Broken Blade
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Hiltz's POV
He's lying in my bed again.
He looks peaceful when he's sleeping, his face a mask of innocence that belies the turbulent darkness beneath; it's only when he opens his eyes - those lurid purple mires - that he reveals his true nature. Strands of black hair, damp with sweat, cling to his forehead and curl around his jaw. Reaching down, I let a few locks run slowly through my fingers, enjoying their soft feel against my skin.
I like looking at him like this. Here, in the dead pit of the night, when the moons have set and only the indifferent stars glint outside the window, I can look at him, and think. I can let my eyes wander over his body; pale skin sheened with sweat after our exertions; the shape of bones across his shoulders and ribcage; nipples that just beg to be bitten - and how often have I obliged? I stopped counting a long time ago...
He's beautiful - I'll give him that. A creature of almost unearthly perfection; perhaps that accounts for what's inside him. Nothing so beautiful should be benevolent or good - it wouldn't be fair to the rest of us. Touching his body is a wicked pleasure; kissing those eager lips might just be the original sin, in which I'm happy to indulge. Yet when I look at him lying there, ribs rising and falling gently as he breathes, I feel no pity for him in his beauty, no sorrow for the fate I know awaits him.
His mind is like a blade - sharp, cold and pitiless. He's a perfect weapon, with all his cruel brilliance, his raw talent tempered into something dangerous and brutal. But he doesn't realise that he's just a pawn - a useful creature, but a pawn nonetheless. His purpose is destruction and chaos, and when he has fulfilled that purpose, what more use will he be?
He doesn't understand, of course. How could he? He's blinded by his obsession - the only pure, unadulterated thing in his life. That obsession eats at him, gnaws at his brilliant, chaotic mind and spurs him on to greater acts of devastation. I don't question his desire - no, his need - to confront and destroy Van Fleiheit. I don't think even he understands it anymore - it's as much a part of him as his breath, as his heartbeat. Hatred is as needful to him as food and water and oxygen, the fuel that drives his soul and gives meaning to his existence.
How little he comprehends this world and his place in it. Perhaps in some ways he is an innocent, naïve of what destiny has in store. He won't survive this conflict - this campaign of ambush and strike and retreat that we wage. I understand his uses and his dangers - just as Prozen did during the war - and so I tolerate and encourage him, as did Prozen. But when victory has been attained, he'll have to be disposed of.
Maybe I'll have to do it myself. That thought has occurred to me, and I find it not particularly repulsive. Does that make me a monster? Probably not; I'm sure if the tables were turned, Raven would kill me without blinking. As for nights like this...well, he's no fool. He is no more deceived as to the nature of our tryst than I am.
I will survive this, one way or another. I'm determined that I will. And Raven? He'll be one of the casualties of war - like the crippled soldier left to die, or the broken sword cast aside. But until then I'll enjoy these brief flashes of pleasure in the dark. Because, in the end, that's all any of us really has, isn't it?
Slowly, I let myself lean forward until my mouth can brush against his parted lips, tasting his cool breath, his salty skin. At that touch his eyes open, pools of liquid colour, and he looks at me.
And we understand each other.