The caverns were depressingly silent after the screams and wails of the past few hours. There were no more conversations to be had, nothing more to break, nothing more to hide. He was alone, again, he thought perhaps a tad ruefully.
Oh, I've always been alone, the second voice in his head stated.
Oh, there is always the Stone, the first voice mused.
But it doesn't humour me, the second one moaned, it offers no retorts or counter-retorts.
It's hardly as if she humours you either, the first one piped up, but you always manage to swing the conversation.
She. Hah, she offers me nothing. She never gives. She only takes. She took so many years of my life and she kicks up a fuss about giving me the rest of her life. She took so much of my attention and refuses to consider me seriously. She took up so many pages of my ramblings and thoughts and refuses to let me peek into her mind. She deserves all that I inflict on her.
"My lord?" A feminine voice asked, oh so softly. He almost jumped in anticipation, but it was only Relomia. Always Relomia.
"What is it?" He asked, his back to her. He must've been barely visible to her, all cloaked up in the shadows. That was the way he always wanted it to be.
"The Brothers are back in their crypts." She reported, meekly. She sensed her Lord's mood. It was darker than the heart of Morytania at the best of times, but today… she wasn't even sure if a metaphor powerful enough to describe it even existed. "But, Linza…"
"Throw her in a vault or something." He answered. He glided away from his current spot towards a torch. With a click of his fingers the rest of the torches in the circular room sprang to life. If the dark was overpowering before, the distorted pattern of light and shadows was even more so. Sliske became a mere silhouette but his shadow etched itself upon the wall, looking far larger and far far more dangerous than its caster.
Along the walls were lined stone statues. Relomia stood on her tiptoes in anticipation – she loved seeing her Lord's material representations. She has run her hands down each one of those, all of them barely different from one another, with the utmost love and devotion. But these ones were different.
There were statues of Sliske, of course, but they carried more expressions than the trademark smirk, and came in more forms than the usual arrogant 'come-hither' stances. There was Sliske, punching, stomping, pulling, pushing, tugging, slapping, and what not. And then there was her, the stone almost tauntingly depicting her fierce beauty and her outfit that was quintessentially her, taking in the punches, the stomps, the pulls, the pushes, the tugs, the slaps and everything else.
There was no one else but him and her. It was always her.
"Isn't it nice?" He asked, with an edge to his voice. "There are more chambers like these. Each of them has statues of us depicting all of our interactions at any particular point in time. You are the only one to see this room besides me, Relomia. You ought to feel privileged."
"Yes, my Lord." She whispered. "Thank you, my Lord."
He lifted his hands into the light. He couldn't see what colour they were under the dark stains of the blood etched forever into the leather, blood staining the Zarosian symbol. Isn't that what empires are all about? Drenched in blood and steeped in pain. He raised his hands to his nose and smelled them. The scent of salt and metal filled his nostrils. It reminded him of Freneskae.
She always did that. She always brought back memories, formed links and associations that he would never have even dreamt of even though it was – is – his job to piece together obscure evidences to form the larger picture.
It was beautiful. She was beautiful. She always made him see beauty. And now he was closer to her than ever. Her blood on his hands. United in flesh, blood and soul. Together, or at least almost together, at last.
He peeled off his gloves slowly and dropped them on to the floor. Relomia was still in the room.
"Relomia," he purred.
"Y-yes, my Lord?" She stammered.
"Are you waiting for me to take off the rest of my garments?"
"N-no, my Lord." She was quaking in her shoes.
"Then leave!" He hissed. He heard her running away but just before she could reach the door he called out, "Actually, come back here to me."
Gulping, she returned. She was facing him now. All the light was on his face. He tilted up her chin and she shivered. He leant closer and closer and her eyes snapped shut, before she heard him say, "Pick up the gloves."
Her eyes sprang open and it took a second for her to register the command. Choking back a sob, she picked up the gloves and handed it to him. She tried to hide her disgust at the state of them.
"Very good, Relomia." He laughed and patted her head. "You too now have the blood of the World Guardian on your hands." He laughed even more manically. "Now get out."
Once she had left, he snapped the gloves back on and walked up to the first pair of statues. There she was, getting in battle stance, her weapons useless but her spirit still high. The doom in her eyes when she saw him fling away the Staff of Armadyl in sheer anger and disregard for anything but his rage and her was captured perfectly. He loved it when she was scared and he loved it when she resisted.
You'll never to confess it to anyone, would you, the first voice asked slyly, that more than her soul you want her spirit?
Her soul is more useful, the second voice deadpanned, her spirit is broken.
He admired the second pair, when she met his punch with a block. They peered into each other's eyes. He could hear the part of her soul that he had siphoned screaming. He loved her voice. She always knew the right thing to say. And though he hadn't remotely wanted a part of his soul to latch on to her, he was pleased to sense the dread that his soul was slowly spreading into her body. He had claimed her in the most intimate way possible.
Admit it, you like seeing yourself in her, the first voice sniggered lewdly.
I want the whole of my being in her, or none of it at all, the second voice growled.
He sauntered over to the third pair, his life essence bubbling in thrill and anticipation at what was to come next. His statue was lifting her statue in a chokehold as it stared at the wall behind her, taking aim. He had never felt more jealous of stone. He wanted to grasp her neck again, again, all over again, and fling her all across the room, again, again, all over again. He wanted to feel her throbbing veins and burning skin again. He had always wanted to feel her hot, throbbing, alive flesh and blood.
Yes, one of the big pluses of having her as your wight is that you can use her and dress her as your doll over and over again, the first voice laughed.
What good would her flesh be as a wight? the second voice dismissed the first one away.
The fourth pair was the one that got his senses tingling. She was against the wall, half on his knee, and his fists were all over her body and his leg in her stomach. He pummeled the cheeks that her family would kiss in love, he bashed the jaw that all her lovers over the years – Randt, Ozan, Cyrisus, Jessika and best of all, his own brother – had nibbled in desire. He broke the teeth that gave a cheeky smile that thrilled Marimbo.
He wrecked her chest that carried the weight of the world, that had once proudly worn rune armour after slaying a dragon. He damaged the ribs that resembled the Elvish exoskeleton that she was so proud of. He hurt her stomach that she had fed with measly shrimp and bread and bananas in the early years, that she had then treated to curries and pies and puddings and meats that came with the money and renown.
But why didn't you gouge out her eyes? Why did you focus so much on her jaw? Does the thought of her lovers anger you? Or does the thought of your brother infuriate you? the first voice drawled.
Oh, Zanik loved her eyes, and she loved Zanik's. I should've pulled them out of the sockets, but I wanted her to see me destroy her. And she needs no love or lover. She needs only my attention and me, the second voice retorted.
The final pair showed him crushing her fingers, those deft fingers that had impressed the thief Ozan, that had cleverly played with fire and tightropes in the Circus, that has skillfully twanged many bows. And for a finishing touch, he trampled her backbone, to destroy her will and heroism and her independent agency. She lay on the floor, her cape torn and bloody, her beautiful wings in smithereens, blood hugging her body in all the right places, her strength mere debris.
Oh, wouldn't you have wished to behold her without the armour and in her usual regalia in reality as well? Complete with the wings and the cape and the lucky charm amulet and the tantalising apparel as well? Her hair streaming down her shoulders for added effect, maybe, the first voice gushed.
Art is imitation of life, the second voice declared, and she is alive enough.
He thought as much. He reached the other end of the circle and there they were, facing each other, looking at each other, locked in a bond of disturbing intimacy that seemed to crackle around them, even though they weren't touching each other.
He went up to his statue and destroyed it. He took its place and gazed into her stony eyes. He held her chin between his index finger and thumb. His eyes roamed over her unblemished, unhurt figure. He looked long into her eyes and placed a gentle, delicate kiss on to her stony lips.
"Kekikeval. 'Kexy Kewl'. Thorton. Kingslayer. Elvarg's Eviscerator. Of the Elves. Regent of Miscellania. Vyrelady. It doesn't matter who you call yourself. You are mine. Always." He intoned.
Always, the first voice echoed.
Always, the second voice echoed.
Always.