Scion of Blood, page 2
That made the thought of the prince all the more irritating. Not only was he forced to run from his contract, but that handsome bastard spared his life. For what? Out of the goodness of his heart? Doubtful. His kind played the game of checks and balances. Of pushing the boundaries and seeing what they could get away with. How much they could gain without someone else taking notice. This was just a way to stroke his bloody ego, surely.
Anima was sure that he would die tonight either way. There was no way Asphodel wasn’t sure of the same thing. Since the prince hadn’t killed him, he now had to report back to his boss with his tail tucked between his supple legs and beg for a light punishment. For a quick death instead of the slow, torturous end that misbehaved Daggers of Luna usually met. Perhaps that was Asphodel’s true game. To show complete dominance by having his defeated assassin walk back to his own death.
No use delaying it, then, Anima figured. He could desert, sure, but what life was there other than this? And even if he did get away, that would only mean living the rest of his life running, in the same fear Asphodel’s eyes gave him. Hiding in old, abandoned hamlets whilst constantly checking over his shoulders for his inevitable hunting-down.
The sect of Luna’s Open Hand he reported to was not much farther from here. Just down a few more of these winding, residential streets until he hit the more open lower city. From there, he would go to The Drowning Crescent, the alehouse by the lakeside, loudly ask to see the owner, and then disappear into the backroom. He lived in the alehouse’s basement with a few of the other Daggers that didn’t own a house in the city.
Casus was waiting in the main section of the basement, before the corridors that led to Luna’s Open Hand proper, surrounded by barrels upon barrels of cheap mead, well aged liquors, and casks of wine. He himself held a goblet in his large hand, rocking it slowly back and forth just in front of his excessively well-built chest. He smiled a wicked grin upon seeing his adopted apprentice, his white beard curling upward with his lips. Standing, he set the goblet down, his long, snowy hair flowing behind him as he approached Anima.
“You have returned, Dagger of Luna,” he called out with authority, his large hand cradling Anima’s shoulder to establish physical dominance in addition to his much higher status. “And what news of your Writ? Does Asphodel lie bleeding and waiting to be found by his guards in the morning?”
His question held no weight behind it. He knew the answer already, Anima could tell. There were figures hugging the walls in each doorway, hidden by shadows, though clearly present. They held cudgels in their hands, ready to strike should Anima decide to run. They were his punishment. Part of it, at least. Meant to beat him down until he begged for death.
“He does not,” Anima admitted, simply, not wishing to drag this out any longer than it had to be. Let this death come quick, just like those he gave to his targets. “I have failed Luna’s Open Hand.”
Casus’ smile did not fade. Not in the same way Asphodel held onto his, however. The prince’s smile came from an undying confidence. In taking pity on someone in over their head. Casus’, on the other hand, came from an inherent, sickening desire for violence. From finding an excuse to inflict pain on those he felt deserved it.
He tore into Anima’s shoulder with his large grip, jostling his small frame to the floor. Anima was shoved hard enough to leave a small indent in the wood, losing his breath as he went limp for a moment. That moment was more than enough of an opening for his fellow Daggers to descend on him, however. They tore into his arms and legs, making sure to avoid his vital organs. Casus watched for only a moment before the sight of it bored him.
Anima did not know how long the beating went on. His brain had already drifted far away from it, almost ignoring the pain as it pierced through him. He was thinking of his childhood. Of the parents he never met, and the vile man that took him in. That raised him from a pup into a starving wolf. That tempered his brittle steel into a hardened blade. Was it all for nothing? Was his meager life only ever meant to amount to this?
He remembered staring at the moon once when he was still a child, alone by the lakeside. It was closer than he had ever seen it before, throbbing, almost, as its light cascaded down. A blink later, and its sorrowful blue form had shifted to a violent red, crimson and deep, like vibrant wine laced with blood. At the same time, he heard the vivacious cries of the city somewhere behind him. He did not know what it meant to be happy, not now or then, but in that moment, he felt an intense longing tugging at his heart. Ever since, he hated being around people. Made him feel that much lonelier.
Fading in and out of consciousness, Anima listlessly looked up at the basement ceiling, watching a roach crawl from board to board. He laughed as it scurried into a dark crack between two pieces of broken wood, silently hoping he could be as insignificant as it. As unworthy of sight as a mere bug. Alas, he was cursed with a sapient mind, forced to think. To carry guilt, burden, and desire, as much as his training tried to suppress it.
Soon, Casus reappeared in his vision, looking down on him with almost indifferent disapproval. He clicked his teeth and shook his head before putting his foot to Anima’s side, rolling him over to his stomach. Anima did not resist as he was lifted and carried off. He did not take much stock of the sights of the journey. He only knew that he was carried away from the alehouse and toward an abandoned bakery fitted with cells and Open Hand guards.
Maybe it was an hour later, or perhaps it was even days, but when Anima finally awoke from his stupor, he did not feel the rise of panic he thought he would. Or, rather, had hoped he would. He only felt hopelessly empty, his arms unwilling to move despite being unchained, his legs unable to hold his weight from being deprived of food for too long. Was this the end Casus had meant for him? To be starved to death the moment he outlived his usefulness?
He tried lunging forward. To show the world some damn determination and prove that he had ambition, but all that accomplished was throwing himself to the floor. That left desperation to be his last resort. He grabbed the base of the rusted bars and begged Casus for some forgiveness despite the room being empty save for him. When that produced nothing, he decided to pray, instead. And since he did not know of any Gods besides Lunaris, he sent his plea to the sheltered Moon God above.
“Do not let this be my end,” he barely managed to utter, his voice grating against his dry throat as his lungs burned. “If you have any sense of decency, let this broken body out of this cage. Let me retire my blades and live that peaceful life that merciful man spoke of.”
Unfortunately for him, slumbering Gods could answer no prayers. As the world stood in its current state, only those with mortal minds and mortal bodies could take fate in their hands and spin it loose, reshaping it with their blades and hearts. That realization almost drove him mad. He clenched the iron bars and begged his body to summon the strength to shatter them apart. To let him take fate in his own hands for the first time in his life.
He stopped his begging the moment he heard the door to the abandoned bakery-turned-dungeon open. He listened as the footsteps grew closer, working up the courage to dig his hands into the rust and lift himself up. The process was long and grueling, but he wanted to meet his executioner in the eye. It may be too late to live with determinant ambition, but it wasn’t too late to die with some damn passion.
“I would’ve thought you’d be dead by now,” the Dagger assigned to Anima’s death lowly whistled as he placed a hand on the bars. “But look at you! Starved and deprived of water for five days and still kicking. I’m rather glad, though, you know? Means I get to kill you myself. Let’s hope you last through the night then, yeah?”
Anima grit his teeth as if he was going to pounce on the Dagger the moment he tore through his cage, not that he had the strength to do it. Nor would he get the chance to try. The door that remained open was blocked for a moment by a shadow the Dagger could not and did not notice due to his attention still being on Anima. As it grew closer, however, so too did its footsteps become audible. The Dagger turned to it with a mix of anger and confusion that immediately dropped to fear.
He was not able to get a word out before Asphodel set himself upon him, tackling him to the ground. The Dagger reached for his steel knife, hoping to plunge it into the prince’s neck as he wound up a punch. That hope was dashed, however, as Asphodel allowed his arm to take the hit before laying into the helpless Dagger’s head with his fist, repeatedly sending him further and further into the wooden boards below. He did not stop even as the Dagger begged him to. Only when their body went limp did the prince stand, the knife falling from his arm as he turned to Anima.
“I am sorry that took so long,” he called out into the still air, his voice not even wincing from the pain of his open wound. “Your kind are not known to be easy to track.”
Anima did not know what to think. Was this Lunaris answering his prayer? Or was it just an illusion? All of it some grand hallucination his starving body was giving him to comfort his last moments on this earth? Alas, as Asphodel’s hand grazed his, that tender warmth was all he needed to know that this was real. And whether it was the Moon God’s doing or not, he did his best to be thankful for it.
Asphodel motioned for Anima to stand back as he took hold of the rusted bars. He did not flinch as the stray shards of metal dug into his fingers. Nor did his blood drip out of his hands the way a man’s would. Rather, it hissed as it hit the air, boiling into a fine, red steam surrounding the prince’s form. He truly was Moonblooded, then. An abomination in the skin of a man, wearing the flesh of a person when he was, in reality, a being touched by Lunaris himself.
The bars came away with little exertion, tearing through the old, decaying wood they had been affixed into. Asphodel tossed them aside as he entered the cell with Anima. He went to say something, clearly, given that his brow furrowed thoughtfully and his delicate lips pursed, but decided it could wait. Anima was in no condition for a conversation, after all. Instead, he let his charge fall into his arms, Anima’s body trusting Asphodel even if his mind had its hang-ups. He was then carried away by the prince, no doubt back to that palace he had just tried to kill him in.
Chapter 3
“Your Heart, It Wanders”
“Why did you save me?”
Despite the fact that he was just coming to after days of starvation and dehydration, his body battered beyond any usable form, those were the first words that came to him. There was no emotion in his voice beyond destitution. No movement in his body save for his eyes following Asphodel as he worked at a table not too far away.
After no response came, he allowed his head to go limp again, his gaze falling to his side as he settled into the prince’s bed. The soft cotton pulled him in just enough to form itself to his aching body, begging him to fall back asleep. He did not allow himself, however, even if it was night again. His body could tell this was not the same night he had been ransomed out of his cage as he was becoming lucid again, able to discern the passage of time and how long his body had been broken. The moon was too close. It must have been at least another day, maybe two.
“It is not every day a prince is set upon by Luna’s Open Hand,” Asphodel eventually explained as he stood, a glass cup in hand, its contents stirred by a metal rod. “Out of my six assassination attempts, you were the only official one. The others, they were just random chaff that wanted me dead for the sake of some lower magistrate’s ambitious rise to one station higher than their current one. Luna’s Open Hand, however, works in conjunction with the courts. That thus begs the question: who is powerful enough to convince a judge to sign a Writ for a prince? Moreover, what could they want if they are already so powerful?”
As Asphodel approached the side of his own bed, Anima saw that he was bespeckled. An odd thing, given his station. Such afflictions would be seen as a weakness. A crack in the armor his competitors could aim for. A reason to dismantle Asphodel’s rule and lower himself to a less important role in the High Queen’s nation, despite how they made his irises glow in the light it caught on its circular rims.
“Your wounds haven’t healed yet and I am no doctor,” he went on to say as he set the cup on the bedside table and removed the blanket from Anima’s body. “So this is going to hurt. Grit your teeth if you must.”
Unable to do so much as protest, Anima allowed his body to be guided by the prince. He had been covered in bandages, each now being slowly pulled away by Asphodel’s skilled hands. And, despite his words, he clearly made conscious decisions to undress the wrappings carefully so that the process did not hurt too much. Soon enough, he was reduced to his bare self, covered in nothing but bruises and slightly healed, open wounds.
“Can’t you hire a bloody doctor?” Anima spat out despite the care he was receiving. “Your coffers must run deep, your Highness.”
Asphodel ignored him for the moment, focusing on applying the thin balm he had created onto his would-be killer’s wounds. It was oddly hot, and sticky, smelling of sulfur and iron as it adhered to his skin. It seeped into the wounds that were still open, seemingly bonding to his flesh as if assimilating itself into Anima’s very being. It did not sting, as he would expect from something being poured into an open wound. Rather, it was a calm, almost worryingly pleasurable feeling.
“A doctor would not do you any good,” Asphodel whispered as he continued rubbing the salve onto Anima. “Too many broken bones. They would tear you open and realize that you are beyond saving before putting you out of your misery.”
Anima was glad he had been largely unconscious over the past week, then. Though, that wasn’t to say that he believed in whatever miracle elixir Asphodel had concocted. A liquid that could heal even snapped and shattered bones would bring the world to its knees. Moreover, the only process he knew for healing bone required several metal implants torturously affixing each fragment of bone back into its original place, leaving the leftover flesh mangled atop it. This process, however, he considered far too efficient and painless to be effective.
“What in the All-Sinner’s Hell are you giving me, then?” he asked, managing to work a scoff into his tone despite the state he was in. “And why the Hell don’t the doctors have it?”
Asphodel took no offence to his tone, only chuckling with that irritating confidence again. Perhaps he was simply used to how different he was compared to his contemporaries. Comfortable in his lonesomeness and eccentricities. Or, perhaps he was just pitying the lack of bite in Anima’s words, knowing full and well that even if he were healthy he would stand no chance against him.
“It is my blood," he answered, his voice not rising any higher than a murmur. “Mixed with water to make it easier to apply, and human blood to make it stable enough to give me the time to do so. The Moonblooded heal fast, you see. We are resilient, but our blood boils the moment it leaves our bodies. It is still blood, however, so it should acclimate to your body readily.”
That statement, while somewhat fantastical still, caused Anima a great deal of concern. He did not want Asphodel’s affliction to run his body amok. To ravage his very blood and render him an abomination not just in name, but in form as well. Asphodel would not have this, however, as if he somehow knew how important one’s humanity was to their sense of self.
“What causes me some consternation,” he continued, setting his cup down in exchange for a small, wooden box, “is that your blade is of silver make. Silver rends the Moonblooded’s resilience the more it comes into contact with the metal. So, while I do not know if there are any consequences for applying my blood to yours, a silver powder should alleviate any symptoms. I do not believe you will be turning into something like me anytime soon, if that is your concern.”
To the prince’s credit, the heat and uncomfortable stickiness of his blood cocktail faded from Anima’s skin as soon as he applied the powdered silver to his coated wounds. The silver itself did not linger on Anima’s tender body, dissolving into Asphodel’s ichor, dispersingly slowly as the crimson balm leeched it away.
“So, you want me to turn on my boss, then,” Anima relented as soon as Asphodel pulled his overly warm hands away, falling back into the prince’s cotton bed. “Your mercy was just a ploy for my damn service, wasn’t it? You’re no saint. No one of your rank can do anything out of the goodness of their heart, can they?”
That damn laugh again, coming out all low and gravely through his perfect half-smirk. How real was it? Couldn’t be any, Anima figured. Was probably just a reflex forged through years of sucking up to other magistrates to win favor and keep fires down. Especially so with how Asphodel’s been going at it alone since he was a child, raised more by maids and tutors than his own parents.
“Can I not say the same thing about you and your kind?” Asphodel sang back as he collected his applicators and cups, then returning with another set of clean bandages. “No assassin would do anything for the good of anyone but themself. Nor would they, however, show mercy. Neither should a prince. If any of my fellow royals found out that I had the opportunity to take care of the opposition and instead let them live, well, that would be the end for me. A necessary part of wanting to live a peaceful life, I suppose.”
Anima did not stop his bickering even as Asphodel lifted his now slightly numb body and began wrapping his wounds again. And he should be thankful for that slight numbness as well, as those large yet delicate hands would have sent jolts of hot lightning up Anima’s sensitive skin otherwise. Not that the thought hadn’t intruded on his mind once or twice, which only added to his aggression for the prince.
“Don’t make me laugh,” he shot back, though he freely let his body be manipulated by Asphodel so as to not impede the healing process. “Our codes are different. I don’t show mercy because it’s my damn job. You don’t in order to keep up that dandy, royal mask you and your kind have. Not to mention the sheepskin over your lupine form, Moonblooded bastard.”
