Luminous

122 - Savior (1/3)

King Alden was failing dismally at keeping Coris sane. Or perhaps, this was Freda's punishment for his lies.

For two full days steeped in the solitude of a log cabin at the forest's heart, Coris tasted the desperation of the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He now decided he'd rather shiver on the stones in his former cell atop the tower. At least he'd have wardens and guards he could observe, appraise their intelligence, and possibly exasperate.

He was reminded of the days in his nursery once the nurse had taken Zier away from his pinching claws—a crackling fire and twine-tied bundles of firewood, a table laden with hunks of cured meat, columns of bread and pies savory and sweet, a pell-mell pile of books he'd read through and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed in his pique.

No warden stood before his door. No guard prowled the cabin's perimeters. He'd only lose himself should he attempt an escape, and Alden knew Coris Hadrian was not that much of a fool.

Dawn had just broken the sky, but Coris was already up and about, lunging a fallen stick to bash everything in sight with whatever strength his bony arm had. Zier would've taken the opportunity to train, would've perfected his technique and beaten his record. Coris was just channeling excess energy from his brain. There was no rhyme nor reason to his endeavor.

A chorus of footsteps joined his own, and Coris froze mid-swing. He spun around. Three hooded figures approached from the wall of trees, likely the daily batch of guards carrying more unneeded provisions, but why this early? And why were their hands bare? Was he being moved, instead?

Coris gripped the rod tight in his sweaty hand—he wasn't allowed any weapons. His visitors drew close enough for the firelight to reach their faces. A jolt of fear sliced through his arm, and he dropped the stick with a clang.

A man with silky curtains of white-blond hair framing his square-jawed face and ocean-blue eyes glinting on ghostly white cheeks, accompanied by two burly, gray-clad knights.

Calming his ragged breaths, Coris bent his knees and retrieved his stick, unblinking eyes fixed on his old nemesis.

"How did you find this place?" he snapped. Graye's lips stretched into a benign smile of amusement as he tilted his head, answering jovially,

"You should be more worried of why."

Coris cocked an eyebrow. An ominous chill crept down his spine. He watched as Graye raised his arm and reached into the hanging mouth of his sleeve. From it he produced what appeared to be a cloth of dark, purplish red. He held it to his cheek, nuzzled his nose against it, eyes closed in bliss, a sigh rumbling in his throat as he savored its perfume.

"Fine fabric, soiled by sin," he commented as if he saw Coris's look of utter confusion. Like a beast alerted of fresh meat, his eyes snapped open, then he cast the cloth at Coris's feet. "I think you'll recognize the stench of a female in heat."

Coris glanced down. The cloth unraveled, revealing a lace trim and a curious silhouette. It was a pair of fine linen pants, similar to the set he'd bought for Meya before they departed Hyacinth, for comfort and ease of cleaning during her pregnancy. It looked disheveled and damp in the flickering light, and indeed emanated a faint yet sharp odor he was familiar with.

And yet, for Freda knew how long, he stood and stared, uncomprehending. The truth was there before his eyes, but his head seemed to be falling asleep, protecting him from its fatal blow, while his heart pounded a tattoo in his veins, desperately waking it. Memories of their last meeting invaded his stupor, Graye's offer to Meya, her anguished pleas, her fear, her despair, her desire.

No, it can't be. Impossible. She would never...

Yet, there the proof lay. Yet, he knew her greatest weakness, the void she carried in her heart always, that this man would fill with his brand of poison.

No. No. Oh, Freda. Oh, please. Anything at all. Anything but this. Please no...

The cry curdled in his throat, swelled into a scream that filled his head to burst as he lunged forth with all his might, stabbing his wooden sword straight for that gaping mouth echoing with laughter.

He'd sever that forked tongue, pound those pointed teeth to dust, rip those whispering lips hissing lies clean off his flesh and burn them to ash for every moment they dared taste her lips, her skin, her hair. He'd rub the embers in those eyes, blind them for daring to look upon her with lust, purge the memory of her unclothed body from them. He longed to tear out his nose, his ears, his fingers one by one for the same crime. Yet, all he managed was howl and kick and flail in vain, pinned by limbs like steel as his hated enemy simply watched.

Graye reached into his sleeve again, straightening the pocket within.

"Do not fret. I shall love my new wife and child as I have my old," he said serenely, then met Coris's eyes with a small smile. "Farewell, Corien."

He turned on his heel and swept away, prompting his guards to fling Coris deep into the bowels of his prison then follow in his wake. The door swung close, leaving him in the sputtering final breaths of dying flames.

Coris hooked his nails into the floorboards and dragged himself to her, what he had left of her, tears blinding him, sobs suffocating him. He pressed the soiled garment to his chest as he rolled and writhed, howling and wailing as he had never done, hoping for something, anything to cling to, a shred of hope.

For even if he could, erasing Graye from the face of this land would not satisfy him, would not bring back what was lost. For it was his own doing, his fault. He'd failed her. It was he who brought her onto this road, then failed to protect her from its dangers. The wind under her wings that lifted her so high towards the Heights, then let her plummet to the black depths of the Lake.

"Why, Meya? Why?" He called out weakly in his delirium, and an echo in his heart replied.

You know why. You know why.

Yes, I do. Yes, I do.

"Meya. Meya...!" He moaned over its scathing hiss, but she wouldn't respond to save his soul, leaving him to burn in his guilt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Meya..." He whimpered. Tears rolled down his cheeks into his ears. He was deaf to his own voice. His lips were numb and his throat parched. He couldn't be bothered to move, reach for water.

The fire gasped its last, then darkness claimed it. The cold, silent wave of the Black Lake flooded him where he lay listless, his strength spent. He held her remnants to his heart, keeping it warm and safe. The embrace he should've given her was now the most he could do, would ever do.

🐉

A/N: Sorry for ruining Christmas. Happy New Year, everyone!