Chapter 137:

He could feel the proximity the moment they'd turned onto his street. The sea breeze couldn't mask what was so tied to his soul, the presence that grew with each step closer to the manor he called home. An unseasonal chill bled from the shadows. It pervaded the air like noxious smoke only he could smell, a noisome hum in the back of his mind growing stronger. An enormous power lay carefully restrained, a giant crouched and waiting on the end of a pleasant street, behind pleasant walls, past a pleasant door. Through the darkness, he saw the great oak door stood ajar and realized Serrill didn't. His human eyes couldn't cut the darkness as his did.

"Oh… my goodness," Davian stated as plainly as he could, keeping a staunch grip on his glamour as he stopped in his tracks, "I can't return just yet. I left work at the prison."

"What?" Serrill asked, confused, "The report to the Colonel can wait, surely…"

"Oh, yes, that as well. There are also proofs for the common area that need reviewed and signed off on so they can get work on construction next week. And the budget needs finalized. We got a jump on all that turnover in the yard. I have to get those numbers tabulated so that at least seems impressive…"

"Ah, well… that can't wait, can it? The sooner we get on better terms with the Colonel, the better." Serrill grimaced, a furrow to his brow, "Man… the trip was fun and all but travel is hard on my shoulder."

"It is, isn't it?" Davian gritted his teeth. He didn't look at him. He felt far too guilty, "Go on and rest, darling, I'll go back to the prison and get it taken care of…"

"What? No, no, I didn't mean…" Serrill stuttered and then laughed lightheartedly, "I'll go. You're off duty tomorrow. Take your weekend."

"Oh… I couldn't possibly…" the inflection was all in his voice, not making it to his face at all. Serrill was checking his watch and muttering about ferry times.

"You need to eat anyway, don't you? Tell Irena I said hello… or, goodnight, I guess."

Davian's eyes fluttered shut. Serrill would be on for the next day at least, possibly two. He wouldn't return for quite some time, and that would suit his needs just fine. Irena would be beside herself if she knew, but what else could he do? Orotrushit had destroyed his prosthesis and left him gasping for breath in moments. He was sure there would be no such restraint this time. He swallowed down misery welling up in his throat.

"I'll have her save you some. Dinner, that is," Davian said.

Serrill smiled, the likes of which crinkled his eyes in a childish way. Irena had mentioned that as well, how his smile reminded her of a rambunctious boy up to some mischief. He could picture him flecked with warm freckles and holding some new poor creature for his mother to squeal at; scorpions, spiders, and newts, from all the stories he'd told. Excitable but levelheaded, and so clever, and he and Irena had such chemistry already.

A kindness, he told himself. He was doing a kindness. But despite this, when Serrill bid him farewell and turned to leave him there on the darkened street, he reached for him. Serrill froze, wrestling an emotion under control that Davian could already feel through physical touch. Nervousness, the giddy feeling of hope when love is reciprocated, and staunch handling of such emotions back into their rightful places. If the touch wasn't enough, the march of emotion went swiftly across his face as well, until curious eyes turned back to him.

"Something else?" he asked.

"It doesn't bother you when I touch you, Keirin," a statement of fact, not a question, "Even though you know, certainly, what I can do with it? That I have manipulated you before?"

"Uh… I… no," he said, blush quickly beginning to warm his cheeks. He laughed, an anxious sound lacking mirth as he waved his free hand, "I'd hope, you know, you trust me now, and you know I wouldn't tell anyone about… I'm your friend, after all, you know and… um…"

He seemed to realize he was babbling, and sucked in a hiss at some loud insecurity now knocking around in his head. Davian's own nerves turned his heart heavy. Was this cruel? What if he never got another chance to do this? Would Serrill begrudge him?

"It doesn't bother you that I'm not human? At all?" Davian asked, startling Serrill a bit, "Whatever that means for me? For Irena? For you?"

"M-me…?" Serrill laughed again, no longer smiling. His face much more one of shock than anything else, "Well I… I value your company. Regardless… of many things. You know this… already." His tone became much more sober, somber, cautious, "As you've said, I'm a terrible liar."

Davian released a tense breath, feeling awful that Serrill was left there waiting for him to speak. It was a big gesture but so close to the truth that lay beyond. And with the truth too close beneath his skin, clawing at him, the gesture felt like a lie.

"Irena is quite fond of you, and I am as well. Perhaps, once you're off duty, the three of us could have… a conversation-…"

"Davian," Serrill said, his voice startlingly quiet. He was looking to the saltbox house. A difficult emotion was on his face, "You know, Irena told me that the house scares her. She always feels like she's being watched, like a bug in a terrarium."

Davian stilled and didn't release his hand. Grey eyes travelled over the windows, the lawn, down the street until they fell on Davian's boots, their hands that were still tangled together. It was a truth with an edge to it, one that might cut them both.

"If she were home… she'd keep the lights on."

"Darling…" Davian began.

"Gajeel… was right. It's here, isn't it? And It's taking her away?" he said, pain and anger twisting into his voice, "And you expect me to just walk away, don't you? Pretend I don't think anything is wrong and leave you here with whatever is inside that house… is that right?"

Davian clasped his hand around theirs entwined, holding it as if it were a precious thing. He ran his thumb in a gentle circle across his skin, marveling at the feel of him soft beneath his talons which were beginning to grow despite his efforts. More signs of what was to come.

"If you don't, Keirin, I'll make you." He replied calmly.

"And what? Make me forget? Are you going to make me forget you exist as well? Leave me like you did Irena? Will you make me forget her, too?" he demanded.

"I could… if you wanted," he said, finding it harder and harder to continue speaking, "I would rather leave on better terms, though. I'd rather not deal with the guilt of it. But I will. I'd bear that guilt a hundred times if I didn't have to bear the guilt of your death."

He seethed quietly, his gaze like daggers to his chest, "You selfish bastard."

"I am, quite. A proclivity of mine, I'm afraid," he murmured, "Do you hate me?"

"No." he said.

"And you'll go to the prison for me?"

He was silent for a long moment, a vicious scowl twisting onto his features the likes of which Davin had never seen before. He answered in a hiss like speaking a curse.

"Yes."

"Will you be there for her… should I not return?" Davian asked.

Those eyes, narrowed as they were with hurt, were still the frosty silver of winter clouds, and raw as open wounds with barely contained emotion. It wasn't quite anger, not quite hate, and not quite sadness. It was a far too many things and far too large for language.

"Is that all I am? Your stand-in for when things go wrong?" he said.

"No," Davian said softly. "Of course not."

An hour-long minute dragged on, crawling by like a wounded animal. The wanting between them grew rigid and brittle, waiting to see who would catch or shatter it. It was an easy heartache to share, knowing what was in front of them but unable to hold it in their hands. Like seeing the face of god and finding no compassion in his expression. Serrill averted his gaze.

"If It's in there… then that means Rut is probably dead."

"I can only assume."

"Let me help you… please," Serrill whispered, "I can help."

"You can't. You will only get hurt," blue was beginning to fade into his skin, scales pushing to the surface, "I meant what I said. Irena and I both-"

"Don't tell me," Serrill hissed, and Davian tensed. But instead of being pushed away, Serrill pulled him into an embrace. He'd never been held like that before, arms squeezing tight around him like he was truly afraid of losing him. Or, perhaps he had, a very long time ago in a different circumstance, before his mother was killed. "Tell me... when you get back. Please."

Davian softened, and hugged him back, "As you wish, little heart."

"You bastard," Serrill muttered against his shoulder, "I can't believe you, you bastard."

"I'm sorry, Keirin."

He left, his back straight and his chin rigid. Davian watched him and felt the darkness behind him grow ever wider, ever hungrier, until he rounded the bend and vanished from his sight. When he stepped back, all the dread he'd kept so firmly locked away bubbled to the surface. The windows glinted at him like blind eyes waiting for movement to bring them to life again. The place had never felt so sinister as it did waiting for him to approach, to push open the heavy, wooden door with its wilted stained-glass roses, to come inside.

It felt like the world was holding its breath. The silence was living, coiling around him like smoke until he nearly choked on it. The foyer was untouched. There by the entrance where the dogs preferred to sleep, where Rut would sleep alongside them, was a noticeable vacancy. The brass chandelier was on, but it was as if night had choked out light. The fluttering tips dimly lit as if wrapped in a haze like a shrouded ghost. The beautiful, polished hardwood of the banister had taken a sinister edge, disappearing into the darkness of the eaves beyond. The living rooms which ran the first third of the house were stygian night, directing his gaze down the long hall to the grand French doors, recently repaired, which glittered from firelight trapped beyond. The great room held the only light there at the farthest reach of the house. Davian rested his hand on his sabre and dropped his bag at the door.

Something wet was just on this side of the doors, a dark puddle slipping beneath the cracks like ink. He didn't need to scent the air to know it was blood. He gritted his teeth with every harsh footfall of his heels on the floor and how they cracked the silence, proudly telling of his approach. He could see shadows on the other side of the glass shifting, a form perched on the edge of a seat. His heart trilled up into his throat as a familiar hunger made his mouth begin to water. He could feel it, already strong and swelling all the more, the Call of the Wrathful God singing his talons and teeth to vicious points. He wavered when his hand rested on the handle, and with a sickening feeling that made his core twist and writhe he pushed down the handle and drew open the door.

Irena was sat in the chair, her back straight, her knees pressed tightly together, and her brilliant blue eyes wide as they fell on him. She looked frightened, her lips pursed tightly as she clasped a teacup and saucer in her hands. The rattle of porcelain on porcelain came to an abrupt halt when she brought the cup to her lips and took a quiet sip to stifle her nerves.

"Irena, darling, are you alright?" he asked.

She didn't respond. Her eyes glistened with barely contained tears and travelled past him to the source of the blood. The massive form of Rut was laying on the ground, his blood pooling around him and inching steadily across the floors, turning it slick. Davian's tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth as he watched it shimmering and silent, liquefied gems fighting to make its mark deep into the crevices it slipped into and saturating everything it touched in deep, dark red. He'd tried to protect her and now Davian couldn't even take the time to check if he was still alive.

Orotrushit was sitting on the sofa, one arm slung over the back in an obscenely casual gesture, the other hand resting in his lap and holding another teacup which had obviously been poured by Irena, the kettle there to the side on the tray. He was lounging idly like he wasn't a threat made flesh. In a movement that was exaggerated in its gentleness, he set his cup on the tray. He gave the impression of restraining himself, with difficulty, from killing him.

"You could have stopped this, you know," he said, his voice distant, dreamlike.

"You wouldn't have allowed it," Davian spat, red mist beginning to seethe into his periphery.

He shook his head, not looking at him, rubbing at his temple as if this was all a headache for him. His eyes flickered for just one second gold and then the light died again. Restraint, the kind that was long and sleek, and leaning like a creature barely held on a leash.

"Like a jaguar stuck in a cage, you rage against fate and yet do nothing to break free. There were so many ways these paths could have been diverted, but no... no, you are simply a coward."

"I am not a coward," he hissed, baring his teeth, "And what would it have mattered? You would have just bullied me back onto the path you chose."

"You had freedom," Orotrushit snarled, "Far more than I ever did. You had a choice, if only you took matters into your own hands."

"I did!"

"You did not. If you had, I wouldn't be here as I am now."

The shadows crept closer, swallowing the light of the fireplace like the depths of a well and making everything outside of the room black as tar. Davian flinched when he heard the front door swing wide, heavy groaning like every tree felled to build the tomblike house were voicing their outrage. The air pitched and teemed with the sound of buzzing insects, flies eating the flesh of a corpse, maggots writhing through meat, the sound of wasps chewing through wood.

"I told you to return home, didn't I? I told you of the Rite which you never took and how inevitable its fruition was. And yet, you did nothing. Your little pet and I have had a very enlightening talk, haven't we?" his head tilted to the side as he gazed at Irena. Davian heard her tattered breathing as she began to cry, "It likes her."

He drew his sabre, swift as an indrawn breath. Fear was no longer an emotion, but an environment, and one with the waning intensity of color which could only be caused by encroaching dusk, darkness with structure, shadows casting shadows, trapped beneath the quiet that rested like a beast between he and his brother. The house swelled around them, breathing like it was alive. He felt the approach like a tidal wave going nowhere good far too quickly.

"You never do see opportunity when it lies directly in front of you," Orotrushit said, his tone even, "but I suppose it matters little."

"You won't touch her," Davian hissed.

"I did you a kindness. I did try, didn't I? To tear you two apart? But somehow, she came back… and you even picked up more of your insolent little pets, didn't you?" he continued as if Davian hadn't said a thing, "Tell me, why did you think the boy found his way to you?"

"What are you talking about?" Davian demanded and his brother sighed.

"I could have kept him at the Temple. He could have been made to wait... but instead, he was made to find his way to you," he stood languidly, and Davian realized his brother was bleeding. Red ran in glistening tendrils down his arm from a bite on his shoulder. Rut had put up a fight, "Why do you presume that would be?"

For a long moment, Davian didn't understand, and then quite suddenly he did. Back in the time when sacrifice to the gods were commonplace, when his people were in their prime, those who chose to give their lives, even those captured in battle, would live with, work with, and eat with the royalty on the compound of the temples. Not as royalty, but they were given all they could need or want for, even companionship. They were treated well, not as measly prisoners of war. And those that would volunteer would be cherished even more. It was an honor to give life to the gods, to die to continue the turning of the world.

His stomach dropped.

"You've doomed her by proximity." Orotrushit said.

"The only one who's doomed anyone is you enacting Father's will. You give It direction. Without you, we wouldn't be here," Davian accused.

"You are right in one respect. I give It direction... but to assume for one moment I can control Father any more than you can is foolish," Orotrushit replied, stepping towards him, "God's Wrath, and yet you've done nothing with it. And what is hunger if not the drive to survive?"

"Stay back," Davian warned, his intent as clear as the steel in his hand.

"You cannot wound me mortally unless I allow it. We both know this," he replied dismissively.

"Then I'll cut off your head," Davian snarled, "and see if that works."

He chuckled lowly and raised his wounded arm. Blood pooled in his palm. It was bizarre. Davian was so used to his brother's theatrics that the absence of them made him all the more uneasy. A darkness even deeper than the unnatural night around them grew behind him and Davian felt reality shift and bend. Terror made his heart race.

"The veil is thin…" Orotrushit said quietly, and tipped his hand so the blood would spill quietly to the ground, pattering in a strange motion as he drew something before him in the air. The droplets formed a shape, a symbol… for summoning, "As with every lesson I'm forced to teach you, this will hurt me far more than it hurts you."

Terror turned into blind panic, "No!"

Davian lunged for him just as the blood flushed with gold. The shadow stretching deep behind Orotrushit suddenly sprang and engulfed him. It was as if a thousand insects had just burst across his skin. His brother's cutoff shriek rattled him to his core as the sudden movement warped and twisted and writhed, coalescing like smoke that had decided to take a definable shape. The panic that propelled him bleached his vision white when he stabbed into and through the squirming, shivering glamour of his father. He fell through it.

Thousands of grasping, clawing fingers latched onto his skin and dragged him through a sleeping grave until he was dropped carelessly into earth. His mouth of full of it, the acidic sting of ozone and the fetid sapor of decay. He turned to his back and scrambled away, surrounded by mist that was unnaturally cold, that moved without wind to push it.

Father stood above him like a dark tower rising, loomed in movement that defied eyesight. The wretched stench of rotting bodies fell across Davian's face. His father's glamour had always given him a migraine, and now it was equipped with teeth. He clenched his fist above his heart and bared his teeth, courage or possibly hubris effervescencing up from somewhere hidden.

"Why are you doing this?" he hissed through his teeth, a demand that died immediately on his tongue.

The shadow shifted, hummed, and churned. It came for him, sweeping noiselessly through the mist with the inevitability of a flood.

"I'm what you want, aren't I?" his heart was hammering, his pupils blown wide in terror and anger, "Do you-do you think I'll come to the temple if you kill her here like this? Do you think I'd ever-!"

Davian's entire body constricted. His spine snapped straight against his own volition. A hand wrapped around his throat and held him there as Father glared down on him. Thousands of screams erupted from the void, howling at him, tearing at his insides as if he'd trapped them inside his own chest. He gasped and shuddered. He couldn't help it. He looked away.

"Do not forget the reason you are alive. I am the reason you exist. You only breathe because I allow it, your heart only beats because I will it so."

Davian was lifted and thrown to the ground. He knocked his head against something. Gold glinted dimly in his periphery, then grew bolder. His father's presence was intense and heavy. Adrenaline churned his stomach nauseous.

"What... what are you doing?" he asked, frantic. He twisted his head and watched in horror as a ritual circle etched itself into the ground. Symbols not unlike what was on his own skin burned into the dirt and grew vicious and sharp. He tried to scramble out of it, but somehow without even being touched he was dragged back below Father's pitiless form as if It held command over some part of him he couldn't see or feel. The screaming voices lulled to insidious whispers. He could hear a faint tapping. Something dripped incessantly. The smell of it made him heady.

"I am almost tempted to let you run, if only to see you suffer." Father's voice was a hiss and a whisper that vibrated the air around him. He wanted to vomit. "How will you take it, my son, when everyone who you have come to care for dies?"

"I'm not running! I'll go where you want me to! I'll take the Rite! I swear it!" he gasped at first, feeling like a fish floundering for air it couldn't have, but with each word something in him shattered. Like a dam broken, it flooded into his throat and tipped each syllable with poison. His heart bloomed in his chest, filling it with rage, "Why isn't that enough? Why do you need more still? You have a son that would give you anything you could possibly ask for, so why do you need me?"

Davian felt like he was standing on the surface of a soap bubble and waiting for it to burst. His heartbeat was a maddening drum in his ears, growing louder and louder and pushing that same hot ichor through his veins. He had never considered himself the smartest thing to walk the face of Earthland, but cunning was something he'd never been found lacking in. Gajeel had told him to make himself desirable, to use his own inevitability as a weapon. Could he do that still? Or was all of this already preordained?

"He's too human, isn't he? Even though he gouged out his eye because he couldn't stand the fact it looked like our mother's. He took the Rite of the Body but it wasn't enough, was it? It's a shame you didn't consider that I might be a disappointment too." Davian bared his teeth, "How awful that you forced me to kill the only woman who could give you the children you wanted so badly!"

"You will watch your tongue-"

"Or what? Will you kill me? Go on. I want you to." he hissed, "Then neither of us will get what we want."

For one agonizing moment, everything in the world was still. Then, with a gentleness that was painful, a hand reached down and rested on his chest. He tried to keep his breathing from sounding frantic, but he was so terrified it felt like his organs might just froth up out of his mouth and eject themselves onto the ground. His guts spilling out of him as if he were a child's party toy and he'd just been stomped on.

"My son," There was an implacable violence held between Its teeth, like more than anything It wanted to reach forward and snap his head between Its jaws and only one thin thread remained left to hold It back, "Did you not know that there are worse things than death?"

Hungry.

Irena's voice broke through the haze of silence, calling for him. He heard Rut make a deplorable noise in the far distance. Blood, he could smell so much of it suddenly. Father was pushing down on him, crushing him with Its ravening.

"You are so like me, my child." It whispered, "The blood always brings out the beast."

"Leave her, please, I'm begging you…"

"Leave her? Here? With you?"

Hungry.

Davian sucked in a breath. If he could have flattened even more against the ground, he would have. He didn't even open his mouth to scream when the pain of fire seared down his calves, his arms, curling up his neck as scars were etched into his skin.

"Orthinosss..."

Hungry.

"No..." he breathed, tears rising in his eyes, constricting his throat.

He could hear it, the scraping of something sharp against stone. Its voice shivered like a living thing around him. He could feel it, see it, swarms of maggots feasting on bodies, the open mouths of the dead, the pitted emptiness and grew inside of him. It ate at his sanity, bore holes in the pieces of him that were him. Father's form above him moved like a ghost in the wind.

Hungry.

"Those that starve can never be strong. You need a good meal, Orthinos."

"Stop it!"

Something was making noise but his mind couldn't grasp its shape, skewed by vicious hunger that slaked through his core like the frost feasting on late-bloomed flowers. His skin itched and he felt fever tightening its clutches on his mind. Human blood made him weak and the scent of it was everywhere. An empty horizon stretched before him and at the back of his mind he wondered how he'd survive it.

Hungry.

Through the fog he saw her in the chair. He knew her sight, her smell, and now he craved her taste, the open wounds his talons could inflict. Her blue eyes were red-ringed and leaking tears as she shook her head at him. She was bleeding. Somehow, she was bleeding. Beads and pearls of blood slipped down her arm. Her teacup lay shattered on the floor before her feet. Red filled the air with humidity and the warm scent of copper.

You need a good meal.

He couldn't hear her words. He was too busy wrapping his arms around his gut and curling into a ball. The pain of starvation made a hollow emptiness that ached as he craved and he didn't dare move because as soon as he did it would be over. He'd be above her and tearing her apart, scattering her pieces into the air and the dirt and each porous fiber of the wooden floors of the saltbox house. Starving, he was starving and he craved the fresh taste of meat.

"Shall I save her from you, my son?"

How despicable, deplorable, mawkish. He lay on the ground with tears streaming down his face, a mind-numbing stab of fiery pain digging a brand through his gut until he could no longer see reason. Irena wept and kept whispering something to him he didn't understand. He shook and ate his own sanity by the fistfuls as he glared into the thing he hated more than anything else in this world or the next. He could feel Father's smile and picture every tooth in Its contemptible mouth.

"I'll go," Irena said, her voice breaking, "Please, I'll go."

Davian hated himself.

"My weakness... I'm s-s-so sorry..." he hissed, "...my little heart."

He was ripped from the ground and held aloft by his throat. The hand that gripped him was wet and dripping blood onto the floor. Davian was weak. He could do nothing. Father's will had him in Its clutches, under Its influence. He clung to It and prayed the void inside of him would close.

"He will come for you... and you will bring him to the Temples."

He didn't need to ask who. He already knew. All he could do was tip his head in accent and be dropped onto the floor. He pushed himself onto his arms and watched as Father grabbed hold of Irena, how she disappeared behind the expanse of It, how the house fell apart and the Otherworld melted into reality. The glinting, dead eyes of wraiths melded into the darkness, stretching into infinity, every life ended in the name of his father. He saw his mother standing amongst the wraiths and his empty stomach pitched. Like a doorway separating the outside from him, the veil fell shut again.

There was no strength left in him and so he just closed his eyes and lay on the ground aching. He laid there until he heard a sound. A dog was scratching at a door to be let in, then crashing through the house sniffing and whining. Rameses and Cersei both paced around him and whined for their master being gone. A hand grabbed his ankle and pulled his limp weight across the ground. There was gentleness in the gesture, the way an undertaker is cautious with a body that no longer needs caution. There was a blood trail, red on carpet, on tile. The blood was not his own.

He opened his eyes to the kitchen ceiling. Cold air fell on him and he lurched upwards, scrabbling for wrapped packages of meat and eating them unopened, still wrapped in paper and twine. He couldn't stop. It was the void finally being filled, agony being soothed by cool waters. He ate until he felt a different pain in his stomach, until he felt like he would wretch, and then he sank to the ground and heaved.

And then the rage came. It came like a hot wind up his nape, whisking up his spine and twisting his chest. There was so much of it he didn't know what to do with it all. He grabbed the edge of the refrigerator and threw it into the counter, but it didn't abate. He raked his talons against the countertops, threw himself against the wall, raging. Raging. It bled into his vision and his mouth.

He hated himself. He hated Father. Why? Why had Oros abandoned him this way? Why was this always how these things went? Pain without lesson, suffering without growth, horror without change. What had he done other than be born? He'd doomed her. He'd doomed her by proximity. Even the old god had said it, he despaired in his own helplessness while accepting his fate for what it was. What else could he have done? What did he do wrong? Why? Why? Why?!

Arms clamped around him and he thrashed. He thrashed but he couldn't break free. He thrashed until the arms around him constricted, growing tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe. And when he couldn't breathe, the rage had no choice but to subside. Slowly, slowly, it faded and he was left cold and empty. Cold and empty, and aware of heavy breathing and the scent of blood.

He was on his knees because the arms wrapped around him with Rut's, and Rut was on his knees. His long, whip-like tail curled around them both protectively. The blood on the floor was his. He was wounded, potentially mortally, and yet he had brought him to the kitchen, abated his hunger, and then forced him calm.

He was a good for nothing wretch, wasn't he? He could do nothing of substance.

"You're alive…" he breathed, "…there's so much blood."

"Favorite Ssson…" he hissed, a tired sound, "…you will have to take the Rite."

"Yes," he gasped. Miserable. Worthless. Mawkish. He shuttered through a sob he didn't want to release.

"Doesss it have to be human?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

Rut's reply was steady, "Does it have to be human?"

"Why would you ask that?" he whispered, suddenly far more frantic than before. He went to wrench himself free but the beast was strong, "Do you need tending? Please… you've helped me…"

"Favorite Ssson… does it have to be human?"

Davian wriggled himself free and spun, finally able to see the damage done. A punch of air left him and he scrambled to grab towels, rags, anything to try and stem dark blood that pulsed from a gaping hole in his side. The entire time, Rut spoke and Davian tried not to hear him.

"I have no tiesss to this realm. My parentage dead or cursssed. Sins I have committed against our kind and I am wounded, unclean, but a warrior I am ssstill. For the mothersss that no longer enjoy their sonsss laughter, would they not rejoice in my ending?"

"Please quiet," Davian said, shaking, "This can heal if you just eat something-"

"Favorite Son!" he snarled, grabbing his hands to stop him from rising. He made a wounded sound. His lungs rattled when he breathed, but he dragged Davian back to the ground anyway, "Does it have to be human?"

"Yes," Davian said, his words shivering as they met the air, "Yes, Rut, yes. It is to kill the human in me, a symbolic sacrifice. It has to be human."

"How much doesss such a little thing need?" he asked, digging his talons into Davian's hands, "Must she be eaten whole body? Or jussst a piece? Must she die? Would she give a piece of herself to you? Would fingers be enough? A piece of flesh?"

"The heart," Davian said quietly, and as calmly as he could manage, "I rip out the heart, Rut, and eat it."

His inhuman mouth closed, and he released him. Davian knelt in front of him, again pressing his wound with what he had found in the kitchen. Too late he realized they were decorative towels, ones Irena had proudly bought from the market not long after she'd returned to him. She would be so cross with him when she found out. Bloodstains were so hard to wash out.

"She wasss kind to me…" Rut said, voice wobbling and unsteady. He didn't cry, and at this point Davian wasn't even sure he could, "I had never known kindness before. Even you only releasssed me to suit your own needs. She owed me no respect, no care, we share no blood or commonplace, and yet she made me meals when I wasss hungry, offered me companionship when I craved sssolitude. My strength as the Yaoyo isss all I have laid claim to. I hated the humans for how we lived in ruinsss. Now, I would be human if only to take the woman's place. Why can I not die in her stead?"

"Listen… consent is necessary for this ritual. And Irena, the bleeding heart, cried when we drowned the stag in the river. Do you think she'd ever offer herself willingly to the altar?" Davian said, tugging at the shirt covering the extent of his wounds. Just one, deep stab wound, that was all. The serrated teeth of the knife had done its solemn duty but the beast's body was already repairing itself. He breathed a sigh of relief, "She doesn't believe like we do. She has no reverence for our practice. There's no reason for her to…"

"It caresss not about consent," Rut spat, "How many has It raped in Its crusade to rebuild the blood in your veinsss? The livesss It has consumed to gain power?"

"It will care if It wants the ritual to succeed. Some corners cannot be cut, or the bonds will be weak. It needsconsent."

"Then It will find a way. You know thisss…"

"Consent under duress is not consent. She cannot give herself to save another, or be forced into saying yes. She will not die, Rut, I promise you. She can't… I won't allow it."

He spoke with confidence and conviction, mostly because he also needed to hear it. He needed to believe it.

"Now, I need to get you something to eat. Please… give me a moment," he said, rising to his feet. He'd eaten everything in the freezer, but in the wine cellar, they had more. He hurried off, utilizing speed he rarely did as if he were afraid the beast would bleed out in the seconds it took him to grab handfuls of cured meats and rush back to him.

There was a time he despised Rut, and now he was saving him. Oh, this world was insane. But he felt like he was doing something, something good and decent even if it wasn't exactly right. When he returned to the beast's side, his breathing was less labored, his eyes tracing the outline of blood on the floor. He ate with far less voracity than Davian, moving haltingly. The silence between them was more than he could bare and so he fussed to fill it, clicking his teeth.

"Rut… so harsh on the tongue. Your father was such a cruel man. Hating the child despite it doing nothing wrong," he wetted another towel in warm water and began cleaning around the wound, "Descendants of royalty always have multi-syllable names. We should pick you out a better one."

"Rut suits me," he winced, "a bastard and a murderer."

"It means to cut, doesn't it?" Davian asked.

"Yes… because I ended the great line of the Masters of the House."

Davian curled his knees to his chest, "What about Rutivak?"

When he didn't respond Davian carried on, moving his hands nervously, "Cutting roar, like a battle cry? You have pride in being from your clan. A warrior's name, then, and not so different from what you're used to. It will be easier for everyone to pick up… unless of course you'd prefer something completely different?"

"Favorite Son…"

"Please," Davian cut him off, "it is a good name. Use it. It is far better than a petty curse, and strong. It suits you far better, I think."

He watched him, his large yellow eyes unreadable, and then, "Davian… is a human name. Hard for my tongue and teeth to hold."

"I know, but it means beloved… and I don't much feel like God's Wrath, if I'm honest."

"Is that the name you desire? Even after you change?" he asked.

"I don't… know. I hope so, because that would mean I haven't changed too much, don't you think?" Davian asked.

He was quiet again and then reached out a hand, grabbing Davian by the arm, and dragged him close. The beast was massive, enveloping him into a hug the likes of which startled him.

"Davian… It isss good to meet you, little brother."

Davian suddenly felt like sobbing again. Had anyone in his family ever called him Davian before that wasn't a sneer from his Father or Orotrushit? Perhaps, but he couldn't recall it now.

"It's good to meet you, too, Rutivak."

Serrill wrapped his cloak around himself tightly, his stomach turning in knots on knots as he watched the shore slip silently away. The ferry's foghorn cut the darkness. The turbid night reflected the sodden murk of his heart fluttering away against his ribs.

What could he do? Reinforcement Magic was nothing to balk at, true, but he lacked real power. He crumpled in the face of Laxus, and if it came to a fight he knew unequivocally that Gajeel had him beat. Even Davian could end him on the sparring ground without even his inhuman abilities to aid him. Yes, he was a strong mage, but he was still a man with clear limits. Limits that had grown more rigid ever since his lung had been collapsed, and now predisposed to it happening again.

Power. He lacked power. And without power, what could he do? He had never felt so insufficient to the needs of a moment before.

His eyes traced the hyaline waters, unseasonably calm despite the rolling fog. It looked almost like glass. For a moment, he pictured himself leaping from the ferry, throwing away reason and running back to that cursed saltbox house. Reinforcement Magic could turn the surface rigid as ice. Like a miracle in flesh, he would walk on water. A miracle… that's what he needed.

That bastard! How dare he wrangle his confession from him and then do this? Try to hide the fact his monster of a father was awaiting his return and bid him to the prison? Did he seem so gullible? How dare he goad him with the possibility of a future where they'd all be together, a strange love for strange people in a house far too large like some happily ever after where they all won out in the end, knowing full well that possibility was dying on the other side of a heavy oak door? How dare he…?!

But he couldn't blame him. It was in their nature, wasn't it? Chivalry? Or maybe, it was just in his own. Do the right thing. Help the people you care for. Spare them hardship if you can and build a better tomorrow… or that's what Serrill always told himself. But as Gajeel had been so kind to point out, he had been twisting himself into new and strange shapes to accommodate the gaps of one beautiful, kind woman and his inhuman commanding officer who were both now being terrorized by the object of their greatest nightmares, a force that Serrill couldn't see, couldn't hear, and couldn't feel. He would be like a bumbling foal waltzing in to slay a dragon.

And so he was here… on a boat continuing to do what he was supposed to do even when he knew it wasn't quite right and not at all what he wanted. Like taking a fucking promotion that brought him to Ember Island when what he really wanted was to be a detective. Like spending long hours running the prison when he really wanted to be practicing his music. Like following protocol and social convention when he really wanted to be in the arms of two people he had happened to fall in love with, who seemed to care for him in return, but he was too scared of loving both at the same time, of coming between them, of being too strange and out of the ordinary, of having to explain it all to his parents.

He felt as remote and untouchable as the dead lords and heroes of every legend he had ever devoured; great histories reduced to trivial bedtime stories that still made him what he was. Just like those stories, what could have been would sit like a stone inside of his chest because he never quite had the courage to reach for his own desires but instead did what he was always supposed to do. But such is the legacy of the son of a wealthy man, who inherited what he had not through much merit of his own, but the name of his family and the weight of a letter carried in his hand.

He turned his eyes upwards but saw only fog, fog that churned and shifted and danced. Fog like smoke, thick and stifling.

If only that prison riot had never happened. If only he hadn't been stabbed by some prisoner when he tried to save his cadets. If only Zahir hadn't spotted him on that gods-damned rampart. That infernal, flamboyant wizard and his horrible, cursed riot! If he'd never lost his arm because of that purple-haired, egotistical, fire demon! Maybe he would be more than just a man in the way. Maybe he could put up a substantial fight. But no, now he lacked power and fortitude. He was as fragile as a strawman awaiting the match to set it ablaze. Even now, months later, he was still so scared of fire… he was no better than when he was confined to his hospital bed awaiting a heart attack to take him from this plane.

Serrill ran his hands down his face. He crossed his arms over the railing and turned his eyes towards the prison. The distant lights eased through the blanket of white-wreathed night.

A feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach like a string had been tied there and was drawing tighter, dragging the pits of him up into his chest and bidding his heart to race. Despite the chill and damp, his palms were beginning to sweat. He felt… quite warm, and not in a comforting way, but in that unbearable, you-will-get-caught-it-is-only-a-matter-of-time way that only a child who was known for stealing his mother's cigarettes would know so well. A terrible idea had blossomed in his mind. He was not one for recklessness, but he was plain with where his allegiances lay. He could accomplish this. He was intelligent enough for that, at least. One question remained in his mind. Could he find the strength to put it into motion?