Chapter Twelve- Titan’s Kyanite
Chapter Twelve- Titan’s Kyanite
Even though the sun is creeping to its highest point, sleep continues to evade me, no matter how desperately it is needed. For hours, I toss and turn, catching only moments of sleep at a time.
Back in the King’s quarters, Thorne removed himself from my arms when the Corpsewrights concluded and asked Elm to retrieve the high prince. At which point I broke my hold on Dreven and retreated from the royal bed chambers.
Thorne’s eyes found me once more before I left the room, some mixture of hatred and longing in his features. With a sinking feeling, I came to the conclusion that I was just glad he looked at me.
My eyes ache from lack of sleep. I can still smell him in my clothes, feel his tears upon me. The scent of his blood-stained hair remains in my nostrils.
At some point in my quest for sleep, I’m staring at a wall when it begins to warp.
Tendrils of magic ripple against it like a stone plunked in water.
I squint my eyes, greedy for the small amount of light that is seeping through the thick curtains.
Thorne stumbles in as though walking through the wall was a struggle, which apparently it was because he’s dragging a Noctispecter behind him. Chilling terror slides over me.
The thing towers over Thorne, but it is skinny and emaciated.
Its skin is rough and pale, its bones protruding.
It hisses something at him in a language I don’t recognize and to my surprise, Thorne responds with something I think is akin to ‘shut up’.
The Noctispecter is wrapped in chains, has sewn shut sockets where its eyes should be, and its spindly fingers twitch curiously as it begins to sniff around my room.
“I thought we were good! I told you who hired me!” And held you while you cried. I leap from my bed and grab the closest weapon to me, three stray arrows thrown onto the floor. I really need to clean my room.
“I want to know what my mother told you!” I can see that his grief has finally consumed him, morphing into anger at me. I also realize I’m naked save for a pair of undershorts.
The Noctispecter seems to look at him questioningly, tilting its head so that its dry skin is visible in a sliver of moonlight from my curtains.
Noctispecters are meant to remove thoughts, ideas, motivations. It can extract everything Thorne wants to know. I swallow against what feels like my throat closing when it grips my arm and flings me to the floor.
Thorne gives it some kind of confirmation in that language and it eases into my face.
The stench is overwhelming and I’ve pressed myself so far into the wall beside my bed that I might as well be a crack in it.
It’s the necklace of eyeballs, though, around its neck that threatens to extract my stomach contents.
I’ve only heard of these things; they were chased to near extinction five decades ago.
“You can’t be serious, Thorne!” I exclaim as it pushes its deformed and dripping nose against my neck.
I squirm away from its slimy looking fingers and stab one of the arrows into its hip.
I wonder briefly why his fingers are slimy if nothing else is.
Ew. It chortles and giggles at me as Thorne watches on in cruel disinterest. He tugs on a silver ring in his earlobe as if bored. Asshole.
Thorne makes himself comfortable in an armchair as the Noctispecter leans over me and strokes my cheek, wholly unfazed by the arrow protruding from its hip. It can extract the thoughts about Thorne which I’ve buried. Not happening.
“Pretty soul, telling eyes, selling lies,” it sings.
The Noctispecter takes the eyes of the offender to see into their soul and Thorne is clearly not bluffing when he says, “Pity I won’t get to look into those eyes again.” He stands to leave me with the Noctispecter who is dragging me backwards by my foot, toying with me.
“Wait!!” I twist my body around and up, lodging an arrow in the creature’s grotesque face.
I smirk when it stumbles back on a gurgling scream.
I jump to my feet and ram the Noctispecter into a wall, my third arrow finding its heart.
If it had eyes, I would relish the life leaving them as it slumps, its dark blue blood staining my hand.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I pant as I turn to Thorne. He wears a smug smile and crosses his arms.
Thorne snaps his fingers as he speaks the ‘be gone’ spell: “Veylith.”
The creature disappears from the room with a dying squeal, the sound of its chains clanking together. Fortunately, its blood goes with it. If only that spell worked on people instead of summoned creatures.
“You’re sick!” I snap and spit at Thorne who steps back from it.
“Really? You’re resorting to spitting now? I really prefer that in a more intimate setting,” he smirks mischievously.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And this and this and this,” he waves all my complaints off. “Tell me the truth, Serpent.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Do you know why you’re forced to kill for Netherhelm?”
He says nothing, only narrows his eyes on me before dropping into an arm chair.
“Can you even tell me what binds you to Netherhelm? Why you can’t leave?”
“My father… Dreven, willed it so,” he answers simply.
“Binding magic isn’t that simple. I think you know that,” I shake my head.
“He’s the King,” he reasons.
“Let’s go with that for a minute. Why doesn’t he want you to leave?”
He thinks for a moment and drops his head. Cool realization settles over his sculpted face.
“Because of my true sire, he didn’t want me to find out,” he admits.
“So how did he bind you to Netherhelm?” I push him. I’m pacing but I don’t care.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be answering questions! Not me!” He bellows and slams his hand on the arm rest, but he makes no move towards me. He’s spiraling but isn’t going to hurt me now that I’m talking.
“Fine. I’ll keep it simple. Your curse to Netherhelm is bound by the Titan’s Kyanite.
Your mother, may Xeusis keep her, has decided that I must free you of it, ” I place a hand on either arm of the chair to lean into him.
“After she so kindly undid my mistake of killing you by giving you her life force, I can’t exactly ignore her wishes. ”
“The Titan’s Kyanite?” Is all he asks. He raises his eyes to meet mine.
“That Kyanite powers the magic currently keeping you in line and preventing you from defending yourself against them,” I tell him.
“Observant, Serpent,” he lets a lazy grin slip. I can smell him this close, the air charging. He’s showered in the past few hours, as have I, but neither of us has slept. Neither of us breaks eye contact.
“I’m willing to bet that chain siphons magic directly to the Titan’s Kyanite,” I reach up and trace the loop at the center of his throat. “It stifles you; it traps you.” The collar doesn’t swim with dark magic right now, merely appearing to be a simple chain at the moment.
“And you know where it is?”
“Yes,” I whisper. He grips my wrist, the glove serving no purpose for me.
Seventh antechamber below the library.
“Are you afraid to touch me, Serpent?” He leans up in the chair and I concede by crouching in front of him so we are on the same level.
“No,” I lie. I’m afraid, but only because once I start, I fear I won’t be able to stop.
“Hmm,” the sound is low and guttural in his chest. “And if I touch you?” He starts removing a glove.
“It should scare me,” I shudder to recall what his touch can do. A smirk tugs at the side of his lips. I’m so aware that the man before me is spiraling mentally. He’s angry, grief stricken, and has no one he trusts.
“So this…” He drops the glove with aching slowness, placing a hand on my bare chest.
“Doesn’t scare me.”
It’s a lie. I’m terrified. Just not of his magic.
“Your heart is pounding, Serpent,” he exhales.
I move my hands from the arms of the chair to his waist, leaning forward slightly. I squeeze, remembering the feeling of his body beneath me. His breath hitches at the contact, his fingers curling into a fist against my chest.
“Your eyes give you away, Prince,” I whisper. And they do, his pupils are blown wide, tendrils of shadow creeping in. He’s on guard; he’s scared.
“We should sleep,” he breaks eye contact. I remove my hands from his perfect narrow waist and stand, blinking him away.
He rises to his full height before me and I back away, both of us warring with parts of ourselves that we dare not voice.
“Stay—” the word leaves my mouth as he turns towards the door. I don’t know why, but it’s a plea. I don’t want him grief-stricken and puffy-eyed to return to his chambers just to sleep alone.
I expect him to lash me with his tongue, some cruel remark about asking this of him. Instead he looks at me, wounded from the past fews days and simply nods.
“I’ll take the floor,” I offer. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and looks around my room as if seeing it for the first time.
“Why offer me solace in your company only to keep your distance?” His rasps.
“I just think you shouldn’t be alone. I was not offering to jump into bed with you…” I stammer, my face reddening.
He begins to unbutton his tunic, royal blue with silver buttons.
Pale skin becomes increasingly more visible, images of his ravaged body from when I pushed him from the ravine plaguing my subconscious.
But there’s no evidence of his death now, just perfectly smooth skin.
His eyes rake over my bare torso, leaving me feeling exposed.
More words erupt unfiltered: “I got Briar out of Netherhelm.”
Thorne furrows his brow, pulling his tunic open. Perhaps the intimacy of the moment made me think of how much he cares for her, of the possibility of the future they might have had.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely. But he offers no more information on the girl or their relationship. We need not speak of the cruelty of the king.
“Your raven…” I stall as I stand next to my bed.
“Just get in bed, Serpent,” he groans as he climbs in after folding his tunic and placing it on the table. He remains in pants and pulls my comforter up to his chest. I sigh and climb in, opting for the silk black sheet for warmth. He rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself.”
Thorne turns, giving me his back. The smooth skin reminds me of pearls, though I can’t help but think of all the scars that have healed. How horrifically his back would be marred if not for his healing magic and stubborn invincibility.
On the other side of the stained glass window, Crowley pecks at some seeds I left him.
He has a small entryway in the wall next to the casement so that he may come and go.
I know if I need him, he’s always there.
I feel Thorne also watching the bird’s silhouette through the glass.
I turn towards him, watching Crowley over his shoulder.
Then another bird lands, slightly smaller.
“Fable,” he says softly. “Her name is Fable.”
I smile at that, him giving that small piece of himself. A familiar’s name isn’t known to all, usually kept close to the chest.
“He’s Crowley,” I murmur. I resist the urge to run a hand over his back. There’s at least a foot between us in the queen-sized bed and I intend to keep it that way. I see him stifle a small laugh.
“Of course he is,” his deep voice is full of humor.