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Sea-green eyes framed by dark lashes re-ran it's gaze over the page, the cursive, elegant script flowing across the multiple pages of the leather journal, illuminated only by the dim candlelight of the burning wax candle on the corner of the desk. Seated at the desk, the space behind the young Altalar was cast in complete darkness, save for the beam of moonlight that streamed in from the window situated above the desk. The young woman ran her hands through her shoulder length, crimson waves with an exhale, leaning back in the chair, which creaked in response. Grimacing at the shorter length of her locks, not of her choice, naturally. Few things ever were these days it felt, the new journal in front of her was only evidence of that, each blank page reminding her of the prior one stolen from her.
"Ah, Sparrow, look at you. You're falling apart." A smooth, velvety, familiar voice drawled somewhere behind her, rich with his Ithanian accent. She knew who it was before she needed to look. Who it was. Fen'nan squeezed her eyes closed. Not tonight, not now.
"Go away."
"You're traveling in constant circles, surely you know this. The guards, the Inquisition, they breathe on your neck, waiting. You're poking and prodding a bear that can swat you away like the fly you are." He mused, his voice nearing her as he stepped behind her, turning her head to the side just in time to watch his hand set on her shoulder. It was grey and discolored. Rotting, the ornate rings on his hand dirty and caked with dried blood. She flinched instinctively, but felt nothing. No weight, no warmth. Not real. Not real.
"Leave me, dead man."
"Did it feel good tonight, I wonder," Venalaris continued, clasping his rotten hands behind his back as he stalked around her, ornate, gold-trimmer colorful robes sliding across the wood floors, stiff with dirt and blood. "You slit the throat of a boy tonight, a young man with his life in front of him, one whom had acted only to spare you from your foolish actions, help release your anger, a wrath you will never be rid of may I add, and yet...you nearly killed him."
The redhead's gaze followed his movements, turning in her chair, shaking her head. "No. It… it was an accident," she stammered. There was an ache growing in her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The image of blood spraying flashed in her mind, but she kept her eyes closed. Sometimes if she willed her eyes shut enough, they would go away.
"Liar."
She said nothing, waiting for several silent beats before opening her eyes, but he remained. The Teledden had only paused his circling, stopping across the desk from her. The candlelight casting his tall, thin figure eerily, in shadow, snapping his head to her, his skin a haunting grey, clinging to bones, what might've been a handsome face once, was now a decaying and haunting visage, his skin pulled more taunt across his high cheekbones by the long, sleek ponytail his golden, graying hair was tied back in. "Was it?" he challenged in quiet coldness.
Dead, decorated fingers grasped her pen, boring his horrid, icy-blue gaze his way. Unwillingly, she found herself looking away. Even dead, she couldn't look him in the eye.
"I mean, why would you, no? The very same young man that helped capture you with the Crimson Lions, if it were not for him you might've never suffered that day and deep down you know. Never would've met the Peirgarten. It would've been a freak sparring accident, you thought. Were it not—"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up." Fen'nan hissed, dropping her head, pressing her hands against her ears, fingers scratching against her scalp.
He patiently waited until she quieted before he continued, not a care in the world for her rage. Her emotions. "Were it not for the Manathar you would've watched him die. Maybe reveled in it—"
Her fists slammed unto the desk, rattling her inkpot, "I would NOT have!" She roared, cutting him off.
The dead, rotting man lunged across the table, hand outstretched towards her face. Instinctively she recoiled, chair tipping over, falling back unto the floor and throwing her arms over her face to shield herself, drawing her knees to her chest. But no blows ever came, of course. Lowering her arms after a moment, shrinking back after finding him standing over her.
"You should thank me for what I made you," Venalaris murmured evenly, his features impassive as he lanky legs bent, lowering to a crouch beside her. "I turned a weak, sniffling remnant of a girl into something strong. I gave you a home, wealth, unleashed your full potential. And you repay me with death. Even now you've returned to being… barbaric." His mouth twisted into a condescending sneer.
"Strong?" Fen'nan echoed, scrambling back from him over the floor. "I've killed.. people. Innocent people. Because of you!" Icy words seared the air around them, and yet. Venalaris's face remained still, bored as he gazed at her. Why would it change? Dead men did not feel anything, after all. Not that he ever showed much alive, either.
"I did not slid the blades across their throats. There was always a choice." He replied coolly, peering to his nails.
Nails dragged up her face, palms digging into her eyes. "Shut up," she snapped, pulling her knees to her chest. "Get out of my head."
"Pray, tell me your endgame, Sparrow. They close in on you from all angles. Yet you grow more reckless still. What could you gain from this?"
Several seconds ticked by, waiting for him to quiet. For the throbbing ache in her head to lessen. But it didn't. It didn't, and she was alone. A dead father wasn't the worst company to have, right? The words that came out of her mouth were low, fueled with a quiet fury. "I will take them down if nobody else will. They can sit and wonder what they could've done to stop the conflict and ask why their world of wealth and privilege came crumbling down around them. I won't be crushed anymore. Or let them crush my friends."
"You cannot take them down, you foolish, insignificant child. Open your eyes."
Fen'nan dropped her palms from her eyes, tilting her chin up, slitting her sea-green hues at him, the candlelight dancing in her gaze, her voice a drawl. "I killed you, didn't I?"
"Ah, so you hope to murder the peerage. You are mad then."
"Death would be too kind."
He gave her a thin smile which only added to the horror of his face. "Spoken like the Peirgarten already."
Fen'nan flinched. "For mad I may be, yet never will I be convenient. There are other means of stripping the power from someone." She said coolly, "I have enough on the Peirgartens already."
"Pah! The people would never believe and they would silence you one way or another, quickly. Perhaps that man you fancy would do the deed of removing your head on Greygate's stage, William A-"
"Get OUT!" Shooting to her feet, the Minoor cut him off, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Don't speak to me of my choices when you're already in your grave. They don't control me. Nothing does." Fen'nan bent, gritting her teeth and grasping the fallen desk chair before swinging it his direction. He vanished, her rapid breaths filling the silence instead. There was a brief pause as she waited, her eyes darting about the empty room, but he was gone. Releasing a shaky exhale, she dropped the chair and turned for the door.
Venalaris loomed over her, only mere inches from her, ice-blue eyes boring into her. The young Nelfin stumbled back, gasping.
"Ah, Sadima," he murmured, lifting a solid finger before her eyes as he stepped forward, holding her attention. Slowly he moved the finger down, stopping to point it just at her own hand, twirling it in a circle in silent gesture. Hesitantly, she overturned her hand. The brand, a roaring lion upon its hind legs, stared back. The Crimson Lion sigil. Dread twisted her gut. She knew the words before he spoke them, but cringed hearing them regardless.
"You are already controlled."
Fen'nan jolted awake, eyes flying open to pure darkness as she sat up in her bed. No dead blue-gaze haunted her now, she was alone. It has been a dream. No.. a nightmare. Another one, but oddly clear. She exhaled shakily, bringing her knees to her chest, pressing her face into her hands, releasing a long breath to calm her nerves. Slowly, she drew her hands away from her face, her eyes running over the scar in her palm. The Crimson Lion. If she stared at it long enough, she could almost feel the dirge slicing through her skin again. Her palm tingled.
The Minoor's jaw set, features tightening, and she closed a fist over the scar as she eased herself back to lean against the wall, listening to the slowly calming beat of her heart. She spoke out in the oppressive silence, her words soft, yet fierce in its entirety.
"No...I am not."
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