Summary:
We have reached the end of the story. I enjoyed writing about Malbonte's and Vicky's relationship over the ten years they lived together. I decided to extend the story until we reached the end of HS2 S1, because I think it marks a turning point in their relationship.
I want to thank each and every one of you who came along with me on this journey!
***—***
The roar of clashing blades and surging energies tore through the Academy like a storm ravaging calm waters. Malbonte stood at the edge of the battle arena, his sharp gaze sweeping over the chaos around him. The Order of Resistance had launched a surprise attack with ruthless determination, but the Horsemen's overwhelming power quickly turned the tide, diminishing any advantage the Order might have gained.
Yet, Malbonte's instincts told him this was no mere rescue mission. The Order sought something more: most likely, the horns in the Horsemen's possession. If they succeeded, getting the horns back wouldn't be an easy task. He had to secure them. But before he could act, hurried footsteps caught his attention.
Lucifer emerged, his usual mask of bored disdain fractured, urgency sharpening his every movement.
"Malbonte," Lucifer said, his voice low and insistent, "there's a problem."
Malbonte raised an eyebrow.
"Vicky's in the dungeons," Lucifer said, his tone clipped. "Plague was torturing her when the Order attacked."
Malbonte froze, tension rippling through his body. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as a surge of white-hot fury stole his breath.
"I'm on duty to make the students' escape look plausible, so I can't get her myself."
"I'll handle it," said Malbonte. Their eyes locked for a long moment, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. For the first time, Lucifer had let on that he understood Malbonte's concern for Vicky went beyond her role as a seal breaker.
There was no love lost between the two. After all, Malbonte had killed Lucifer ten years ago. Nevertheless, since Lucifer's return from Nonexistence, they had settled into a distant but semi-cordial understanding mainly founded on their mutual dislike of Plague. Lucifer, as much a pawn in Plague's schemes as many others, was driven solely by his desire to protect his mother. Malbonte understood that, and grudgingly appreciated his role in aiding the Order's efforts to rescue the Academy's students.
Beyond that, Malbonte sensed an unspoken concern for Vicky in Lucifer's demeanor—an affinity that seemed to trace back to their shared days at the Academy.
Malbonte gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, striding toward the dungeons. Every fiber of his being was attuned to one singular purpose. His concern for the horns faded like mist: the horns could wait. Vicky could not.
The stone corridors stretched before him, silent but for the faint echoes of distant battle—shouts, explosions, and the occasional crackle of dark energy. Plague's laughter pierced the air, high and unhinged, reverberating like the sound of madness itself. Malbonte ignored the cacophony, his steps purposeful as he honed in on the cells where Plague's victims were kept.
He reached Adi and Sammy's cell first, his sharp eyes cutting through the dimness. The two immortals sat leaning on each other on the damp floor, their postures stiffening at the sight of him. Without a word, Malbonte flicked his wrist, unleashing a burst of energy that unlocked the heavy iron door. It creaked open with a groan, the sound reverberating in the quiet corridor.
Adi and Sammy exchanged wary glances before rising to their feet, their movements slow and deliberate.
"I don't have time to explain," Malbonte said, his voice taut with urgency. "I'm bringing Vicky to you. Be ready."
"Ready for what?" Sammy asked, his tone guarded but laced with curiosity.
"To take her and fly," Malbonte replied tersely, stepping aside to let them out. "The Order of Resistance is here."
Their confusion was palpable as they exchanged another glance. Malbonte's lips curled into a faint scowl, irritation flaring. "The Order," he repeated, his tone sharp. "Immortals who've banded together to resist the Horsemen. They're here, rescuing captives. When I bring Vicky, take her to them and get as far from the Academy as you can."
Adi crossed his arms, his expression openly skeptical. "And why should we trust you? You're one of them."
Malbonte's gaze darkened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "If you care about Vicky, you'll do as I say."
Sammy placed a steadying hand on Adi's shoulder, his eyes cautioning silence. "Fine," he said, though he was still on guard.
Malbonte's stare lingered on them a moment longer, ensuring their compliance before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows. His steps quickened, fury and desperation propelling him forward as the fire in his veins burned hotter with each passing moment.
He sensed Vicky's aura around the corner—flickering and faint like a melting candle on its last inch—and quickened his pace. When he reached her cell, the sight of her stopped him cold.
Vicky was restrained to a chair in the center of the room, her wrists bound tightly behind her back and her ankles tied with wire that bit cruelly into her skin. Her posture was rigid, her body motionless, as if even the smallest movement would deepen her injuries.
As he stepped into view, her eyes snapped to him, wide with alarm. But when the moonlight filtering through the small window illuminated his face, her tension softened. Unexpectedly, a wave of relief washed over him. She still trusted him—enough not to fear his intentions.
With a single, controlled blast of dark energy, Malbonte shattered the door lock, pushed open the door, and strode inside. Without hesitation, he moved swiftly to tear through the restraints on her wrists and ankles. The wires fell away, and his fingers brushed against her raw, torn skin. He stilled, his sharp eyes cataloging the damage, anger simmering just beneath his measured exterior.
"Can you walk?" His voice came out sharper than he intended, his concern thinly veiled beneath his usual stoicism.
"I…" She faltered, leaning heavily against his arm for support. "Give me a second."
With the power-suppressing shackles gone, Malbonte could feel her strength slowly returning, the candle flame burning bright and steady within her now. Having her in his arms again brought a fleeting sense of reassurance, though her fragility reminded him of how much she had endured.
"Did she discover that part of your memory is locked away?" Malbonte asked, his voice cold and measured.
"You didn't tell her?" Vicky's voice held a trace of disbelief.
A cruel smile played on his lips, sharp as a blade. Her question stung more than he cared to admit. "No."
"It was the Stone of Secrets," she murmured, her words barely audible. "She was trying to get it out… but the stone kept evading her."
She twisted her wrist, revealing the gruesome damage. Plague had viciously dug into the flesh, her relentless efforts exposing muscle, sinew, and even bone. Beneath it all, Malbonte caught the faint blue glint of a stone embedded deep within. His jaw tightened, and a white mist seemed to cloud his vision as he envisioned strangling the life out of Plague, savoring the thought of repaying her cruelty a hundredfold.
"I see," he replied icily, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Can you heal this?" she asked, the tremor in her voice betraying both pain and fragile hope.
"No."
Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "But I thought…"
"Regenerating oneself and healing others are two different things. Darkness destroys; it doesn't heal." He paused. "But I can do this."
Malbonte reached out, his cold hand resting lightly on her neck, just as it had in the dungeons of the Citadel. A surge of dark energy coursed from him into her, a molten torrent that seemed to hum with recognition as it reconnected with its vessel. The force wound its way through her body, weaving into the battered pieces of her body and spirit, knitting them back together with beautiful precision.
For a moment, Malbonte allowed himself to feel the quiet intimacy of their connection as it reignited—a bond that had almost severed when his energy was stripped from her. Watching her regain strength under his touch stirred a quiet sense of satisfaction, almost pride, that he could ease her suffering, even in this small way. He couldn't heal her directly, but he could help her heal herself. For now, that was enough.
His grip remained steady, his power flowing into her with controlled precision. As her breathing steadied and the weariness in her frame began to lift, the tension coiled within him slowly ebbed.
Vicky's gaze rose to meet his. They stood so close now, the charged hum of his energy weaving between them, reminiscent of the earliest days of their connection. His eyes, almost against his will, dropped to her lips. For a fleeting moment, the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, and comfort her almost overwhelmed him.
"I can only do this for you," he said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I don't know." He hesitated, his tone laced with unspoken yearning. "Maybe it's because you're my vessel."
Vicky swallowed hard, breaking their gaze, and glanced down at her hand. The gaping wound was almost entirely healed now, but the traces of the attack would linger in her mind.
"The Order is here," said Malbonte.
Her head snapped back up, her eyes wide. "They came?!" Her voice wavered with a mixture of hope and disbelief. She straightened slightly, determination restoring the spark in her eyes. "I have to go to them." She hesitated then, her expression sharpening as she studied him cautiously. "Will you stop me?"
She wasn't asking for permission; she would go, or at least make the attempt, whether he allowed it or not.
Malbonte was silent for a long moment, the reply caught in the tangled storm of emotions within him. He didn't want her to go. Not because she was a seal breaker, not because she was tied to his plans, but because the thought of losing her settled like the bitter taste of poison on his tongue.
Despite everything that stood between them now—the chasm of mistrust, the continuing threat of Plague, who now knew about the Stone of Secrets—he wasn't ready to sever the fragile bond that still connected them.
It was like a spider's web, delicate, gossamer-thin but resilient, holding them together against all odds. If she left now, that thread would snap, casting her into the arms of the Order—into the care of people who despised him as much as he despised them.
He exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest tightening further. He knew he could never keep her by force. He had let her go once before, and she had returned of her own volition. But this time, he knew she wouldn't. This time, there was no grand cause behind his actions, no righteousness to justify his revenge. There would be no balancing of the scales of Nemesis. Now, all that remained was selfish desire—revenge and the hope of freedom from an eternity of torment.
At last, he spoke, his voice low and steady. "I won't stop you."
Vicky's breath trembled, her composure fraying as she visibly fought back tears. In that moment, her heart and thoughts opened to Malbonte with startling clarity, their echoes ringing directly into his mind.
This monster, this emotionless robot with his stony stare, will always be special to me.
She still thought of him as a monster. Perhaps she had forgotten that he could read her thoughts—or perhaps she no longer cared, not at this moment of parting. Either way, she wasn't wrong.
No matter how dangerous he is to anyone else, he won't harm me… he'll save me, heal me, cover my lips with a hard kiss—he'll do all those things as best he can…
Malbonte's chest tightened painfully, his heart clenching under the weight of her belief in him.
I know those ten years we were together mean something to him, no matter what he says.
She had no idea. Those years meant more than she could ever imagine—more than he himself had understood until Plague's cruelty had forced him to confront the depth of his feelings.
Vicky exhaled softly, her voice breaking the fragile silence. "Thank you… Malbonte."
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to look at her fully. His gaze lingered on her beloved, beautiful features, memorizing every detail as though this might be the last time he saw her this close. He wondered if their last kiss—when he had punishingly bitten her lip, branding her with his own torment—would remain his final mark on her. But now, he had no right to claim even the smallest caress. Not when she stood before him, strong yet so achingly vulnerable.
"We have to go," he said at last, his voice steady but weighted, betraying the reluctance he couldn't fully suppress.
Malbonte left her in the care of Adi and Sammy. His final words to them were terse, a sharp command to get her to safety while there was still time. Then, without a backward glance, he turned and strode toward the chaos of battle, his dark figure disappearing into the shadows as he left to join the fight against the Order.
***—***
The Academy had become a storm of chaos, a battlefield consumed by violence and desperation. The Order's forces, though fierce and unwavering in spirit, were no match for the raw power of the Horsemen and the oppressive grip they held over their thralls. Plague's puppets swarmed like locusts, spreading sickness and terror with every step. Their trembling wings barely kept them aloft as they gnawed mindlessly at their foes. Others, compelled by Plague's venomous threats or captivated by War's intoxicating aura, fought with unsettling precision and ferocity.
Then, War entered the fray.
The atmosphere immediately thickened, seasoned with an almost suffocating intensity. He strode forward, a living catalyst whose mere presence ignited fury and aggression in all who stood near—friend and foe alike.
For Malbonte, already consumed by anger and hatred toward Shephamalum, War's aura was like fuel poured on a roaring fire. The tainted emotions coursing through him sharpened his instincts, honing his strikes with deadly precision.
Spotting Eragon, War shifted into his second form—a towering, bulkier figure encased in flaming plate armor that radiated raw, unbridled power and menace. Every movement he made was deliberate, almost languid, as though he relished the inevitability of his triumph.
Engaged simultaneously with Eragon, Winchesto, and Rebecca, War struck with a brutal yet calculated intent, holding back just enough to prolong the deadly dance, and savor the chaos he orchestrated.
With a casual flick of his wrist, War hurled his massive sword at Winchesto. The blade tore through the air like a thunderbolt, aimed with ruthless precision to cleave the demon in two. Only Eragon's sharp warning spared Winchesto, who ducked just as the sword whistled past, missing him by a hair's breadth. It embedded itself into a nearby wall; the force of the impact shook the entire structure. Even War's powers couldn't summon the weapon back.
But War remained unfazed. His fluid, unstoppable movements carried the same lethal intent. He didn't need a blade to dominate the battlefield.
The Order's fighters began to falter, their resolve crumbling under the suffocating weight of War's toxic influence. The air, thick with rage and seething energy, clouded their judgment, pushing them into reckless, self-destructive aggression. Malbonte knew it was only a matter of time before their desperation led to fatal mistakes.
Then, Plague descended from above in her grotesque, supernatural form, oozing blood and gore. Her shrill laughter pierced the battlefield, a chilling counterpoint to the carnage, as she taunted and encouraged her brother.
Their exchange was little more than an indistinct buzz in Malbonte's ears, as War's overwhelming aura held him in its grip, driving him forward like a relentless, lethal automaton.
A grating screech of metal against stone tore through the cacophony of the battlefield, slicing cleanly through Malbonte's battle haze. Instinctively, he turned toward the sound, his gaze locking onto an almost surreal sight: Vicky stood at the edge of the battlefield, clutching War's massive sword in her trembling hands.
It was a weapon no mortal or immortal should have been able to lift, let alone wield. Yet there she stood, her slight frame straining against the weapon's sheer weight. Her eyes burned with a fierce blend of fear and unyielding resolve, her determination as tangible as the weapon she held.
For a fleeting moment, the chaos around Malbonte faded to nothing. His gaze fixed on her, disbelief flickering through him, tempered by an unexpected spark of admiration. The desperation radiating from her—an overwhelming need to protect her friends and allies—was so potent it seemed to ripple outward in waves, a force as real as the blade she clutched.
Plague's triumphant laugh shattered Malbonte's trance. His focus snapped to War, who now stood in his human form. His expression was heavy with doom as he casually tossed Winchesto aside like a broken doll, and began striding toward Vicky. Each step was deliberate, his aura pressing against the air like a faint but oppressive hum. The battlefield itself seemed to shift, tension mounting with every movement. He stopped just before her, the trembling tip of the sword brushing lightly against his chest.
The chaos of battle stilled. Warriors, both ally and enemy, faltered mid-strike, their gazes drawn inexorably to the slender figure standing against a force of destruction. Even Plague's thralls wavered, their aggression dulled by the shifting focus of their mistress. Plague watched the proceedings with delighted anticipation, her twisted glee evident in every fiber of her being.
For one indefinite moment, the battlefield held its breath—in reverence or fear—of the unwavering resolve radiating from Vicky's shaking hands.
War's lips moved with calm deliberation, his tone measured, though his body radiated a subtle intensity. Vicky, by contrast, was a storm barely contained. Her face was a turbulent mix of grief, guilt, and resolve. Though their words were lost to the distance, Malbonte read every nuance of their exchange with precision. War took a step closer, pressing his chest lightly against the tip of the sword, daring Vicky to act. His expression carried a strange solemnity, as though he welcomed whatever judgment she might deliver. Malbonte's heart clenched as he watched, his mind racing to make sense of what was unfolding.
The silence stretched like a taut bow string, charged with tension, as Vicky hesitated, poised on the precipice of a momentous decision.
Then, he saw it—the moment her decision crystallized. Her trembling hands stilled, her shoulders squared, and her expression hardened into one of heartbreaking resolve.
Tears glistened in her eyes, but they didn't blur her vision; they seemed to sharpen it. With a cry laden with devastation, Vicky drove the blade into War's chest. It wasn't the scream of a triumphant warrior—it was the anguished keening of someone breaking their own heart to do what had to be done.
War's solemn gaze never wavered. His lips curved into the faintest smile as the blade sank deep into his chest, as though he welcomed the end. Then his body erupted into a burst of crimson light, scattering into red dust that dissipated into the air like a final, exhaled breath.
Vicky had always been driven by the need to protect others, no matter the personal cost. That had not changed. But the weight of her victory seemed heavier than the sword she'd carried. Her hands fell limp, and the blade slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground with a resounding clang.
The silence that followed was suffocating, blanketing the battlefield like a shroud. Malbonte's chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache spreading through him. What Vicky had just done wasn't born of hatred or despair—it was something far more profound, layered with grief, courage, and sacrifice.
There could be only one explanation for how she'd wielded War's sword with such devastating precision. The Horseman who thrived on conflict and hatred—whose very existence depended on them—had succumbed to a fatal flaw. War had allowed himself to love, knowing it would destroy him. And he had embraced that destruction willingly.
The realization unsettled Malbonte in ways he couldn't fully articulate. War had risked everything to experience something Malbonte had spent centuries shutting out, convinced that any feeling besides hatred and pain was a weakness that would destroy him.
Or so he had believed—until he met Vicky.
Malbonte knew he loved her, though he had painstakingly rebuilt his walls after Plague's arrival. Yet this moment shattered him in a way he hadn't anticipated.
Seeing the raw anguish etched into every tear-streaked line of her face, pierced through those carefully reconstructed defenses, driving a dagger deep into his heart.
He couldn't avoid the bitter truth—Vicky hadn't escaped unscathed. She had paid the price, too. The pain written into every line of her face, carved into her every movement, was a wound Malbonte felt as if it were his own.
Plague's shrill voice shattered the stillness, a misphony of malice as she savored the orchestrated demise of her brother. This was the culmination of all her scheming, the moment she had meticulously crafted.
But Plague's gloating was cut short by a sudden blur from above. Eragon descended like a slingshot, his movements sharp and deliberate, the glint of a blade flashing in his hand. In one swift strike, he drove the knife into Plague's back.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the Order had achieved an incredible victory against the horsemen. But whatever victory they had envisioned, it was already slipping through their fingers. They had gravely underestimated Plague. She had outmaneuvered them, her dark strategies always a step ahead, her mind an unfathomable labyrinth of malice and cunning.
Though the attack failed to end her, Eragon recovered quickly enough. With movements as fluid and precise as his initial strike, he activated a portal-stone and vanished into the ether, leaving only the echoes of his failed attempt.
Malbonte barely registered the drama, his focus still locked on Vicky. She stood motionless, lost in the aftermath of what she had done, her expression a haunting mix of grief and devastation.
But Rebecca grabbed her daughter's hand and prepared to vanish into another portal with Vicky. Plague's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, like the crack of a whip. "Malbonte! Stop them!"
He moved instantly, his instincts overriding all reason. In a swift, brutal motion, he seized Vicky's leg and yanked her to the ground.
Later, when Malbonte reflected on that moment, he couldn't explain why he had obeyed Plague—why he had broken his word to Vicky and tried to thwart her escape. The truth was, he hadn't thought at all. The need to understand had consumed him, his actions driven purely by impulse.
Grasping her elbow tightly, he pulled her up and loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her lithe form. Vicky's eyes blazed with defiance, and her voice rose in furious demands for release. But Malbonte wasn't listening—not to her words, at least. His focus was singular, his mind searching hers like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline, desperate for answers that refused to surface.
How had she concealed her intent from him, even with the Stone of Secrets in play? How much of herself had she given to War? Had the Stone shielded her thoughts because her heart had remained untouched? Or was there a truth even he couldn't bear to confront?
Vicky acted suddenly, sinking her teeth into his hand with a sharp ferocity. Blood welled from the wound, but Malbonte didn't flinch or release her. The pain was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him.
The tension shattered as a ripple of energy coursed through the air, sudden and electric. A portal flared to life behind Vicky, its radiant light cutting through the battlefield's shadows like the first streaks of dawn. Rebecca stepped through, her voice sharp with urgency as she called to her daughter. The sound pierced the haze, galvanizing Vicky into motion.
With a ragged breath, Vicky jumped to where War's massive sword lay discarded amidst the carnage. Instinctively, her hands found the hilt, and in one smooth arc, she lifted the blade. Her slight frame should have buckled under its impossible weight, but she held it steady, defying logic and expectation.
She leveled it at him, the sword's tip trembling as it hovered mere inches from his face.
"Let me go!" she demanded, her voice fierce despite the tremor in her hands.
The sight before him was nothing short of extraordinary—Vicky, frail yet unyielding, gripping War's massive sword as if it were an extension of her own will. Her eyes burned with unwavering determination, her squared shoulders a challenge to the cosmos itself.
Something shifted within Malbonte. A sudden, unexpected lightness broke through the chaos of his thoughts. A slow grin spread across his face—not one of mockery, but of reluctant admiration.
Without a word, he stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. The faintest trace of pride flickered in his eyes as he released her.
Vicky's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, her expression searching, as though trying to unravel the reason behind his sudden change of heart. Then, without another word, she turned and clasped Rebecca's hand. Together, they disappeared into the shimmering portal, its radiant light swallowing them whole.
Malbonte stood frozen, his sharp gaze locked on the space where Vicky had vanished. An unwelcome emptiness settled within him, hollow and aching, as though her absence had carved out a void he hadn't known existed.
Plague's mocking voice shattered his fragile introspection. "So, you let her go." She sauntered toward him, her expression twisted with cruel satisfaction, dragging him back to the bitter reality of her schemes. "I expected more from you, Malbonte."
He turned to face her, his expression sharp with disgust. "You got what you wanted, didn't you?" he said, his voice low and cutting. "War is dead. That's all you cared about."
"Oh, don't pretend you're above petty jealousy," she sneered, her eyes glinting with malicious delight. "She seduced him right under your nose, and you didn't even notice, despite your 'special' connection. Don't tell me that didn't bother you, pup."
His jaw tightened as the barb hit its mark. A flicker of rage lit his gaze, but he quickly buried it beneath his icy exterior. "You think you've won, but you've only lit the match that will burn you," he said with quiet, cutting disdain. "You've rid yourself of one brother, but two more are coming. How do you think they'll react when they learn of what you've done? Especially the eldest."
He let the words hang in the air, each one a dagger aimed with precision. Plague's smirk faltered, her expression twisting as a flicker of fear darted across her eyes. Malbonte knew her well—her hatred, and deeper still, her terror of Death, the brother who held no loyalty to her and no tolerance for her schemes. She had been reckless, letting her tongue slip after indulging too freely in his specially tailored addictive cocktail. Now, he had struck at her weakest point.
Plague's lips parted as though to retort, but no words came. Her sharp wit faltered, her mocking bravado crumbling under the shadow of her elder brother.
Malbonte didn't wait for her to recover. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her rooted to the spot, surrounded by the echoes of her schemes and the demons of her own making.
Malbonte stopped at the edge of the battlefield, his gaze sweeping over the ruins. The once-pristine halls of the Academy were now stained with blood, and smoke curled from shattered walls, rising like specters into the darkened sky. Somewhere beyond the devastation, Vicky was with the Order—far beyond his reach.
For so long, Malbonte had believed himself the stronger of the two. That belief had driven his relentless vigilance over her, his refusal to entrust her safety to the brutal, merciless world the Horsemen had unleashed. Not without the shield of his dark power. But she had proven him wrong in every way. Today, he had seen a different truth. Vicky possessed a strength that was entirely her own—a strength rooted not in darkness, but in light.
Vicky had killed a Horseman of the Apocalypse, not by abandoning her principles, but by staying true to them. Her duality—the refusal to succumb to darkness while wielding the moral courage to act—was what made her extraordinary.
The path to vengeance was a lonely one, and Malbonte would walk it alone, as he always had. And yet, the ember of his bond with Vicky continued to glow, faint but unyielding—a quiet reminder that even in the bleakest moments, some connections could endure, waiting for the chance to reignite.
He could not follow her now. His purpose remained steady: to destroy Shephamalum and free himself from the escalating torments of darkness. Until that battle was won, any hope for a future with Vicky was an impossible dream. But even in the midst of his determination, Malbonte clung to one fragile hope: their paths would cross again.
And when that day came, he would find a way to make things right—not to keep her by his side out of selfish desire, but because she was, and had always been, precious to him in ways he was only now beginning to understand.
***—***
The story continues in my completed fic, "The Ice Melts When the Spring Thaws". I have two other stories in this 'verse as well. Do check them out!