Chapter Text
“At last”
Those were the words that ran through Slaine’s mind as he felt the silver knife strike home in his gut and sink in, visceral and killing cold. Not, perhaps, what one would expect from a prideful vampire knight just defeated by a human. But Slaine was tired, so tired… he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. His other goals had withered and curled up and fallen away one by one, until the only thing left to him was the release of his final sleep.
He smiled at Kaizuka as he felt his body go limp. Perhaps the man thought it strange– Slaine didn’t really care. He was grateful to Kaizuka for this at least, for granting him rest after everything else had ended. For doing what he could not, and removing him once he became useless.
His senses went dark swiftly, so he did not feel the arms that caught him as he fell, and lowered him gently to the ground.
- ••
Slaine had not expected to wake up at all, so it wasn’t so much the silver chains binding him to the chair that surprised him as the fact that he was even alive to register the dull burn against his skin.
There were voices… someone– no, more than one person– talking. About… him?
–“dispose of this creature. It would be vastly preferable if we could, but that vampire Queen would loose her hordes upon us if we do.”
“I doubt she, the champion of the peace, would go so far– but the settlement may be more in our favor if we have her gratitude.”
“Is it not dangerous to keep it alive all the same?”
“Regardless, our hands are tied. In any case, I trust that Kaizuka will be able to handle most issues that arise.”
He almost hadn’t noticed the muzzle. He probably wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for the silver bar behind his fangs, like a bit, scorching his tongue. Once it registered, he wanted to tear the filthy thing off of his face and spit until the vile taste was gone– but he was too weak, too drained, to move. Much less overcome the effect of silver.
The place where Kaizuka had stabbed him still throbbed. Even if he had been at full strength, the silver-made wound would have been difficult to heal– and now, bound and weakened, it was far beyond him to close the gaping hole. It bled sluggishly.
He should have been dead by now. Why was he still here?
The voices hadn’t stopped. But now they died down, dragging his attention back to the words.
“Then the matter is settled. Have that thing taken away to its cage.”
They weren’t going to execute him? Why?
If he’d had the strength, and if it hadn’t been for all that damned silver, he might have fought back as they dragged him away. If he had the strength. That was beyond him now.
- ••
Inaho braced himself against the wall with one hand, rubbing futilely at his leg with the other. The pain was nearly constant now. Usually in the past, it had faded at least somewhat after a while. Before the war, and even during it.
Now, it hadn’t lessened even slightly for a fortnight.
Concealing everything– the limp, the hesitation and deliberate caution behind all his movements– from Yuki was becoming ever more difficult as it went on. He had started to become used to the steady pain, but there were moments– like this one– when the lightning wrapping his bones became too sharp to bear.
He bit back a hiss between clenched teeth.
That final fight with Troyard had been… far more than difficult. He had pushed himself to his limits– past them, even. And he had succeeded in striking that final blow.
But yet…
There had been a strange reticence in Troyard’s movements. As though the battle mattered little to him. He had left many openings, carelessly missed numerous chances to strike Inaho down.
Or rather… not “missed.” Inaho knew how Troyard fought, and that laziness was so unlike him that Inaho could only see it as intentional. Troyard had deliberately avoided chances to make fatal hits.
That left the question: why? He may have had no intention of killing Troyard, but Troyard had no way of knowing that.
A fresh lance of agony shot up his muscles, and he fell to his knees with a gasp. He beat back the impulse to collapse into a fetal curl on the ground. Instead, he pushed himself back to his feet, one hand to the wall for balance, the other fisted at his side. When he relaxed his fingers, there were new-moon crescents marked into his palm by his nails.
He could handle this. He had fought this way for long enough. He could live with it as well.
- ••
The silver cuffs where blistering his wrists. Slaine could feel it. Along with the ache across his belly from the fresh scar there, broad and raw and ridged. The wound had closed, but that was all. The blood they had given him was thin and old. Not strong enough to heal him completely. Which was, of course, why they had given it to him. They wanted him weak, in pain, subdued.
Well, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t intimately familiar with subjugation.
—Fangs sinking into his throat as he cried out and struggled, small human limbs too weak to fight off the attacker eagerly draining the blood from his body—
He closed his eyes and breathed the memory away. There was enough recent pain in him that he didn’t need to dredge up old ones. The silver would still make him feel sick and weak even if he’d been born a vampire.
The distant, faint sounds of doors opening and footsteps reached his ears. He slowly and gingerly pushed himself upright, propping himself against the cold stones of the wall. There was a moment’s respite to brace himself for the arrival of the humans. No, not “humans.” There was only one set of footsteps approaching. Were they so confident in his weakness that they were willing to approach him alone?
Well. They weren’t wrong to be confident. Slaine doubted he could even stand, much less attack and take down a trained Protector.
Wait. There was something… off about the steps approaching. The gait was… halting. Limping. Uneven. Slaine’s eyes narrowed. Weakened he might be, but who would be so foolish as to approach even a weakened vampire while injured?
The rich, heady scent of human hit his nose and his heart sped up feebly. Ridiculous, really, that his instincts would try to kick in now. They were easy to ignore, however. He’d had years of practice.
The steps finally reached the door, and keys jangled in the lock. Slaine watched the door as it opened, and–
There was Kaizuka. Just standing there. Staring down at him. Slaine bared his fangs reflexively.
“I see you’re not dead, then,” Kaizuka said with infuriating evenness.
“So, you’re going to interrogate me? Get on with it already.”
“There will not be any interrogations.”
Slaine scrutinized that flat expression, trying to discern any hints as to why he was here. “Why keep me alive, then, if not to torture me for secrets?”
Kaizuka was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, there was something… oddly measured about his tone. “Seylum wanted you to live.”
The silver chains clinked faintly as Slaine stiffened. What? The Princess… she did not… hate him? Even after everything he had done, the battles he had fought in and later led? All the humans he had killed– and vampires too. The devastation he had wrought…
Even after all that, she still wanted him to live?
The tears were rolling down his face before he even noticed them welling in his eyes. He quickly looked away, even though it was far too late to conceal it from Kaizuka. Not that the man’s expression had changed as he stared.
Silver burned through his clothes as he wrapped his arms around himself. His belly ached, his limbs trembled with weakness, his chest shook with sobs that pushed at his ability to contain them. It wasn’t fair, he should be dead now, and yet here he was, wounded and chained and caged. Again, weak. Nothing.
Due to some vindictive malice the universe directed at him, Kaizuka was the lone witness.
He’d been deceiving himself, to ever let himself think that he could be anything more than the dirt ground beneath the boots of the strong.
His eyes flicked back to Kaizuka. He could feel the venom seething in his own gaze. “So,” he spat, “enjoy watching your enemy brought low?” He could feel another tear trickle down his cheek even as he spoke, and bared his fangs in a fruitless attempt to counteract it.
Kaizuka stared down at him, eye empty and cold. “No.”
That was all. No inflection, no mocking, no gloating. “Isn’t that just wonderful of you,” he hissed. “Why are you even here?” Slaine shot to his feet in one smooth motion, hitting the end of his chains with a jarring chaos of metal-on-metal.
Kaizuka twitched back slightly, but the satisfaction was crushed under a wave of agony from his abdomen. He collapsed to the ground. Curling in on himself, Slaine wrapped his arms around his belly. The pain dulled slowly, in surges, each one leaving him barely the time to catch a breath.
The trembling had worsened. His fangs pricked at his lip, and the burning in his parched throat clawed at him. He raised his head to aim a burning glare at Kaizuka. “I’m happy I took your eye,” he seethed.
“No blood will be sent today,” Kaizuka said, and left without another word.
Slaine relaxed slowly from his tormented curl, stones cold against his bones. He let his forehead loll to rest on the floor. Blood, more thin old blood that would restore him just enough to keep him weakened. As if withholding it was a punishment.
Blood, blood, he’d never been given the choice of whether he wished to rely on it or not, but here it was: survive off of the life of others, or die. Blood, red as the roses the bloomed in the Princess’ garden. They were beautiful roses. Huge, rich and bright in color. Long, elegant stems and sharp, shapely thorns. The thorns that would prick you, if you were not careful.
Red, red roses, and deadly thorns to draw blood from pure, tender skin…
Slaine shifted restlessly. If only there was some other source of scent in this accursed place, maybe Kaizuka’s damn musk wouldn’t hang like a malignant fog. Maybe it was simply that Slaine was used to vampires, their cleaner, simpler smells… or maybe everything about Kaizuka was specifically tailored to offend him.
He would have been unsurprised if that was indeed the case.
- ••
Inaho rolled back and sprang to his feet, wooden practice sword braced and ready to block. Strands of hair stuck to his sweat-dampened forehead.
Calm recovered from his failed lunge and brought his own practice sword down in an overhead swing. The motion left his sides wide open, so Inaho darted forward, shield up to catch the blow. The impact jarred his arm as he struck for Calm’s unprotected side–
His leg gave way beneath his weight. He hit the dirt with a grunt of pain, muscle memory raising his shield to protect his face and neck. Calm did not (as he should have, in this practice match) press the advantage. Instead, he dropped his weapons and knelt by Inaho’s side.
“You alright? I’ve never seen you fall like that, what happened there?”
“I’m fine,” Inaho said tersely. He pushed himself upright, ignoring Calm’s offered hand.
His leg quivered when he put weight on it, jabbing pain striking up his muscles. He gritted his teeth. There was no escaping it; he simply was not fit for battle in this condition.