She could hear him breathe. It irked her but he was of more use alive than dead. A name unexpectedly found, a face she'd seen years ago when he was a younger thing. In those days he could cut men like they were cloth, shred them like wet paper. His eyes were the same: cold, hard, ancient for the body he wore, worn down as it was.
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He was smaller without his armor, grey and coarse, a mere ghost of the son with whom he often walked. He strained against the chains that held him, pinned him down sitting up against an ancient and heavy armoire. (She didn't think to explain the weight, nor the smell.) When he first woke she stroked his cheek and flicked away the spittle that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. They never talk about this, she had thought to herself. There is no romance in this war of ours. We all become such ugly things.
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Delial Grimsong smiled. There was a dagger in her hands and she spun it idly in her fingers, blade hanging loosely towards the floorboards. There were splatters, too, rust red and thick that looked too fresh to be coincidence. His skin was cold.
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"Hello, sweetling."
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He favored her with no response. Cold and hard as his eyes may have been, they were still glossy and mildly addled from the drug she had cut into his veins. It took but a spell to steal the air from his lungs but even that would not keep him down for long, not while he was moved to--
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"Where am I?"
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"Does it matter?"
"Where?"
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"Darling," said Delial with a click of her tongue and a slow, pitying shake of her head. She tried to sound sad but sorrow was tricky, difficult to fake. "Don't you understand what this is?"
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The fog was clearing from his eyes. She knelt over him in robes stained dark while her smile glinted white, glinted like the blade in her hands. It was dark where they were, a cluttered and dusty room with no windows, no light but a single lamp bathing them in dim amber. His skin was cold but it burned. The fog was clearing and Aylard Greyarm remembered why the face that smiled at him (leering, mocking, laughing with venomous eyes) struck a blistering chord inside.
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She touched his cheek, brushed fingers over his lips. He growled and tried to recoil but he was bound too tight to move. His skin was cold. "It will be easier if you are still, my dear. Now, do you understand what I want?"
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"Rot in the Seven Hells," was what he meant to say. The witch had smiled the same way at Heather just as she was cut down, the twitch of dark lips ugly and wretched. "An eternity to each and every one." Aylard could feel the tongue in his mouth and the hot words in his brain but neither came together quite as he wanted. His voice instead emerged as a choked groan as felt a piercing pain in his side. When he looked down he understood why his skin was so cold.
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His body was marked by lines and coils of that same rusty red. Circles circled and repeated over his lungs and his heart, dashed through by lines that crossed artery and vein and organ. It chilled his skin but burned where the marks were echoed by the shallow lacerations that raised long bleeding welts over his upper body.
The pain in his side grew. The numbness flowed away rapidly, bled out with every thud of his heart. She listened to him breathe and took a moment to appreciate the way that very breath caught hard in his throat. His skin was cold but her fingers were slick and burning as she squeezed and reached further in. The knife was on the floor but he could not see her hand.
Â
"Do you understand," Delial Grimsong whispered, "What I want?"
Â
He was smaller without his armor, grey and coarse, a mere ghost of the son with whom he often walked. He strained against the chains that held him, pinned him down sitting up against an ancient and heavy armoire. (She didn't think to explain the weight, nor the smell.) When he first woke she stroked his cheek and flicked away the spittle that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. They never talk about this, she had thought to herself. There is no romance in this war of ours. We all become such ugly things.
Â
Delial Grimsong smiled. There was a dagger in her hands and she spun it idly in her fingers, blade hanging loosely towards the floorboards. There were splatters, too, rust red and thick that looked too fresh to be coincidence. His skin was cold.
Â
"Hello, sweetling."
Â
He favored her with no response. Cold and hard as his eyes may have been, they were still glossy and mildly addled from the drug she had cut into his veins. It took but a spell to steal the air from his lungs but even that would not keep him down for long, not while he was moved to--
Â
"Where am I?"
Â
"Does it matter?"
"Where?"
Â
"Darling," said Delial with a click of her tongue and a slow, pitying shake of her head. She tried to sound sad but sorrow was tricky, difficult to fake. "Don't you understand what this is?"
Â
The fog was clearing from his eyes. She knelt over him in robes stained dark while her smile glinted white, glinted like the blade in her hands. It was dark where they were, a cluttered and dusty room with no windows, no light but a single lamp bathing them in dim amber. His skin was cold but it burned. The fog was clearing and Aylard Greyarm remembered why the face that smiled at him (leering, mocking, laughing with venomous eyes) struck a blistering chord inside.
Â
She touched his cheek, brushed fingers over his lips. He growled and tried to recoil but he was bound too tight to move. His skin was cold. "It will be easier if you are still, my dear. Now, do you understand what I want?"
Â
"Rot in the Seven Hells," was what he meant to say. The witch had smiled the same way at Heather just as she was cut down, the twitch of dark lips ugly and wretched. "An eternity to each and every one." Aylard could feel the tongue in his mouth and the hot words in his brain but neither came together quite as he wanted. His voice instead emerged as a choked groan as felt a piercing pain in his side. When he looked down he understood why his skin was so cold.
Â
His body was marked by lines and coils of that same rusty red. Circles circled and repeated over his lungs and his heart, dashed through by lines that crossed artery and vein and organ. It chilled his skin but burned where the marks were echoed by the shallow lacerations that raised long bleeding welts over his upper body.
The pain in his side grew. The numbness flowed away rapidly, bled out with every thud of his heart. She listened to him breathe and took a moment to appreciate the way that very breath caught hard in his throat. His skin was cold but her fingers were slick and burning as she squeezed and reached further in. The knife was on the floor but he could not see her hand.
Â
"Do you understand," Delial Grimsong whispered, "What I want?"
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