BlackRosespart3KissOfDarkness

He felt the dampness of the cool earth beneath his knees as he sat there alone among the trees, the sound of nature filling his ears like a curse. He cast his eyes along the waters edge searching for anyone who might have been spared from his murderous onslaught.

His heart dropped violently when he found no one, not a single living being had been left standing. Man woman or child, it apparently hadn't mattered in his madness. He had killed them all, ripped through their flesh with the steel of his blade.

He had ignored their begging words, slaughtered children as their mother's cries had rang in his ears, smiled as their fists had slammed into his flesh, an annoyance or an amusement he couldn't have been sure, he had seemed to feel both simultaneously.

Then he had proceeded to gut their husbands with more pleasure than he would have ever thought possible. It was a task that had seemed far too easy, like slicing through butter on a warm summer day. He hadn't even broken a sweat as he'd moved through the small village, leaving nothing but blood sodden ground in his wake.

Shouldn't killing someone take more effort? Did life really slip away in the blink of an eye like that? No hoopla, or trumpets, just lots of blood, tears and screaming.

He had turned on the wailing women in the end, systematically killing them all, the fighters, the ones who ran, the ones who hid, even the ones who'd begged for either themselves or their child. He hadn't granted any mercy, had in fact played with them like toys letting them believe it was possible right up until the moment he stole their life away.

Damn fools! They had failed, lost their souls in vain while making him more powerful than even the gods had ever imagined.

They had been right about him, just too stupid to know how to finish the job properly and for that they had paid with not only their own lives but also with the lives of every living thing they cared about.

Damian's fingers moved forward unsteadily to grip the torn shirt of the boy that lay before him. His small face was peppered heavily in his own blood; so serene he looked lying there. Like an angel called forth from the heavens.

The soft curve of his chin and the high elegant cheekbones made him appear younger than he actually was and that dusty blond hair with just enough color that it couldn't have been called white, oh yes, he was indeed beautiful, that is if a boy could be referred to as beautiful. Perhaps if he were still alive he would have taken offence at such a term used to describe him.

But that didn't matter now did it? He was gone to the living world forever, ripped away from it painfully slow because he had been unfortunate enough to be the last survivor in this small village.

He could still hear the boy's screams, his own taunting voice as he said foul hateful things to one who was barely past his fourteenth year.

He had done things to that pale flesh, marred it, ripped through it and swallowed his screams like honey-laden wine all the while.

What hurt the most was that Daniel remembered this boy. He was one of Antonio's youngest sons, his name was Shining Moon, an artist if he recalled correctly. A bright happy kid with stormy gray eyes and a gift for telling long winded stories.

He'd meet him a few months back when Antonio had stayed with them. Instantly taking a liking to the boy, Daniel had spent two days hanging on every word he had spoken. Interested beyond words by his frivolous tales of hunts and overly exaggerated descriptions of waterfalls that lay just beyond his home.

He doubted he'd ever forget that smooth crystalline voice, the way that he had smiled, with all the softness of an angel.

Yet none of this had mattered, in fact it had sweetened the game considerably for the Dark beast that lay inside his flesh.

He pulled the boy into his arms, cradled his limp body protectively to his chest and began to rock him gently back and forth, he couldn't have explained why; it was more of a comfort to himself than anything and yet that in itself seemed disturbing enough.

He'd been responsible for this, the lifeless body in his arms owed its fate to none other than him.

And despite this fact, he still fully intended to track down their white messiah and return the favor, listen with pleasure as the stakes were pounded through his flesh, revel in the sounds of bones being snapped and cries being smothered behind clenched teeth.

Purification by pain, what fools they were to give him the keys to hell, show him its secrets and allow him to master its vice.

The things that were in his head, suddenly like the soft caress of wind, they seemed to sneak up and settle in before he could stop them. A poison that was changing him, manipulating him in ways that twisted up his thoughts and made him become the beast.

'Lost from reality, far from what the world calls sanity, this truth shall set you free. For the mad answer to no one, not even the gods'. He could hear this darkness inside him, whispering, promising, torturing, and soothing, all the while its amusement growing thicker.

Evil? Perhaps, it was really the only word that could be used to describe this thing he had done.

And yet they had struck at him first, hammered their way through his flesh with stakes made of immortal metals shattering bones like twigs in the process, used blessed leathers to tear away his flesh even as they had forced bitter drinks and unrecognizable blessings upon him.

The most twisted thing was that they had listened all the while they had tortured him just to see if he'd scream. It had been some kind of proof for them that he hadn't uttered a word, had never begged for the pain to stop or even to be allowed to die.

For a split second he relived his death, like a jolt of lightning it ripped through his chest and for an instant he could feel those warm lips against his own, taste his own blood on the lips of another.

He remembered how it felt as his breath begun to slip away like the ghost he could already feel himself becoming. He could still taste it, the sorrow of another. He doubted he'd ever forget the salty sweetness of the other boy's tears as they had rolled down upon his lips, so pure and honest.

He had cradled his face as they were pulling him away, had apologized with a voice full of agony.

He had felt the sword pierce his flesh, almost as if it had been in slow motion, sliding upward underneath his ribs and into his heart with deadly precision, felt the choking sensation threaten to overtake him as the blood had risen upward filling his air ways.

Even before the blade had retreated from his body the blood had started to flow from the corner of his mouth, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord. Voices and screams had faded into oblivion.

And there in the darkness he had been born again, into rage and hatred as thick as tar, to emotions so massive that no mere immortal could understand them.

A jumble of chaos flooded his mind, memories of a past that were not his own threatened to rip apart what little sanity he had left.

As they faded into oblivion he felt the world close in on him, the cold dampness that surrounded his body like a glove, the bite of fall air against his flesh.

He still wore only the simple drawstring pants, remnants of paint still clung to the fabric. His feet and chest were entirely bare except for the blood that had dried there, leaving his body feeling sticky.

He was also immortal, which meant that he was alone. There was no way under the stars that his people would accept a child as their prince. If he went back he'd not only have to give up his title but surrender his will to another and there was just no way in hell that was going to happen.

They'd be coming for him soon; he could feel it in his gut, his own people, some of them with intentions to kill him, others looking to lay claim to his body. And these warriors would be packing a lot more than these people had been. Many having skills that far surpassed his own.

He stood, stumbling slightly with the weight of his burden before gaining his footing. The strength from his rage had fled making him feel weak and tired. He wasn't entirely sure where to go from here, he only knew that this world, even this life was now a stranger to him.

He'd take it one step at a time, deal with only as much as he could and let fate have her wicked way with him. There really was no other choice unless he allowed himself to slip back into that darkness, the one that left only blood in its wake.

He laid the boy down on a nearby craftsman's table, he'd bury him later. He would have liked to bury them all but that just wouldn't be possible he didn't plan on being in this place for that long.

He touched his face lightly before setting himself toward his first task, he'd need weapons, travel gear and clothing, and this village could supply all of that. The idea of stealing from the dead was disturbing but he'd already done much worse so in the end what did it matter?

It wasn't long before he'd collected enough to suit his needs, he'd be traveling light, across the white sands and into the forgotten lands, a place so full of evil that that even the dark immortals avoided it like the plague. He wouldn't need much, and to take more than he required seemed like blasphemy, but blasphemy to whom? It was almost a joke, that he could in some way commit a worse sin than he already had.

But it was about balance now wasn't it? No longer would it be a struggle, what he had become could not be changed and fighting against it would do him no good.

He laid his newly acquired clothes beside the river, stripped and then ignoring the late evening chill that had settled over the lake dove in, washing away the blood and grime that had become his second skin. It wasn't in anyway related to pleasure; his only concern was washing away the stench of too much blood.

Pulling himself from the water he snatched up the pair of newly made leather pants he'd retrieved from a local leather worker's shop. It had taken a bit of an effort to get into the item considering he was still wet from his bath.

That's when he'd noticed the small round scars on his wrists, had stopped to examine them right before bending to find identical ones on his ankles, everything else had seemed to have healed. It must have been the immortal metal that they'd used to affix him to their crude cross.

He raised his hands to his hair, wrung out the excess water and began to comb through it with loose fingers. The knots pulled free easily his hair falling down in rivulets of what felt like cool liquid silk, this thing had affected every part of him, strengthening those things that were natural while awakening bits of him that had till this time lay dormant inside his body.

He felt so different; almost as if he had become a different person during his encounter with death and even though he couldn't remember exactly what he had experienced inside the spirit world he knew that it had been far worse than the crucifixion had been, flashes of fire and memories of unearthly pain ripping through his body was enough to make him shiver involuntarily.

He had been in that place for far longer than three days, he remembered reading somewhere that time in the spiritual realm moved differently than in the breathing world. Perhaps that's why he got the sense he had been there for decades, maybe even longer----

Enough, he refused to think about it. It was over and he had other things to deal with at the moment.

He felt the presence of another before he had actually heard the sound of his approaching footsteps. Damian didn't bother to look up, he already knew who it was. He wasn't sure how but he'd have known this person anywhere. "What are you doing here?" he asked casually as if it mattered nothing to him. Yet the truth was it might have well been one of the most important things he'd ever asked anyone but damned if he'd show it.

"Looking for you. I heard you came back. I wanted to make sure you were alright." Simple and honest, it was almost too funny. He'd have laughed outright if he hadn't been afraid the other boy would leave.

"Really, some might say that was mighty poor judgment. Hasn't it occurred to you that I might kill you?" Why the hell had he said that? It came out like a threat and it wasn't, not really. He didn't know what it was but it certainly wasn't a threat. This was the only person who'd cared about his pain, who'd acknowledged it. He hadn't meant to sound so judgmental of his being here but still it was stupid. Even Damian himself couldn't be sure what he'd do.

"Well, it occurred to me since I'm not an idiot. But I'm not known for my flawless judgment either. It was more important to me, to talk to you. If you kill me for it so be it."

He could have kissed the guy, he wasn't going to leave at least not yet. "I'm tired right now, maybe I'll kill you later." Damned if he understood where these casual and careless words were coming from, spilling out of his mouth like he was some spoiled prince who was used to having all things his way.

"Maybe you will. But what can I do for you now? What will you LET me do?" De shifted slightly allowing his eyes rise up to the other boy's face. Take in his expression for the first time.

"Could you help me bury Shining Moon, I don't really know anything about your customs, I wouldn't wanta send on his way into the spirit world without any direction it's a pretty nasty place to be lost in----" Now why the hell had that came out like that, wistful and sad. God, if he didn't get a grip soon he'd lose it totally.

After a few seconds of deep thought the other boy spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'll help you do this." Had he heard a slight quiver in that flawless voice?

"What's your name anyway?" When he didn't answer instantly De sighed. "That's okay you don't have to----"

"It's Rhion, Rhion Emrys Gwydion of House Carlonday, younger brother of Antonio Jelonas Carlonday, Arms Leader of Axe and Steel of the Carlonday House." Oh god, how much had he seen? What he'd done to that boy----

"He was your blood then." Had his voice really sounded so emotionless? "Seems 'proper' that you should be his guide then." It sounded like he didn't give a damn. Why the hell couldn't he bring himself far enough forward to express on some level that he was sorry, apologize to this person whom he'd just robbed of a nephew.

Instead he grabbed up his shirt, pitching it carelessly over his shoulder as he walked past Rhion to the edge of the table snatching up some of his earlier acquisitions. He wasted no time in systematically peeling away the boy's barely existent clothing, something that had also been his doing. Why? Why had he raped the boy and not just killed him?

He washed and then dressed the boy silently, knowing full well that Rhion's eyes were drilling into his back as he worked. He had waited, almost prayed that he'd draw his weapon and plant it in his unguarded back. It would have been a relief to be librated from this world and yet it frightened him because on some level he knew what others didn't, exactly what burning in hell felt like.

He'd have let Rhion kill him, he didn't know why but he could have let the other boy do it, would have welcomed the slide of his blade. This was something he'd have allowed no one else on the planet to do.

He scooped the still limp boy up from the table, turned a little surprised that Rhion was almost directly behind him. The larger boy took the burden from him with a quiet gentleness. He didn't even try to hide the sorrow in his expression, and that look somehow struck him as nothing else in the entire experience had done.

"He was a chatterbox," Rhion remarked, almost casually. "I asked him to shut up too many times to count. And so we learn, never to wish for such things. To hear his voice would only please me now; I'd beg for one of his stupid stories, by the gods!"

Then Rhion disappeared into the growing darkness. Damian stood quietly, not sure what the other boy was doing, to show grief. Fairly certain that whatever was happening, he should not interfere.

Then, there was a soft voice in his ear. How the hell had the bastard managed to sneak upon him? He shouldn't have been able to.

"Come with me? We send him to Valhalla now. Even though he was young and never fought, I think the gods will welcome him. And I worship in the old way----if you dislike it, you needn't join me. But I would welcome your presence. The boy had few friends. He could be annoying."

He couldn't do anything but nod. What was he supposed to say? Oh it's the least I can do after raping and killing him, oh yeah that would have sounded perfect.

No, he'd just keep his mouth shut, send Shining Moon to his gods and then put as much distance between him and this place as he could manage.

He almost dreaded the thought of losing his newfound company even though he couldn't understand why this Rhion hadn't exploded on him, with either words or actions. He seemingly had just accepted the events as they had unfolded and was dealing but that didn't explain why he had responded as he had to Damian.

Nothing else made any sense. As far as De was concerned he deserved to die, surely this boy saw the logic in that now, after this?

Whatever happened, so be it, if this boy wanted his life he could have it, he'd give it freely.

With that he simply turned and followed wondering for a brief moment if this was going to turn all weepy or something, he hated depressing shit like that, was in no mood to deal with any of that at the moment. It'd just bring his whole god damned day down, like it wasn't already low enough.



	Kiss of Darkness He felt the dampness of the cool earth beneath his knees as he sat there alone among the trees, the sound of nature filling his ears like a curse. He cast his eyes along the waters edge searching for anyone who might have been spared from his murderous onslaught. His heart dropped violently when he found no one, not a single living being had been left standing. Man woman or child, it apparently hadn't mattered in his madness. He had killed them all, ripped through their flesh with the steel of his blade. He had ignored their begging words, slaughtered children as their mother's cries had rang in his ears, smiled as their fists had slammed into his flesh, an annoyance or an amusement he couldn't have been sure, he had seemed to feel both simultaneously. Then he had proceeded to gut their husbands with more pleasure than he would have ever thought possible. It was a task that had seemed far too easy, like slicing through butter on a warm summer day. He hadn't even broken a sweat as he'd moved through the small village, leaving nothing but blood sodden ground in his wake. Shouldn't killing someone take more effort? Did life really slip away in the blink of an eye like that? No hoopla, or trumpets, just lots of blood, tears and screaming. He had turned on the wailing women in the end, systematically killing them all, the fighters, the ones who ran, the ones who hid, even the ones who'd begged for either themselves or their child. He hadn't granted any mercy, had in fact played with them like toys letting them believe it was possible right up until the moment he stole their life away. And to think, they always looked so shocked when the end had come. He was a monster, a cold-blooded killer. Worse than that, he was no longer human. All those white counsel warriors prepared to lose their souls to destroy the likes of him. Damn fools! They had failed, lost their souls in vain while making him more powerful than even the gods had ever imagined. They had been right about him, just too stupid to know how to finish the job properly and for that they had paid with not only their own lives but also with the lives of every living thing they cared about. Damian's fingers moved forward unsteadily to grip the torn shirt of the boy that lay before him. His small face was peppered heavily in his own blood; so serene he looked lying there. Like an angel called forth from the heavens. Had he looked that way, surely not? The soft curve of his chin and the high elegant cheekbones made him appear younger than he actually was and that dusty blond hair with just enough color that it couldn't have been called white, oh yes, he was indeed beautiful, that is if a boy could be referred to as beautiful. Perhaps if he were still alive he would have taken offence at such a term used to describe him. But that didn't matter now did it? He was gone to the living world forever, ripped away from it painfully slow because he had been unfortunate enough to be the last survivor in this small village. He could still hear the boy's screams, his own taunting voice as he said foul hateful things to one who was barely past his fourteenth year. He had done things to that pale flesh, marred it, ripped through it and swallowed his screams like honey-laden wine all the while. He had enjoyed it. He had been sickened by it. What hurt the most was that Daniel remembered this boy. He was one of Antonio's youngest sons, his name was Shining Moon, an artist if he recalled correctly. A bright happy kid with stormy gray eyes and a gift for telling long winded stories. He'd meet him a few months back when Antonio had stayed with them. Instantly taking a liking to the boy, Daniel had spent two days hanging on every word he had spoken. Interested beyond words by his frivolous tales of hunts and overly exaggerated descriptions of waterfalls that lay just beyond his home. Nothing could have been as beautiful as he had described it. He doubted he'd ever forget that smooth crystalline voice, the way that he had smiled, with all the softness of an angel. Yet none of this had mattered, in fact it had sweetened the game considerably for the Dark beast that lay inside his flesh. He pulled the boy into his arms, cradled his limp body protectively to his chest and began to rock him gently back and forth, he couldn't have explained why; it was more of a comfort to himself than anything and yet that in itself seemed disturbing enough. He'd been responsible for this, the lifeless body in his arms owed its fate to none other than him. For this he was sorry. For all of this he was sorry. And despite this fact, he still fully intended to track down their white messiah and return the favor, listen with pleasure as the stakes were pounded through his flesh, revel in the sounds of bones being snapped and cries being smothered behind clenched teeth. Purification by pain, what fools they were to give him the keys to hell, show him its secrets and allow him to master its vice. The things that were in his head, suddenly like the soft caress of wind, they seemed to sneak up and settle in before he could stop them. A poison that was changing him, manipulating him in ways that twisted up his thoughts and made him become the beast. 'Lost from reality, far from what the world calls sanity, this truth shall set you free. For the mad answer to no one, not even the gods'. He could hear this darkness inside him, whispering, promising, torturing, and soothing, all the while its amusement growing thicker. Evil? Perhaps, it was really the only word that could be used to describe this thing he had done. And yet they had struck at him first, hammered their way through his flesh with stakes made of immortal metals shattering bones like twigs in the process, used blessed leathers to tear away his flesh even as they had forced bitter drinks and unrecognizable blessings upon him. All this had been done, not in private but as a spectacle for all to witness. The most twisted thing was that they had listened all the while they had tortured him just to see if he'd scream. It had been some kind of proof for them that he hadn't uttered a word, had never begged for the pain to stop or even to be allowed to die. What good would it have done? They'd have never listened anyway. For a split second he relived his death, like a jolt of lightning it ripped through his chest and for an instant he could feel those warm lips against his own, taste his own blood on the lips of another. He remembered how it felt as his breath begun to slip away like the ghost he could already feel himself becoming. He could still taste it, the sorrow of another. He doubted he'd ever forget the salty sweetness of the other boy's tears as they had rolled down upon his lips, so pure and honest. He had cradled his face as they were pulling him away, had apologized with a voice full of agony. That had been his last mortal memory. He had felt the sword pierce his flesh, almost as if it had been in slow motion, sliding upward underneath his ribs and into his heart with deadly precision, felt the choking sensation threaten to overtake him as the blood had risen upward filling his air ways. Even before the blade had retreated from his body the blood had started to flow from the corner of his mouth, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord. Voices and screams had faded into oblivion. And there in the darkness he had been born again, into rage and hatred as thick as tar, to emotions so massive that no mere immortal could understand them. A jumble of chaos flooded his mind, memories of a past that were not his own threatened to rip apart what little sanity he had left. As they faded into oblivion he felt the world close in on him, the cold dampness that surrounded his body like a glove, the bite of fall air against his flesh. He still wore only the simple drawstring pants, remnants of paint still clung to the fabric. His feet and chest were entirely bare except for the blood that had dried there, leaving his body feeling sticky. He was a mess! He was also immortal, which meant that he was alone. There was no way under the stars that his people would accept a child as their prince. If he went back he'd not only have to give up his title but surrender his will to another and there was just no way in hell that was going to happen. They'd be coming for him soon; he could feel it in his gut, his own people, some of them with intentions to kill him, others looking to lay claim to his body. And these warriors would be packing a lot more than these people had been. Many having skills that far surpassed his own. He stood, stumbling slightly with the weight of his burden before gaining his footing. The strength from his rage had fled making him feel weak and tired. He wasn't entirely sure where to go from here, he only knew that this world, even this life was now a stranger to him. He'd take it one step at a time, deal with only as much as he could and let fate have her wicked way with him. There really was no other choice unless he allowed himself to slip back into that darkness, the one that left only blood in its wake. He laid the boy down on a nearby craftsman's table, he'd bury him later. He would have liked to bury them all but that just wouldn't be possible he didn't plan on being in this place for that long. He touched his face lightly before setting himself toward his first task, he'd need weapons, travel gear and clothing, and this village could supply all of that. The idea of stealing from the dead was disturbing but he'd already done much worse so in the end what did it matter? It wasn't long before he'd collected enough to suit his needs, he'd be traveling light, across the white sands and into the forgotten lands, a place so full of evil that that even the dark immortals avoided it like the plague. He wouldn't need much, and to take more than he required seemed like blasphemy, but blasphemy to whom? It was almost a joke, that he could in some way commit a worse sin than he already had. But it was about balance now wasn't it? No longer would it be a struggle, what he had become could not be changed and fighting against it would do him no good. He laid his newly acquired clothes beside the river, stripped and then ignoring the late evening chill that had settled over the lake dove in, washing away the blood and grime that had become his second skin. It wasn't in anyway related to pleasure; his only concern was washing away the stench of too much blood. His mind blissfully blank as he focused on the need to complete his self allotted tasks. Pulling himself from the water he snatched up the pair of newly made leather pants he'd retrieved from a local leather worker's shop. It had taken a bit of an effort to get into the item considering he was still wet from his bath. That's when he'd noticed the small round scars on his wrists, had stopped to examine them right before bending to find identical ones on his ankles, everything else had seemed to have healed. It must have been the immortal metal that they'd used to affix him to their crude cross. So he'd have something to remember this by, it was almost laughable. He raised his hands to his hair, wrung out the excess water and began to comb through it with loose fingers. The knots pulled free easily his hair falling down in rivulets of what felt like cool liquid silk, this thing had affected every part of him, strengthening those things that were natural while awakening bits of him that had till this time lay dormant inside his body. He felt so different; almost as if he had become a different person during his encounter with death and even though he couldn't remember exactly what he had experienced inside the spirit world he knew that it had been far worse than the crucifixion had been, flashes of fire and memories of unearthly pain ripping through his body was enough to make him shiver involuntarily. He had been in that place for far longer than three days, he remembered reading somewhere that time in the spiritual realm moved differently than in the breathing world. Perhaps that's why he got the sense he had been there for decades, maybe even longer---- Enough, he refused to think about it. It was over and he had other things to deal with at the moment. He felt the presence of another before he had actually heard the sound of his approaching footsteps. Damian didn't bother to look up, he already knew who it was. He wasn't sure how but he'd have known this person anywhere. "What are you doing here?" he asked casually as if it mattered nothing to him. Yet the truth was it might have well been one of the most important things he'd ever asked anyone but damned if he'd show it. "Looking for you. I heard you came back. I wanted to make sure you were alright." Simple and honest, it was almost too funny. He'd have laughed outright if he hadn't been afraid the other boy would leave. "Really, some might say that was mighty poor judgment. Hasn't it occurred to you that I might kill you?" Why the hell had he said that? It came out like a threat and it wasn't, not really. He didn't know what it was but it certainly wasn't a threat. This was the only person who'd cared about his pain, who'd acknowledged it. He hadn't meant to sound so judgmental of his being here but still it was stupid. Even Damian himself couldn't be sure what he'd do. The fool should have run, or at the very least killed him while he'd been distracted. But if he was here, with him, he might as well stay, for a little while anyway. Gods above he was confused! "Well, it occurred to me since I'm not an idiot. But I'm not known for my flawless judgment either. It was more important to me, to talk to you. If you kill me for it so be it." He could have kissed the guy, he wasn't going to leave at least not yet. "I'm tired right now, maybe I'll kill you later." Damned if he understood where these casual and careless words were coming from, spilling out of his mouth like he was some spoiled prince who was used to having all things his way. "Maybe you will. But what can I do for you now? What will you LET me do?" De shifted slightly allowing his eyes rise up to the other boy's face. Take in his expression for the first time. "Could you help me bury Shining Moon, I don't really know anything about your customs, I wouldn't wanta send on his way into the spirit world without any direction it's a pretty nasty place to be lost in----" Now why the hell had that came out like that, wistful and sad. God, if he didn't get a grip soon he'd lose it totally. After a few seconds of deep thought the other boy spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'll help you do this." Had he heard a slight quiver in that flawless voice? "What's your name anyway?" When he didn't answer instantly De sighed. "That's okay you don't have to----" "It's Rhion, Rhion Emrys Gwydion of House Carlonday, younger brother of Antonio Jelonas Carlonday, Arms Leader of Axe and Steel of the Carlonday House." Oh god, how much had he seen? What he'd done to that boy---- "He was your blood then." Had his voice really sounded so emotionless? "Seems 'proper' that you should be his guide then." It sounded like he didn't give a damn. Why the hell couldn't he bring himself far enough forward to express on some level that he was sorry, apologize to this person whom he'd just robbed of a nephew. Instead he grabbed up his shirt, pitching it carelessly over his shoulder as he walked past Rhion to the edge of the table snatching up some of his earlier acquisitions. He wasted no time in systematically peeling away the boy's barely existent clothing, something that had also been his doing. Why? Why had he raped the boy and not just killed him? Because he was a monster. He washed and then dressed the boy silently, knowing full well that Rhion's eyes were drilling into his back as he worked. He had waited, almost prayed that he'd draw his weapon and plant it in his unguarded back. It would have been a relief to be librated from this world and yet it frightened him because on some level he knew what others didn't, exactly what burning in hell felt like. He'd have let Rhion kill him, he didn't know why but he could have let the other boy do it, would have welcomed the slide of his blade. This was something he'd have allowed no one else on the planet to do. However his prayers went unanswered, the blade he desired never came. He scooped the still limp boy up from the table, turned a little surprised that Rhion was almost directly behind him. The larger boy took the burden from him with a quiet gentleness. He didn't even try to hide the sorrow in his expression, and that look somehow struck him as nothing else in the entire experience had done. Oh god how could he deal with this! "He was a chatterbox," Rhion remarked, almost casually. "I asked him to shut up too many times to count. And so we learn, never to wish for such things. To hear his voice would only please me now; I'd beg for one of his stupid stories, by the gods!" Then Rhion disappeared into the growing darkness. Damian stood quietly, not sure what the other boy was doing, to show grief. Fairly certain that whatever was happening, he should not interfere. Then, there was a soft voice in his ear. How the hell had the bastard managed to sneak upon him? He shouldn't have been able to. "Come with me? We send him to Valhalla now. Even though he was young and never fought, I think the gods will welcome him. And I worship in the old way----if you dislike it, you needn't join me. But I would welcome your presence. The boy had few friends. He could be annoying." He couldn't do anything but nod. What was he supposed to say? Oh it's the least I can do after raping and killing him, oh yeah that would have sounded perfect. No, he'd just keep his mouth shut, send Shining Moon to his gods and then put as much distance between him and this place as he could manage. He almost dreaded the thought of losing his newfound company even though he couldn't understand why this Rhion hadn't exploded on him, with either words or actions. He seemingly had just accepted the events as they had unfolded and was dealing but that didn't explain why he had responded as he had to Damian. Perhaps it was a game; he was waiting to take his revenge? Nothing else made any sense. As far as De was concerned he deserved to die, surely this boy saw the logic in that now, after this? Whatever happened, so be it, if this boy wanted his life he could have it, he'd give it freely. With that he simply turned and followed wondering for a brief moment if this was going to turn all weepy or something, he hated depressing shit like that, was in no mood to deal with any of that at the moment. It'd just bring his whole god damned day down, like it wasn't already low enough. Now hadn't that sounded selfish as hell? What in the Sheol was wrong with him? He really was a bastard, deserved whatever the fuck he got.