The nothingness gained form all around her, shifting like a light dimming and then relighting to illuminate something else. Catherine was now indoors, the air around her conveying a heaviness that was synonymous with deep night. She had left Clive behind her to follow his own path, while the one she now walked belonged only to her. This path seemed to call out to her, and curiosity compelled her to investigate. Catherine did not deny the fact that she feared what existed in the memory of the dark-haired demon, because she knew that both Clive and Ravendor had not experienced an easy life. All Catherine could hope for was that Kaitlyn and Clive had been given easier paths than herself.
Her back was up against a cold and dirty wall, the palms of her hands pressed against it's stony surface. The way that the area was built suggested that she was somewhere underground, most likely the sub-levels of some dark, dreary place. It was like a dungeon, and in some damp places moss grew in little nooks and crannies, the only plant life she could see. She was in a long hallway, with no idea on whether she should go left or right. Walking into the center of the hallway, she looked down both ways but only saw darkness, the only light existing coming from a torch hanging on the wall. Then, she heard something that sent a shiver up her spine, unsure if it was a good or a bad thing. Footsteps.
"Who on Filgaia could that be?" Catherine asked herself in a hushed tone, taking a step back. Deciding to wait and see, she remained where she stood. A man appeared from the corridor to her right, quite young, very young, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen. He had short light brown hair, a warm smile and an accomplished gait, like a friendly neighbor that one would expect to be living next door. With him, he was leading a boy, around seven or eight years old, about Kaitlyn's age, and talking to him as he moved. The child only seemed to be half involved in the young man's words, and Catherine noticed that though the man seemed to be looking straight at her, he could not see her.
"Don't feel too bad about it, Young Master. I had to do the same thing too, when I was… Oh, a little older than you are now. I admit that I had it much easier back then, but hey, things like this builds character. I bet with a little practice and elbow grease, you'll do just fine." He laughed forcedly, putting on a fake smile. It almost seemed to hurt him as he did it. "Who knows? Someday you might even be able to beat me! It's possible, you know, you're not that bad at all."
"Mister Ortega, you need not lie to me because my class outranks your own, I am aware of how inutile my skills are." Said the boy, looking blankly ahead. Without a twitch, they passed through Catherine's body as they continued down the hallway, a strange cold prickly feeling washing over the ex-drifter when she realised that she was no more or no less than a ghost. The boy stared at the ground and it's dirty and grungy surface. "I don't want to do this. Not right now. Not until I'm feeling a little better." His arm was already bound in a sling, seeming to have only been broken a little while ago and just beginning the healing process. It had been tended well, though the shape of the wooden splint setting the injury suggested that his bone had been cleanly snapped in half.
"I know." Ortega sighed, but then put his false smile back on again. "At least you can look forward to it ending, eh? Besides, I know you'll do just fine. Don't give up, and make sure you listen to what the Master says." Catherine kept pace with them and the darkness unfolding in front of them was dispelled by the torch Ortega was carrying with him in his free hand, casting moving shadows across the stone walls. They stopped outside a large metal door, double-gated and looking like the entranceway to a dungeon. A small window with no glass was cut into the thick alloy, and it was barred with thick rods of steel. It seemed to be the doorway to a giant prison.
"'Listen to what the Master says?'" The boy echoed defeatedly. "Of course. It is all I can do to make up for Mother's death. Open the door, Mister Ortega and leave me be. I am sure that Father will summon you when the time comes to pick me up again." He paused, and then added some more instructions. "You might have to bring a stretcher and some helpers, like last time. Can you get one ready just in case, please?" Ortega nodded grimly and unlocked the huge door with a large iron key, fitting it into the keyhole with a metallic clink. He turned the key and pushed the door open slightly with some difficulty, then he bowed before turning away, walking back the way he had come, leaving the boy there all alone.
He watched the servant leave, sighed softly and adjusting the knot pressing into his shoulder where his sling had been tied, trying to make it a little more comfortable. Accomplishing this, he pushed the door open the rest of the way, crept in, and then pushed the door closed behind him. The sound of the lock reactivating told Catherine that he had locked himself inside. The ex-drifter bit her lip and followed the path that Ortega had taken away from the locked door and the boy, finding him a little ways off and leaning against the wall, smoking a small and crumpled cigarette.
"Dammit." Ortega said to himself. "I didn't become the Master's retainer to watch him slowly kill children. It makes me wonder why I wanted to become a gladiator in the first place." He stood there for a few minutes, letting his cigarette burn without inhaling any of the smoke, so that a long bit of ash clung stubbornly to the tobacco-filled tube, the embers burning sullenly. "Things have gone downhill since Lady Victoria passed away. At least the Master was somewhat sane back then. Though… It's hard to believe that that little kid killed his mother in cold blood, he doesn't look like the heartless murdering type. It's a little too hard to accept. Ah well. I had better go and get that stretcher ready now. I bet the he'll probably need it."
Catherine watched Ortega leave, the small cloud of smoke lingering in the air even as he left. "He killed his mother? I thought she perished because of pneumonia. That is what I heard, or what I was always told to believe. I suppose… a child can still commit a heinous sin… but still…" The woman ran back to the thick metal door, placing both her hands on it in order to push it open, forgetting that the door was already locked. But, with a weird tingle, Catherine put her weight into her arms and stumbled through the door, just barely keeping her balance as she emerged on the other side and came to a stop. She had held her breath during this, and let it out suddenly, seeing what lay beyond the closed steel door.
Large containers stuffed with tinder had been set alight and burnt brightly near the cold stone walls, in all the corners of the very large arena that she now stood in. It smelt strongly of dried blood and rotting decay. Catherine instinctively moved to hold her nose and block out the smell, recoiling a little. Backing away and into a corner, next to the warmth of one of the contained bonfires, she looked around the arena of this new unpleasant memory. The Duke Begucci was there, still young, proud and ruthless. Instead of being dressed in rich finery, he was wearing a pitch black coat and more durable clothing, a long and cruel-looking whip in one hand and a small and elegant pistol in the other. He was smiling nastily, and thew the pistol on the floor, the sound of it's impact grating all over the room. "Get up, boy." He said. There had been a battle, but it seemed that Catherine had missed it.
A two-headed dragon lay slumped in a huge heap behind the duke, still alive, but immobilized. A long and thick chain was bound around it's two heads and acted like a leash, the duke stooping and picking up the end of the chain with his now free hand. The dragon whined, one head breathing out smoke while the other exhaled frosty water vapour. The boy Catherine had seen from before was lying on his side and breathing hard, a little scratched up. He had a spilt lip, and bruises along some of the exposed parts of his body. Pushing himself up on his uninjured arm, he shakily got to his feet. Limping, he staggered over to his father and cringed, as if he was awaiting punishment. The duke sadistically pulled hard on the chains of the beast, making the monster groan in pain and shiver.
Yes, I remember Ravendor mentioning it to me once, that before the duke lost his strength and became an old and weak man, he trained each of the gladiator monsters himself without aid. Also, I hear he treated his son with the exact same kind of cruelty. How… terrible…
"Tell me," The duke growled, "What precisely did you do incorrectly this time? Calculate your punishment for me and prove that you are not mentally deprived as well. Pick up your weapon." The boy looked down at the pistol ARM lying on the floor, then back up at his father. Untrusting because the gun was so close to the duke, he did not move. Instead, he closed his eyes and recited dully what his father expected to hear, the fingers on his broken limb curling slightly.
"I got scared and did not move, two lashes. I allowed the monster to hit me, three lashes. I…" His voice conveyed a tiny hint of fear now and it cracked, "I dropped the weapon… fifteen lashes. Then, I… I ran away, t-twenty lashes. Forty lashes… I deserve forty lashes, sir." Deciding to take a chance, the boy fell to his knees and snatched up the ARM swiftly, like he was afraid that his hand might get stepped on. Looking at the clean immaculate metal, he got back up and stepped away from his father, whimpering. He knew what would inevitably happen, he hated what would happen…
"Untie your sling but leave the bandage on." The duke ordered, rapping his fingers on the handle of the whip, made of yew wood and wrapped in leather. "Then, remove your shirt. Do it, boy." He continued with a twisted smile. The child tugged feebly at the thin white fabric that made up his sling, but did not obey the duke's wishes any further. He appeared to be almost petrified with fear. Snorting, the duke thundered over to the boy and grabbed him by the shirt collar, forcing the boy's gaze to look up at him. The child shrunk away from the older man's breath that washed across his face, stinking of very strong whiskey. He hated that smell so much, it nauseated him. "Do it, or your punishment shall be doubled, understand?" He mouthed with utmost contempt.
Carefully and slowly, so as to suggest non-threatening movement, the boy nodded. When the duke let go, the boy sighed dejectedly and undid his sling, trying his best not to jar the broken bone. Then, he pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the ground. During this, he tried to make as little eye contact as he possibly could with his father. Staring at the spot of ground between his two feet, he rubbed at one of the scratches on his face and felt a sharp little sting of pain, to exist with the long dull ache of his arm being moved when it should have been kept in it's previous position. "Good lad," The duke said venomously, "Now, up against the wall. Accept the consequence of your cowardice."
"…Yes sir…" In a heart-shatteringly sad way, the boy limped over to the wall and leant against it, wiping the tears and blood off his face with the cloth bandages wrapped around his arm. The splint had become crooked in the fight, the broken bone now set into a more painful position than before. The child crossed both arms across his face and leant forward, resting his cheek against the bandage with his back towards the duke. Catherine could see faded and healed whip lashes across his back, like he had been wounded and then allowed to heal, before the process had been repeated again. She had seen those scars before many times, but it was only then that she finally understood their painful origin. The duke truly was an insane man. The boy sniffled a little, and shook his head feebly. "I'm sorry, sir." He said.
Cain Begucci struck. "ONE!" He cried out in a loud roar. The whip cut a deep red mark over the boy's flesh and he bit his lip so hard that blood began to flow, though he refused to let himself scream from the punishment. The duke growled, then shouted. "So, you say you are sorry?! You are sorry that you took a knife and tore asunder your own mother in cold blood?! You believe that words will erase the sin you have committed?! You!" He attacked with the whip again. "Disgusting!" Again. "Little!" Again. "Brat!" And again.
"I'm sorry, Father! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I don't remember! Please, Father, I'm sorry!" He sobbed while he bit down on his split lip, forcing himself to bleed even more. The duke gave him a long enough pause for the boy to experience fully the entire extent of his inflicted injuries, and then brought the whip back up again for more punishment. After all, he had only distributed five out of the forty lashes that the child had forced upon himself for his pitiful weakness. There was still so much more pain to be experienced, so much more hurt that the filthy brat deserved…
"SIX!" The movement of the whip tearing at the air caused the flaming bonfires to flicker for a bit, making the shadows dance on the walls like the members of a black Sabbath made in the deepest night. The boy kept himself silent by biting down onto his bandages, muffling his hidden cries. The duke glowered and then laughed crazily. "Blood of my blood! Poisoned blood! WORTHLESS BLOOD! I have sired no less than a profane mother-killing demon! Death is too good for you! Hell is too good for you! CALL ME 'SIR' OR NOTHING AT ALL!"
Catherine was watching in a stunned, quiet and transfixed silence. "He is mad…" She said breathlessly.
"Quite an understatement, in my own personal opinion…" Whispered somebody in her ear, standing right behind her.
The ex-drifter jumped a little and tried to turn around, but a pair of armor-plated claws clamped down onto both of her wrists and she couldn't move. Ravendor was standing behind her, forcing her to watch this gruesome scene. He did not seem to be affected by the incredible sadistic satisfaction that the duke was receiving in the torture of his younger self, for him, this was no more than a distant childhood memory. Catherine was certainly affected though, watching and not being able to do anything about it was almost as painful as the torture itself. "A few years ago, I considered going back." Ravendor said, laughing softly at something that only he found funny. "I cannot be condemned any further to Hell than I already am. I have killed hundreds of people in my lifetime while under the control of the Prophets, a sin is a sin, what would one more sin be if I could just take me revenge on the duke, once and for all?"
"But you didn't…" Catherine replied, going still and refusing to struggle against the demon. "Duke Cain Begucci still lives, even to this day. He is still in rather good health, I have heard. Why? Why did you not kill him?" She asked, dreading the answer.
"…I do not know." Ravendor said carefully, thoughtfully. "And, I expect, I shall never know. Let him be the king of his own bloodstained empire, built on screams and death. Let him rule whatever he wishes to rule, I do not care anymore. He can be the Immoral Duke forever if he wants, God knows that I never desired that title for myself. Catherine, you know that I have only ever desired one thing in my life, and Clive took that thing away from me. This is why I wish to kill Clive as payment for what he has taken away, and leave the duke alive to his own devices, do you understand?"
"Ravendor… for a madman, you are surprisingly sane." Catherine said. The demon laughed somehow sensibly, a hideous contrast to the duke's frenzied maddened laughter. However, Catherine and Ravendor appeared to have been pushed out of the immediate fabric of the scene, though they were still there as witnesses, they were now separate from what was happening in front of them. Reaching up, Ravendor brushed some of Catherine's chestnut hair away from her neck, the demon was much taller than her, and he moved down to press his cheek against her soft delicate skin. Catherine stiffened, her blood running as cold as a glacier. She didn't like where this contact seemed to be leading her, not at all.
"I had forgotten just how beautiful you really are…" He said to her while in the background the duke cried out the number fifteen in a high crazy voice. Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but found that she could say nothing at all. This frightened her, badly. "You are even more lovely then back when we were foolish stupid teenagers. Back when we were together. So very lovely… So very beautiful… Ravishing, even…" The ex-drifter closed her eyes tightly and wished fervently for her husband like she never had before, trying to will him to come and save her. She felt part of his tail touch the side of her leg and then slowly slide upwards, whereupon she let out a tiny whimper of fear. He kissed her neck, Catherine experiencing the sensation of one of his fangs scraping against her skin, and then, gently, carefully, he bit her.
It hurt at first, like a pair of injections that pierced the thin skin of her neck and her jugular vein, an incision that spurted forth a rich stream of red human blood. Catherine's hands clenched immediately, one into a fist, while the other tightly gripped a small fold of the front of her dress. Ravendor held onto both her wrists so that she could not move away, holding her immobile. The small wound went numb as the nerves became temporarily paralyzed, so Catherine could feel no more pain. Her grey eyes glazed over, and then she felt a slight dizziness that was her own blood being drained away. Ravendor's wings spread over her to hold her closer, and gritting her teeth, she tried to squirm away. "Ugh… Wh-what are you doing…?" She whispered faintly, weakly, while overhead, the consistent and sadistic sound of a whip cracking and number twenty five being called out was heard.
"Taking your blood for myself." Ravendor explained telepathically, his voice in her mind, because he could not speak in the position he was in. "This is the way that most demons feed, at least, the more nocturnal ones. However, do not mistake me for a mere vampire, Catherine, for I do not spread such a tainted curse of yore into the bodies of others. You are safe. You are far too beautiful to be wasted, or to be hurt." Pulling back a little, he withdrew from her neck and released one of her hands so that he could wipe his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve, smiling in his own quietly disturbing manner. His contact with her flesh caused a tiny, almost untraceable bit of his demonic healing factor to flow into Catherine's body, a temporary effect that allowed the small wound to knit itself back together and heal within a matter of short moments. Then, the power withered and died.
Catherine felt awfully weak and shaky, her limbs feeling heavy from the lack of blood. Vaguely, she absent-minded wondered if this was what anemic people felt like when their blood content was low. It certainly felt terrible. So, she didn't resist when Ravendor gripped both her shoulders and turned her around to face him, kissing her again, deeply, passionately. She could taste her own blood on his tongue, and it filled her with revulsion. A small stream of crystal tears fell down one of her cheeks, of frustration, of a desire to escape. She had to escape. She loved Clive, not Ravendor anymore.
One of his wings accidentally brushed the side of her face, it felt soft, but one of the feathers was still slightly edged with metal and gave her a small scratch. It stung, but she tolerated it, because it had given her a marvelous idea. Instead of trying to resist Ravendor, she suddenly gave in and put her arms around him, putting in faith and trusting that her plan would work. Cautiously and delicately, so that he would barely feel it, she touched each of the longer pinions, the flight feathers, attached to his wings, hoping badly that she could find at least one that still bore a nice, sharp edge. At last, she did, cutting her finger a little on it by mistake. Praying that Ravendor would not notice or feel anything, she pulled it out. The dark-haired demon flinched as a reaction, but did not do anything more. Catherine felt a flare of hope rise in her chest, this feather was just sharp enough, and hard enough to be used like a knife blade, at least, in her theory…
It passed the practical test only moments later. Catherine had taken advantage of where her arms had been and managed to stab Ravendor cleanly in the back, burying the dark metal pinion deeply into his flesh. His influence was broken, Catherine pulled away, pulled back her fist and decked him in the face, not a slap, but a strong punch that would have made Clive incredibly proud. She wiped her mouth and looked at him sympathetically, smiling a smile that was almost Maya-like.
"Never underestimate the Aegis." She said.