Bite The Hand That Feeds

The mediocre light rays of the demon sky were blinding after what seemed to be a lifetime engulfed in darkness. Just a moment after Kael emerged from the cavern entrance, his limbs gave out from beneath him, crumbling into a heap on the ground.

Without the harsh drive of frightened adrenaline, the bruises that littered across his body had begun to take their toll. Warmth carried by velvet winds beckoned him to an immediate slumber, inconsiderate of formalities and logic.

The sound of pattering shoes against the ground compelled his gaze upwards, lifting his eyeline just enough to catch a clouded picture of the pair that awaited him.

Lucian ran faster than the current of a gushing river, nimble fingers checking him over as if he were some kind of damaged goods.

“Kael! How did it–”

“Alistair. It must’ve been a younger form of him,” Kael sputtered out. As he spoke, his throat convulsed, spilling a mouthful of old blood over the rock bed. His new tool rested a little way behind him, unable to lap up its fill.

The awaiting Miria exchanged a concerned stare with the taller sorcerer, whose hand had travelled down to the small of Kael’s back. Despite the ache that spiked at the touch, reawakening the blow he’d taken from the sigil, he couldn’t bear to pull away from the comfort of a caress.

Lucian broke any internal tranquility with a petty snicker, “Alistair? And you’re still standing? Kael, there’s more to you than I thought.” Before he could reach to stop him, the noble demon drew his sleeve into a bunch, using the silk as a napkin to wipe away the drying blood that seeped down Kael’s chin.

The hero held back his gasp.

It was unimaginable to see blood wiped away on a sleeve like that, even a portion of which would cost a small fortune. Lucian really was carefree, or maybe he felt some degree of guilt for sending Kael down there in the first place.

“Worst of all, I have his old sword,” He breathed out, glaring in disdain at the discarded sabre. Of all the thousands of blades, how had he landed the most evil of all?

“What?” Miria spoke first, slipping a spherical pill into Kael’s hand as she redirected her attention to the implicated weapon. The blue orb rolled across his fingers like a marble, likely a revitalising compound she’d alchemised herself. Maybe it would be wise to question whatever could be inside, but even the most extensive of deductions highlighted the umpteen chances she’d had to poison him, and the zero times it had occurred.

“Holy shit. You have Bloodseek Blade? That is literally the coolest thing ever,” Lucian’s voice hitched as he took the fallen blade into his hand, carefully rotating it in a degree of care that appeared almost uncharacteristic. Slender fingers ran across the silver in elation, his eyes gleaming in pure, unfiltered delight.

Animosity flooded across Kael’s vision, a strange sense of fury lighting up like a blaze in a dry forest. He pressed the pill to his mouth, crunching it between his teeth to avoid the words that might escape.

When Lucian swung it round like it was nothing more than a toy, he cracked.

Kael snatched the blade away from him, shoving it into his sword sheath without care, “How can you play with it like that? What part of it is cool? It's disgusting, it absorbs people’s souls!”

Lucian’s arms fell statically to his sides, wonder fading into a muted disappointment. Dusting off his knees, he rose to feet, still gazing down at Kael.

“So what?” Lucian countered as his face scrunched a little, as if that fact meant nothing at all. That look, it was the same scholarly one from back at the tavern. Why did he always become so serious at the most irritating of times?

“So what? It’s killed people, Lucian. Hundreds of them. It’s a disgusting curse,” Kael retorted, a conceptual millipede crawling up the curved ridges of his spine, inflicting incremental shivers across his body at the thought.

“It’s no different than your previous weapons. Human sorcerers gain theirs from slaying beasts. All swords are used to kill. You still intend to only harm the evil, no? Then nothing has changed,” Lucian nudged his shoulder, as if to break the ice. His face had even managed to construct a playful smile, although seeming like a calculated consolation rather than something genuine.

Kael’s eyes narrowed, as if to look over the man opposite him in a brand new light. How could he find wonder in such an awful object? It was as if…

“What about you? How do you gain power?” Kael challenged.

A gentle fuzz began to vibrate in his stomach, whatever elements contained within the pill unleashing into his vessel. The effects were immediate albeit somewhat muted. Strong enough to ease the pangs across his back, but not enough to quite encourage him fully upright.

“What?” Lucian spoke, voice rising in intonation as the cheeky look on his face faded away.

“You heard me. How do you gain power? Do you kill your own, so long as they serve you no purpose? Do you hunt humans down for sport? Pick a few off here and there, nobody will care, right?” Kael snapped, unfiltered words spilling out of his mouth like the flowing lava from the core of a volcano.

Lucian wore an expression he’d never seen before.

In a way, he resembled a wild animal, cornered and bleeding. Pitiful eyes stared out at Kael as if he were a mouse praying for a predator’s mercy, for their judgmental jaws to passover.

Maybe Kael was too engrossed in the mind of the predator.

Lucian gritted his teeth, his mouth clenching like a vice, “Look at yourself. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re a demon too. Not a human. Never will be. You are the same as me, so go ask yourself all those stupid questions.”

An incredulous look scrambled across Kael’s features, as if he were listening to some kind of alien language.

“What? I was human before, for all of my life I’ve solely been human - at heart, I still am. My humanity still runs within me,” He reasoned in a rebuttal.

Lucian laughed - the twisted, tormented kind. Both eyebrows were firmly angled into disdain, or was it more so an angered disappointment?

“No, you only have humanity to spare towards humans. Demons like me and Miria couldn’t possibly be good, that’s why we’ve been so horrible to you, right? If you love humans that much, why don’t you go back? See how they’ll open their arms for you, see how kind they are! Your eyes are red now, no matter what is at your core, they’ll cut you down all the same.”

A heavy pouch hit Kael hard in the chest like a gut punch.

“If that’s how you view me, then fine. You’ve got your blade, here’s your money. Now you don’t need me.”

Lucian gathered up his discarded sword, gripping it so tight that it threatened to crack and tarnish. Eyes of rage glossed over in a salted coating, contained enough not to spill over. He turned on his heels and rushed off, figure obscured by the blood-stained fabric that seemed to echo his words in the wind.

The binds that dug into the flesh of Kael’s heart seemed to tighten sharper than back in the cavern, cutting deeper with every beat.

Miria sat by him wordlessly, mirroring the behaviour of a street cat. Like a pair of silent witnesses, they watched helplessly as the man faded away, as seconds of inaction ticked into minutes. In an unspoken gesture, she rescued the discarded pouch from its huddle upon the floor, tucking it into a pocket within her sleeve.

It’s not as if Lucian had meant anything special to Kael. In the grand scheme of things, this man was barely capable of being labelled an acquaintance. Between them, they shared a mere few days. Their words had been nothing beyond kind pleasantries and childish squabble - besides, there was a good chance he’d only go on to be a loose cannon.

He knew better than to mourn the absence of a stranger. Because that’s all he’s really been, right? A strange demon male that had crawled out of the shadows and elected to return there.

Kael knew all this and more, so why did he feel like the biggest jerk to grace the two realms?

When Lucian finally disappeared beyond view, an uncomfortable quiet hung low in the air.

“Yknow, demons aren't like humans,” Miria smiled weakly, “We don’t raise heroes. We may have sorcerers, but it is not for a save-others cause like you are used to. Ethics are not as imperative, not so emphasised. Think of sorcery as a well paid job.”

Kael couldn’t come up with anything meaningful to add, so chose to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he was being unfair, but wasn’t it a valid question to ask? Alistair amassed his power from cutting down any opposition, no effort was spared to hide that fact. He could get his brain around Miria, her power was surely forged in studious ventures of alchemy. But Lucian?

All Kael landed upon was an empty line. Perhaps it was better to leave him behind.

“If I am honest, I dislike Lucian. In my perspective, he has yet to outgrow the mindset of a child. Much of his behaviour is far too juvenile, and barbaric in scholastic terms,” Miria murmured, pulling at the long thread tailing from the seam of her frock.

That was no shock, from the moment the two met, it was obvious how little interest she’d taken in the man.

“But I understand his words. We may be different, but it is not so black and white.”

Kael gulped in discomfort, the conflict weighing down on him like a brandish.

“Miria, I didn’t mean to say that you–”

“Unnecessary. No offence was taken,” The woman hummed, as if to brush him off, “But you should rest. If you have bound to the blade, it will have taken a toll on your body. When it is morning, we can discuss which leads to follow next.”

The sorcerer shut his mouth once and for all, resigning his right to speak. Words had already got him in enough trouble today.

“Kael,” Miria called out, as Kael apprehensively raised his drooped head like a wilted flower.

“Try not to lose yourself in your new identity. You’re a good man. Don't forget that.”

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The steady noise of the city harbour drew Kael to its basin, hours passing by with the accompaniment of water dwelling and the distant chatter of fishermen. His legs hung over the side of the wooden deck, swinging in slow tandem with the sea breeze. Reflections of string lanterns dotted along the water surface, more prevalent as each hour ticked by and daylight faded into evening.

Crawled out from its position in his sleeve, the maple seed nestled snug in his palm. If it had eyes, the little thing might blink back at him, wide-eyed as a fawn. Time slipped away into a distant comfort, brown plant fleeting between tight finger gaps leisurely enough not to cause any damage to its tender flesh. Without really thinking, Kael launched it upwards, momentarily mesmerised by its stair-like descent through the air.

With a sigh, he tucked it back away. It seemed the little thing wasn’t quite the same as this morning.

A flash of yellow jolted the man to attention, almost abrupt enough to send him straight into the aqua abyss - the depth of which reminded him of an endless chasm, beckoning the arrival of a disgraced hero to its embrace.

The canary bird.

Unlike before, no sweet singsong fell from its beak. Two beady eyes stared straight at him, missing their usual shiny glint that ignited his impulse response to coo at the cute little thing. Not this time: today it took on the stature of a raven, looming down from its vantage point, craning its stubby head to convey its conviction.

“You’re here to scorn me too?” The man uttered in guilt, leaning back on the palms of his hands against the wooden boards.

The little creature chirped a short reply as if it really were responding, spreading out its marvelous wings to land upon the decking. Its little forked feet danced in a clumsy samba, fluttering out its wingspan with each prance and turn, earning a hearty laugh from its one-man audience.

When he offered a finger to the creature in a daring move, it scattered like a spooked flock, disappearing to the forgiving depths of the sky.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this goodbye could be overturned, or if oversight could waltz back to a new beginning.

If old words could be amended with new meanings, could the worst of himself be rewritten, redeemed? Could the ache and sting of careless words spoken ever dull, or the regrets left unvoiced ever reach their recipient?