagger against the man's temple. His resistance now was merely proof of his setting desperation; he was beginning to break, like an egg tapped in all the right places. Caine could feel his tremors magnified through the handle of his blade.
Wiping blood carelessly from a gash across his cheek sustained in the earlier struggle, when his newfound humanity had caused him to strike the heavyset merchant a bit too lightly in the chest, he pushed up from the ground, leaving the man to struggle against his ropes, and walked to where the sandstone wall met the slimy rock face of a cave yawning out to the Terminus. Rummaging amongst a tangle of fishing nets with bits of fish still rotting inside them, Caine stilled when, from behind the bulk of a wooden barrel, out fell a plait of hair as gold as wheat.
Attached to the plait was the whimpering head of a young girl, her body folded in the shadows behind the barrel. "Because I lack the time to convince you in another way," Caine said, his eyes as red as blood as he pulled loosely at the girl's braid, "I took the liberty of bringing someone here before you. Do you recognise her, merchant Mikhail?"
The merchant's answer was a stifled choke, falling into a breath of horrified silence. Finally, a broken, "Annabelle." The girl, bound and gagged, answered her father by leaking forth a round of fresh tears.
"I am terribly sorry, little one," Caine whispered, kneeling down to frown into her eyes, bluer than the sky. "Monster! Do not touch her," came the merchant's cry. A thump as he fell to his side, struggling against his ropes. "You are the sole reason she is here," Caine shrugged, before reaching into his cloak and pulling out another dagger, this one as thin as a basilisk's fang. "Does that not make you the monster?"
Silence, until — "I swore an oath with the Guild," the merchant said hoarsely. "Sealed in magic. They will know." His eyes fell to the curled up form of his daughter. "They will kill me."
"Ah. I see," said Caine, reddened eyes slitting in disgust. "Then I will make it simple. Your death, or hers. Answer my question, or — " Quicker than a cobra strike, the dagger became but a pale blur through her leg, bone against bone, slicker than butter; before shuddering to a stop just before it could slice the tendon. The girl's muffled scream ripped through the dark like glass shattering. " — I continue."
The man moaned through his daughter's sobs. "Stop!" Caine's dagger stilled; the girl's screams died to hiccuping whimpers. "Stop. I yield," he hissed. His hair fell in oily yellow ringlets past his bloodshot eyes. "I know little but this. The star you seek, the leopard-star, the vial is of its blood. And the seller of it... he is gold fading to dark, I recall, scars — scarred all over, and horns sprouting from his — I swear, I swear I am telling the truth!" Mutely Caine nodded; if the merchant's uncertainty vexed him, he let none of it show. There was only the pulsing of his eyes and scars, red to orange to dark, like fading embers.
Shuddering from the cold of the cave floor, the merchant continued. "The man sold the bottles to any of the Guild who would take them. I reckon he's yet to kill the star, to stretch his supply for as long as he needs." His voice rasped to a whisper. "That is all I know. He must be keeping her somewhere. I know not where, he would never tell me, to disclose such secrets to a mere mer —"
"Enough. I've heard about this man from others, always recalled with the same uncertainty," said Caine drily. "I merely needed your confirmation that the leopard-star lives." A black ripple, and over his shoulders appeared the suggestion of a fabric more shadow than anything corporeal. "Now, though, I advise you to work through your bonds quickly. As you talked I felt the magic take; the Guild is, as you'd feared, coming."
Caine rubbed at his eyes. Dead, dull silver. "And give my regards to your Annabelle. Your dreams prove that despite your blackened heart you still have someone you love. In that, you are a better man than me." He stepped away from the barrel. A blink, and the daughter of the merchant's gold braid was naught but white fish bones and tangled netting; her body, the damp cave floor.
A blink, and the assassin was gone.
Caine retches three times as he climbs up the punishing incline of the Veneror.
The first, because the nausea of overusing his magic still unseated everything he tried to keep down. The merchant Mikhail was the first to experience his nightmares rendered into reality, yet out of necessity there came two others. The second had been the bloodiest; the wife had needed her limb fully severed off, before the old guild master had squealed.
The second time was when the emptied vial fell from his cloak pocket and shattered on the rocks, reminding him of what he had done to bolster his magic from red phantom ravens to fully reconstructed maimings. He had doubled over, gasping at the cold mountain air, before forcing a lump of grass down his throat to wash out the metallic taste of her blood. The grass had come right back out, covered in glistening silver.
The third, had simply been from exhaustion. He no longer remembered sleep. It came to him like a thief, a dawning of black emptiness before he would find himself back on his hooves again, his memory riddled with holes, his mouth as dry as a husk. Somehow, he would draw himself together again. He'd been through worse.
Yet — No. No, surely this is worse than everything. The image of a star bled out to nothing. Blackness would assault him again yet this time it was not sleep but fury, a core of red-hot rage bottled at the very center of him, violence like he had never known before.
If Warset was dead, then the one who'd drained her of life would follow her soon after. Caine swore this to his Saints, to her sister-stars, to this land's meddlesome gods.
He would kill him. If he could not save the pegasus, then he would bury her with an offering of vengeance.
When he sees the first glimmering drop of star-silver on the rocks, Caine nearly falls to his knees in exuberance. Instead, the scars at his shoulders groan as he shakes out his wings and pushes off into the clouds, so close now that it takes but a moment, until the air grows so thin around him that his breath comes quick and shallow.
It is not the craggy form of a cave nestled into the mountainside that draws him, but her song. It starts off as hollow notes half-lost within the clouds; as the quickening of Caine's pulse as something reaches deep inside him to whisper her, her, her! He strains his ears, desperate, his wings beating as silent as an owl's in the growing dawn.
And then his hooves clip against cave rock as he glides down, half stumbling to the gaping mouth. There are no guards, no dragon, no man, nothing but a black crystal cave and the song crooning out from its very heart. Grimacing, Caine tucks his fury back inside himself, an ember to sear holes against his chest.
His dagger hovers like a torch in front of him. "Warset!" His voice ricochets hoarsely into the dark, and in the resounding echo, Caine listens for a star to sing.
I guess I am incapable of not writing novels to you???
