Gore

He hadn't wanted it to come to this; he'd tried charm, he'd tried diplomacy, he'd tried shouting and cringing in a corner and every other possible solution to the problem, and none of it had worked. And now here he was, straining against the heavy ropes that lashed him to the table, subject to the solemn brushstrokes of ritual and tradition. His father's face was somber, dark eyes even darker with a serious doom, fingers practiced as the brush drew the paint across the planes of muscle that made up his bare chest. Thick red strain formed mystical and ancient symbols over his flesh and now, more than ever, he looked the savior that Jean-Luc had always claimed he would be.

His mouth was dry cotton, and he nearly choked trying to swallow the bitter wine, recite the lines of litany long memorized and unused. It was a strong wine—too strong—and it hummed along his veins, wrapping around the core of his muscles like an eager lover. Putting it aside was no option, however, just as avoidance had not been, and by the time he saw the bottom of the chalice his head was buzzing.

The Guild left him bare-chested and unprotected, loose linen pants and shoeless with a wide red sash around his waist and a long deadly rapier in one hand. It was a game of honor with the highest stakes, and armor would only lead to cowardice. The rapier had been tied to his wrist with crimson satin. At least, that is what Jean-Luc had said.

The other Guild had not, apparently, bound itself to the same precept of honor that his had. He was the living incarnation of a prophecy they had never appreciated, the sign of a future where their power would be stripped under the light of a new reign. It didn't matter that he didn't believe; it didn't matter that he did not want the so-called throne for which he'd been groomed for eight years. To them, he was an obstacle on the way to the true goal, and this was merely a last resort effort to get him out of the way. Julien's sword was heavier and broader, more scimitar than rapier and more deadly than ritualistic. He was dressed in a tight-fitting, easy moving sort of armor that had long been the secret of the Guilds, hard to pierce and harder to lose. His head was uncapped, wild and angry expression clear. Julien was going to enjoy this.

When the swords first met, the steel sparked like phosphorus, marking an assassin's eager strike against a thief's defensive roll. He had never liked bladed weapons—he would rather his familiar bo-staff to a rapier—and every time cutting edge met cutting edge his teeth gritted together painfully. He knew he had been pitted badly, and that as good as he was eventually Julien's killer instinct and heavier weapon would prevail. That would be the end of him, the end of the prophecy, and the end of the brief unity he had forged between the Guilds. He was almost comfortable with the idea.

That was, until Julien had opened his mouth. He was twisted, somewhere deep inside, and even as he bore down, pinned his opponent to the ground, he growled in deep Cajun French; dark stories of what he would do with the new bride—his own sister—once he had killed the groom beneath the sword. Words of handcuffs and razorblades, of abuse and death and further abuse and the inexorable feeling of power it all brought.

Something snapped within him, at the well-crafted words; memories of dark alleys and a feverish love that mixed in his blood with the alcohol and blazed his eyes crimson bright. Later, when it was all over, he would never be able to tell quite where he garnered the strength for it, but somehow it was there; he surged upwards, turning the tide and striking fast and low against the joint of Julien's suit where the torso met the leg. Fueled by a sudden rage, the rapier bit in to the hilt, thin blade sliding easily as a needle through silk. He snarled into the other man's face, nose curled and teeth bared, and the length of metal within his hand sang with a deep magenta light, screamed with kinetic energy that he pressed into it. It seemed so simple to let go and turn away, to listen to the dual scream of man and sword shut off abruptly in a squelch of sound.

He hadn't wanted it to come to this and now, he had broken their rules.