As this story is written by two authors, we will each specify when we have written a chapter.
Author: ViktorNikiforovKearsley
An impregnable darkness wrapped its cold, winding arms round the kingdom of Aisimenio, the dimming light of the sun being warped by the many hills surrounding the castle. A single dark figure stood at a grand precipice, his black-clad body like a single dark tear against the pure white landscape. The man observed the rising and falling of the waves beyond the rolling hills below, finally understanding what his father had meant by 'the calm before the storm'. The country seemed at such peace; however, he knew it couldn't last.
The man knelt, scooping a handful of freshly fallen snow from the previously unmarked surface. He rolled it in his palm, momentarily wondering how war would affect the normally peaceful citizens of his country.
He threw the snowball off the cliff, asking himself if this war was really worth it.
The country of Chryso Aima lay fourteen hundred miles off the coast of Aisimenio, on an island oblique to the mainland. It was bright and cheery; always summer due to its immense share of magic. The man's father, who was the king of this realm, was desperate for this power; he believed that if he could control this enormous force, he could rule the world.
Otabek, the prince, had to wonder if maybe his father was wrong. Maybe the power to control the seasons and the weather wasn't worth the immeasurable deaths this war would cause.
"Otabek," called a deep, forlorn voice. It was Otabek's tutor, Christophe Giacometti. He'd slipped out of the castle, obviously, risking his skin to notify Otabek of his father's presence in the residence. The King detested his frequent escapades outside of the compound, deeming them unwise, therefore Otabek generally stayed close enough to catch when his father returned from his hunting trips. Unfortunately, today he'd strayed too far, and he was unable to catch the air his father produced; the same air that generally hinted that he should return home.
"Come! Quickly! Your father is asking for you!" Chris waved a gloved hand towards himself, turning towards the gates. Otabek stood quickly, shaking the snow off his fingertips and warming them in his pockets. He shrugged his hood on, disguising himself to slip back into the castle unnoticed.
Chris led the way, taking him the way they always went. He slipped through the kitchens, shoving a few Pirozhkis into his pockets as he passed before waving goodbye and disappearing down another passage. The cook would blame Otabek, but Chris was underfed as it was; plus, he enjoyed angering his father. It gave him an odd sense of pride, like he'd truly achieved something.
Otabek was thinking this as he slipped through the corridor into his room, not bothering to check the space first. He saw the figure mere inches before himself and attempted to stop, but it was too late. He placed his hands out before him, bouncing off the royal garments that encircled his father's large body.
Otabek gasped, stepping backwards in surprise before collapsing to the stone floor. He stared at his father in horror, the flickering light about the small space adding a frightening air to an already horrifying situation.
"And where do you think you're going?" He glared down at Otabek, his thin wispy beard trembling in anger. The slight crown nestled upon his brow shimmered, showing how much the King was shaking.
"Umm..." Otabek began, clasping his hands together in worry.
"Enough." The King turned, motioning to the two guards that had taken their place beside him.
"Grab him." The men wasted no time, wrapping their long fingers around Otabek's arms and dragging him after the King. Otabek struggled, swearing profusely. He kicked and yelled like a ten year old boy, although he was far from that; he was nearly fifteen. Otabek and the two men followed the King, who strolled down the stairs to the dungeon at a leisurely pace.
That's it. He's finally going to throw me into the dungeon, thought Otabek, scratching at the soldiers who held him tightly. The King stopped at the door momentarily, glancing behind him and speaking to a guard in low tones. Otabek caught only one word; 'torture'.
Now Otabek was truly frightened. He tried to escape even more desperately; however, the soldiers' grips on his biceps were ones of steel. The King seemed to finally notice the racket his only son was making.
"Son, the chamber is for you, but not in the way that it may seem to be." A horrible grin made its way onto his face, making his eyes sparkle with envy.
"You get an honor that even I have not been bestowed with," the King muttered, turning his focus away from Otabek. Otabek felt his heartbeat speed up, hearing a racket down the hall. Screaming filled the dungeon, and Otabek's father smiled in earnest. Barely a moment passed before the cries ceased as abruptly as they had begun.
"It is prepared," called a soldier down the hall. Otabek could feel the hot tears run down his face before he'd even realized he was crying, and he could not stop. He could sense his father's displeasure, but that did not break the flow of tears down his hot cheeks. The prince heard the painful, heartbroken moans down the hall and felt his heart shrivel within his chest.
"Let us begin," called the King, beginning his stride once more. The soldiers at Otabek's sides grasped his arms once again, but the pain that was coming from the torture room sapped his strength; his struggles were weak and useless. Otabek could not control himself any longer; the men practically dragged him into the room designated for torture.
What Otabek saw there hurt him even more.
A young boy, likely not even twelve yet, lay in the center of the stone room, crying tears that glistened like diamonds. He appeared to be a child like any other, except for the twin feathered wings sprouting from his shoulder blades. They were pure white, glowing with an extraordinary aura that Otabek assumed must have been magic.
The boy had golden hair, a color only seen in Chryso Aima; the land of the Faeries. Otabek noted how long it was; it crept down the boy's chin, wrapping around his thin face like wrapping on a present. Otabek noted the many cultural differences between the two kingdoms; Otabek's dark brown hair, almost black, was cut fairly short at the top, and below the heavy weight-line it was even shorter than that. Otabek fingered his short hair, but only for a moment. He wiped the tears from his face, collapsing to his knees.
The boy's thin, slight body was marred with countless scars; many more than even Otabek had, who had been a hunter nearly since birth. That wasn't even the worst part; the worst part was they all seemed as fresh as a basket of ripe apples. He was shocked into silence, staring up at his father helplessly. The man had a devilish grin on his face, and he fingered a mysterious blade with his fingertips.
"You have been told our history, my son, but not all of it," he began, glancing down at his son. He handed the blade back to the torturer, not even sparing a glance at the writhing boy that lay upon the floor beside him except to deliver a harsh kick to his side. The boy curled even farther into the fetal position, shivering with pain. Otabek tore his eyes from the shivering creature, glancing once more at his father, pained.
"When your great-grandfather waged war on the people of Chryso Aima, he lost; simple as that. He had no chance; there were too many Faeries to fight against, and they had the advantage of flight. There was no way he could have won." He paced the small room, staring over his shoulder at Otabek.
"However, your great-grandfather devised an incredible way to at least put them off for a while. He forged this weapon; it is a blade created out of the magma of mount Chulanont and cooled in the golden blood of Faeries. If you were to slice off the wings of a Royal Faerie and bathe your hands in their blood, it would make your blood run silver." The King looked at Otabek, smirking. Otabek saw the blade in the torturers hands, his eyes going wide and his clenched fingers going slack.
"Wh-what?" He gasped.
"NO! NO, I'll never do that! Let me go!" The King placed a death grip around Otabek's arm and shoved the blade into his hands. "My blood is already silver!"
The King looked at Otabek without a touch of emotion.
"Our forefathers took the wings of many Faerie royalty, so the gift of silver blood has been passed down from generation to generation. You, however..." The King pulled out a knife and slit Otabek's arm open harshly, watching the thick substance flow down his arms. Red blood flowed from the wound, dripping onto the floor. Otabek looked at his arm in shock, gripping the wound and groaning in pain. The King dragged Otabek over to the young Faerie, grimacing at the young boy.
"You Faerie filth, tell my son your name," he said, slitting new cuts along the Faerie boy's naked body, watching the gold blood flow.
"I *gasp* I am..." He started, gasping and doubling over in pain. The King had kicked him again.
"I am prince Yuratchka, heir to the throne of—of Chryso Aima... Ahhg!" The boy looked at Otabek desperately, begging him for help. He mouthed to Otabek, his face contorting in a look of pain, but Otabek was frozen in place. He didn't even notice the godforsaken blade that the King had forced into his hands.
The King hadn't relaxed his grip on Otabek's arm in the slightest. In fact, he only tugged him closer to the Princeling.
"Pull up his wings," ordered the King, struggling to maintain a grip on Otabek's arm. The prince continued to pull away, trying to stay away from Yuratchka, but the King's grip was too strong. He tugged him closer. Then he seemed to change his mind.
"If you don't do this, I will slit your throat," he whispered harshly in Otabek's ears, frightening him enormously. Otabek's hands shook. He gripped the blade tightly.
Then the king brought his thin, shimmering knife up to Otabek's throat and cut a warning slit in Otabek's neck. He gasped from the pain, glancing down to see the blood sliding down his collarbone. He looked at Yuratchka, making a decision.
The King cutting Otabek's throat would surely kill him, but removing the Faeries wings would not if they patched them quickly. The King wouldn't let the Faerie die; he would want to keep him for ransom.
Otabek wondered why the Faerie Prince had been there in the first place.
"Cut them NOW!" yelled the King, his face contorted into a look of hatred. He shoved Otabek towards the curving body of the Faerie Prince.
"Pleeaassee..." moaned Yuratchka, curving in on himself in an useless attempt to release his wings. Otabek stepped forward, pulling up the wings with his hands. Their enormous span stretched up high, the feather's tips brushing against the high ceilings. Otabek cried, the tears falling from his face as he closed his eyes and sliced downwards.
Yuratchka's bloodcurdling scream caused Otabek to flinch, and he tried to get through Yuratchka's wings as fast as possible. He removed them, throwing them to the floor and staring at Yuratchka's wing-stumps and his flailing body. Otabek fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
What had he done?
Otabek's father laughed, smiling at his son. Otabek would not look at the King, angering him. The King gripped Otabek's shoulders, pulling his hands away from his face. Then he grabbed Otabek's hands and shoved them in the pool of Yuratchka's warm, golden blood.
Otabek screamed, the golden blood turning silver and winding its way up around Otabek's writhing body.
"What the HELL is happening to me?!" he screamed, trying to wipe the blood off, but he couldn't. Then suddenly, Otabek saw a light, which was impossible, as his eyes had remained closed. But before Otabek could say a thing, the toffee like silver blood covered his eyes, and he was no longer in his own body.
Otabek's mind rushed through information at a million miles a second. He saw, heard, felt. It was someone's past; his birth, life, and the last moments this person had gone through from his point of view. He saw everything.
Otabek opened his eyes.
"Yuri?" he said to Yuratchka. Then, it was as though his memory was wiped. Otabek's eyes hardened as he looked at Yuratchka, or Yuri, one last time.
Then he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.