Chapter 46 Nothingness
NOTHINGNESS
GRAVES
"I’ll never fucking tell you anything!" the Fallen hissed, voice cracked in pain.
Graves canted his head like a predator as he watched the male who had taken Luella from them.
The dungeons were cold; saltwater leaked from above, and the faint sound of waves echoed.
"Then, I shall break your mind?" Bastian commented, studying his hands as if the whole thing was beneath him. Water dripped on his shoulders; he flicked it away.
"You will not grant him the mercy of turning his mind into a mass of misery and hollowed-out thoughts. Not until he has suffered as she has," Vale hissed. The dragon King stood rigid, shoulders jumping as if the beast caged within pushed against his flesh to be let free and enact vengeance.
Bastian had already had his revenge. He and the demon both. Of different kinds, however. Bastian had made the Fallen see things that were not there, forcing him to walk through his worst fears, while Azgorath used physical means—fists.
The Fallen’s strung-up body bore the markers of a demon’s strength. His jaw was dark purple, an eye swelling shut, lips cracked and bloody. As he snarled at them all, Graves noted he was missing a tooth.
They’d killed the other; the dead Fallen’s body was pinned to the wall, nails in his palms and wings. His jaw was unhinged, as if the force of his screams had ripped through him and rendered his mouth useless to cage the sounds. The work of Bastian’s nightmares…
The leather of Graves’s gloves creaked as he tapped a finger over the Fallen’s jaw, drawing his attention to the male pinned to the wall.
"That will be your end," Graves said without inflection. A buzz of violence roared through his veins.
They had felt Luella’s fear at the emotions of Azgorath and Bastian. She’d wrapped her arms around herself, eyes wide as their rage had pummeled her from the inside out, no doubt. She didn’t need that right now. Or ever.
This time, she would be distracted.
But that meant they, too, would be distracted—by the distant thrum of her pleasure rocking through them. It brought his rage to a head. He felt himself grow hard.
His need for rage was a part of himself that he kept hidden far away.
Luella was too pure to be at the mercy of his hands.
The same hands that had held her in his arms and carried her to safety now gripped the Fallen’s jaw so hard it cracked from his strength.
The Fallen whimpered, swollen eyes squeezing shut.
Graves lowered his voice. "You will die here, and there is no stopping it. The manner in which you die is entirely up to you. We can do anything to you. Flay open your insides and wrap your throat in a noose of your intestines… Pin your wings to the wall like a butterfly." The Fallen’s eyes drifted to his dead companion, who’d met the same end Graves detailed.
"Or it can be easy. You can close your eyes and succumb to eternal nothingness. "
It was all a lie, but the Fallen did not know that.
Graves had learned when one’s body reached a certain point of pain and fear, death was a welcome destination.
The acrid scent of piss filled the room. Tharen laughed darkly, silver flashing as he spun a dagger in his hands.
He’d already had his pound of flesh.
They all had, save Graves, who’d brought Luella back.
When the Fallen Prince closed his eyes, he saw her in the small boat, drifting in the sea, her hands bound and body trembling with fear and thirst. His rage grew, and he clenched his jaw, dark wishes sprouting to life in his mind.
Thoughts of Luella watching him enact his revenge—killing the Fallen and fucking her on the bloodied floor—
But no. She was too good to be defiled on the floor and taken like an animal.
Too good for him—too good for any of them.
Except maybe Azgorath.
"Tell us, and it will all go away," Graves whispered.
The Fallen’s eyes filled with ire. "You’re an excuse for a Prince. You should’ve stayed gone, and maybe the angel bitch you all fuck would never have been hurt. All’s fair in protecting a home," he spat.
Tharen tsked, and the scent of smoke filled the room, overpowering the salty tinge of the sea.
"You should not have said that," Graves said calmly, but inside, he was anything but calm.
The Fallen’s screams grew to be white noise, buzzing in the back of his head as he worked. Each plea and bubbling sob was ignored.
"You had your chance," Graves said. After extracting all the information they needed from the Fallen—specifically which hand had touched Luella first—he carved off each finger. Blood sprayed on his face.
Bloodied stumps raised before him, the Fallen gasped as he stared at the mess of his hand.
When the male was unrecognizable, and the air tasted of iron, Graves stepped away and admired his work.
Shiny strands of his intestines spilled from his cut-open stomach.
Graves brushed shoulders with Tharen, who hummed in appreciation. "Always so grotesque. My methods are far better."
Graves narrowed his eyes on the Prima, as Bastian stepped forward lazily, finger tapping on his temple as he got to work on the Fallen’s mind.
"You cheat with your magic," Graves replied.
A low hiss drew their attention to Vale, who faced the wall, clenched fist against it as he worked to maintain composure.
"That might be a problem," Graves said to Tharen. "He needs to shift."
He didn’t bother saying what Vale truly needed:
To claim Luella.
"Bastian was, too. Until he gave in," Tharen said, and the ends of his words grew muted from the Fallen’s strangled gasps and screams.
"Fuck! No. Get them off me. They’re here! Stop—please!" The Fallen struggled and strained against his bindings, causing more blood to pool from his many wounds. He battled invisible enemies as Bastian brought his worst fears to life.
"I thought you said you were going to get answers?" Vale’s broken hiss filled the air. He turned his head to stare at Bastian, golden hair hanging in his eyes.
Bastian smirked. "Did I?"
The Fallen’s screams ceased; he hung limp in the chains.
And in his mind, Graves heard:
You wanted to see him succumb to his fears. I couldn’t resist.
Graves’s lips twitched as he thought back, Thanks.
It’s the least he deserves, Bastian answered.
All the while, he stared unflinchingly at the unresponsive Fallen until blood bubbled from his lips, trailing from his ears and trickling from his closed eyes.
The Fallen’s body jerked, wings lashing.
Bastian sighed, and then the Fallen grew utterly limp. Dead.
Bastian stepped carefully away, mindful of the blood. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "After drinking from Luella, any other blood is worse than effluvium."
"Well?" Vale prodded, green eyes aglow with echoes of fire as he stared at the two dead Fallen.
"They worked alone. They were… fiercely loyal to Queen Samil. They think she is too naive to lead. They didn’t want a repeat of"—Bastian glanced to Graves—"what happened before."
Screams. Sorill’s cries as she held Sora. Soro raging in his face and leaping before their mother. The slick wet sound as Graves drove his blade through his father—
Graves’s teeth threatened to crack from the force with which he clenched his jaw.
"Are there any other threats?" Vale’s voice brought Graves back from the knife’s edge on which he teetered.
"I saw nothing," Bastian said.
They already knew the Fallen were not Umbra. His mother took too many measures to keep the Umbra away after… what had happened. This was plain evil, a twisted act of protection by the Queen’s loyal subjects.
He needed to go to Luella—to see for himself she was safe.
His wings rippled behind him, and they stared at him.
"Vale isn’t the only one poised to break," Tharen drawled. "Go. We’ll clean up here." He kicked at the Fallen’s limp leg.
Graves looked to his King, whom he answered to above all others:
"Go, Graves. You’ve done well."
He left without another word.
It was only when Graves’s wings carried him from the small dungeon island tucked in the far corners, closer to the shadowed recesses of the Isles, that he realized he was covered with gore.
"Fuck," he grumbled, and the wind ate his curse.
He could not see Luella like this.
Is she asleep? he thought into their shared link, hoping the demon would hear.
His home island came into view as he circled the Queen’s Island. To the right, Sora’s island; then Soro’s. Sorill’s home was smaller, with fewer trees and more sand—fitting for the youngest of the Damaris siblings, who always loved building castles crafted of sand in their youth.
Graves’s wings carried him to the trees surrounding his island; they snapped out and caught him as he landed on one of the tall swinging bridges linking the treetops.
The bridge groaned, and leaves rustled. He stayed perched there, watching the low flicker of lights within his home. Somewhere in there, Luella slept.
Graves itched to go to her, but he would never fucking bring his violence and misery onto her.
Finally, Azgorath answered, and Graves could not help but have the sense that the demon had kept him waiting on purpose:
She is asleep. Peacefully. Has been for some time now, while you had your fun… Is it finished?
Vale answered. It is done.
The thought of Luella sleeping peacefully in the demon’s arms struck a match of jealousy within Graves.
He was weak, had always been so.
Weak for not returning to his home to face his family.
Weak for giving in and being the first to steal a taste of their Vincire’s lips—and weak as he jumped from his perch and swooped low between the trees, until he landed with a soft thud on one of the outlooks jutting from his home.
The stone was alight with a soft glow that filtered through the shut curtains.
His keen ears picked up on the soft sound of a beating heart. Hers.
The blood on his dark leather gloves mocked him as he raised a hand to the curtain and tugged it aside—just enough to reveal what lay within.
In the cozy bed of white sheets, Luella rested. The exhaustion and worry on her pretty face had been chased away by sleep, soothing the downturned corners of her plush lips as Azgorath held her in his arms. The shadow of his horns flickered on the walls. He met Graves’s eyes and nodded.
And Graves slowly closed the curtain, blocking the sight of her as he turned away from the only one he would ever want—but would never want him.
His wings sharply cut through the air, taking him away, until he found himself at the towering mountains wrapping around the archipelago. Where rock met grass, then sea, water fell steadily from a hole in the side of one of the mountains. A private place he used to come to be alone.
He shrugged off his clothes until he stood nude underneath the falls.
The stone ran red with the blood that washed from his body. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and his hand traveled down his stomach until he gripped his hard length, a groan tearing free and echoing off the stone around him.
Graves fisted himself harder, and as the blood was washed away from him entirely, he stroked himself to the thought of her. Wicked thoughts—thoughts he would never share with her, for the others would have his head.
Thoughts of her, under him, coated in blood, while the dead eyes of her enemies watched.
He came on a guttural cry, his release coating his hand and breaths loud with exertion.
Blood darkened the stone under his feet as he stood there, staring at the walls and letting the water crest over him.
The power of which he had come to care for her troubled him deeply. And so did the realization of the lengths he would go to keep her safe from whoever dared to cause her harm.
Graves smiled.
Let them come.
He would kill whoever tried.