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Post by Val on Dec 4, 2020 18:46:17 GMT
The odds of catching Destrian off guard were slim to none. He was always dressed, always prepared, always alert. The Paragon had fed on his natural sense of paranoia, specifically choosing him to become Cyra’s warden in the hopes that his inhuman self-discipline would rub off on the wild girl. Unfortunately, he didn’t treat her the way they’d hoped. He all but ignored her presence, doing only what needed to be done and nothing more. Not like Desmond, who’d become dangerously attached to his charge. The differences between the men were glaringly apparent in how they started the day. Where Destrian was wide awake, clothed in his usual all black attire from head to toe, and with a lengthy to-do list on his mind, Desmond was groggy and disorderly.
Destrian was seated at the top step of the front porch, his back to Desmond as he exited the house. He turned his head just enough to eye the man in his peripheral, taking in his disheveled appearance and the immediate complaint. “You have no discipline.” The criticism was out in the air before he could stop it, and he internally cringed at the harshness of his own voice. His intentions were to be civil, friendly even, but he struggled to overcome his prickly nature right off the bat. Deciding to try again, he inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, causing his shoulders to visibly relax, “I couldn’t sleep,” he amended, hoping the comment would come across as more relatable.
His hand sunk into his pocket restlessly, fumbling with the note that he would inevitably have to share. He pulled it out and held it in his hands, but before he could reveal it, he heard soft foot falls sounding from inside the house. Jinx slipped through the front door that had been left ajar, nearly knocking Desmond’s knees out from under him as she swept outside in a flash of inky black fur. The panther cleared the front steps in one pounce and tore across the grass, invigorated by the crisp morning air. Taking the distraction as a sign to hold off on the complicated news, Destrian kept the folded slip of paper pressed between his thumbs and forefingers.
“What are your plans for the girl?” he asked, hoping the question was innocuous enough to receive an answer. He wanted to confront Desmond about the obvious unhealthy relationship they had developed, but he figured he had no room to talk. Still, he hadn’t forgotten the signs of abuse he’d already witnessed, and part of him was worried about his control over the necromancer. The curse that linked him to Cyra gave him nearly complete control over her smoke state, but Desmond appeared to rely on a system of trust with Freya. How long would it be before that trust broke?
Finally looking back at Desmond, he made brief eye contact before gesturing to the seat beside him. He could sense the man’s unease; was it him he was afraid of, or Cyra? Either way, it didn’t matter. These people were now under his protection, and he was the farthest thing from a threat to them. He wasn’t sure Desmond saw it the same way, but he would learn over time that they needed to stick together if they wanted to survive. If Desmond refused to trust him, the naivety of the two would be their demise. They needed him.
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Post by starrea on Dec 5, 2020 1:33:42 GMT
Destrian's comment was just as unwelcome as the brisk morning air, and he shot Destrian a venomous look. "At least I stand by what I believe in," Desmond snapped, making a clear dig at Destrian's track record of fleeing when things got difficult. He had fled Paragon, apparently abandoned Cyra somewhere, and based on Paragon's information, defected from his adopted kingdom. Desmond couldn't imagine how Destrian could live with himself. The very thought of abandoning Freya was enough to make him feel physically ill. He rolled his eyes at Destrian's lame attempt to come across more hospitable; yeah, well, I obviously could sleep, asshole.
"Son of a bitch," Desmond cursed, his heart nearly stopping when he felt something warm and soft brush up against his legs. His only subsided by a fraction when he realized it was only their pet panther. He had to repress the urge to enlighten Destrian to the fact that it didn't matter how well trained that animal was, it was a predator and it was liable to attack and kill at any moment and it certainly wasn't suitable as a pet. He absentmindedly wondered how the cat was dealing with Cyra. From what he remembered about the stories passed down about her, animals seemed to be able to sense what she was, even when she looked entirely human - and from what he was told, they didn't like it. The curse gave Destrian power over Cyra's ability to shift, but Desmond wondered how the hell Destrian was able to keep the peace between Cyra, the cat, and Ari. After all, there were numerous other ways a person could commit murder without the assistance of supernatural abilities and Cyra had all the anger in the world to fuel her and none of the moral restrictions that normally prevented such heinous crimes.
Even though Desmond was just in the process of truly waking up and not nearly as put together as Destrian, he was still perceptive enough to see that something was wrong. Destrian was nervous, unusually fidgety and holding a presumably important piece of paper in his hands. Whatever it was, Desmond didn't ask. He had a feeling that whatever was on that paper was the reason for this early morning conversation and he would be enlightened soon enough.
Desmond opened his mouth, ready to confidently answer Destrian's question when he realized that he didn't have a plan beyond getting away from Paragon. He faltered, feeling foolish for not having thought about this before and scrambled to formulate a semi-sensible plan. "I... don't know. All I knew was that I had to save her, that was all I thought about," He admitted, pausing again as he started to imagine their future and his features softened, a wistful smile gracing his lips, "But Freya loves the outdoors. We'll need to be somewhere secluded, somewhere where I can protect her. She's good, but she still gets triggered. I don't want her near large communities of people, it'll be too much for her. It'll have to be just us. She loved going to the waterfall outside of the compound. Maybe we'll settle down near a waterfall. I'll have to talk to Freya, see where she wants to go. And after that... I'll take care of her, just like I've always done." It didn't matter where they settled down; Desmond knew that where ever they settled down, it would just be the two of them and that would be more than enough for them.
"What are you going to do with... her?" Desmond turned the question around on Destrian pointedly. He was hoping that now that Cyra wasn't here, wasn't involved in the conversation, Destrian wouldn't be so sensitive to hearing the hard truths. It was hard to understand why Destrian was so sensitive about the subject because from what Desmond had gathered, he had abandoned her somewhere just after fleeing Paragon - which is why they could never find her. When Destrian had surfaced without her, it was impossible to eliminate him without also denying themselves answers to questions only he could answer. He obviously didn't feel any attachment to her, not in the way Freya was Desmond's reason to live, so it was difficult to see why he would be so opposed to her death. As long as she was alive, she wasn't just a threat to the life of hundreds, if not thousands of people, but to the very structure of civilization as it was. If she so truly desired, she had the physical power to dismantle society through her sheer destruction.
Still, Desmond decided to approach the situation delicately. Even though he had fled from Paragon, he hadn't abandoned their mission; "You know that she's dangerous, and it is probably more humane to just put her down than to leave her where ever you left her last time. She obviously wants it," Desmond spoke slowly, cautiously, almost like how he spoke to Freya when he was trying to reason with her when she was wild and distraught. Maybe if Destrian had taken his job a little more seriously, he wouldn't be struggling with the guilt of considering to put Cyra down, but Desmond decided it was best not to voice that sentiment.
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Post by Val on Dec 22, 2020 0:03:39 GMT
Destrian grit his teeth, completely unmoving as he resisted the urge to counter just about every word that came out of Desmond’s mouth. He tried to remind himself that Desmond had only just freed himself from Paragon, and that his ties to them were still evidently strong. The intense and prolonged brainwashing would make it very difficult for Desmond to separate himself from the organization and form beliefs of his own, and he made it a point not to blame the man for such faults. The cult had sunk their tendrils in deep, and only time could heal the damage that had been done to each of them.
Destrian himself had been a wreck the moment he stepped foot into the real world. As an angry and hate fueled teenager, he’d thrown himself into reckless situations in an attempt to forget. It wasn’t until years later that he was recruited into the Raevaryn army, where he found comfort in the structured leadership that was all too familiar to the shadow organization he’d run from. Desmond didn’t realize it now, but he was lucky to have someone to guide him. Destrian wasn’t keen on the idea of forcing his mentorship upon Desmond, but he would if that’s what it took to get the man on his side. He’d trained soldiers before, and he’d do it again if it meant defeating his enemies.
The only sign that he was listening to the details of Desmond’s fantasy life was the slight tick of his jaw. This time he managed to stifle his criticism: You’re being naïve. Even if everything played out perfectly between the two escapees, which he doubted, Desmond’s peaceful vision would not be possible until Paragon was out of the way. The letter in his hand was proof enough of that.
It wasn’t until Cyra was brought up that Destrian’s stoic bout of silence ended. He rose from his seated position on the front steps and finally turned to face Desmond, an unmistakable warning in his dark eyes, “Didn’t I warn you not to worry about my business with Cyra?” he reminded the man, surprising himself with his restraint. More specifically, he’d promised to show Desmond a real monster the next time he brought it up. Once again, he itched to knock some sense into his new acquaintance, but violence, here and now, would only slow things down. The small slip of paper between his fingers would surely make Desmond reconsider his persistent call for euthanasia, when he realized that his precious necromancer was in the same boat.
Wordlessly, he extended the folded message out to Desmond, waiting for him to take it before he turned away. Leaning a shoulder against a porch beam, he gazed out across the dusky field that Jinx had disappeared into and sighed, “I’m sorry…but things aren’t going to be that easy.” He paused for a long moment, allowing time for the message to sink in.
Destrian had memorized the words on the page and they ran through his mind now as he thought about all that needed to be done, “I’m going to offer Cyra a choice. It’s the least I can do, after taking her choices away for so long,” he explained, though he didn’t expect Desmond to understand. It was surprisingly easy to speak his regrets into existence around this perfect stranger, but when it came time to express the same sentiments to Cyra, he always froze up.
“I am going to find this target.” It didn’t matter what Cyra chose, or what Desmond and Freya decided to do, Destrian wanted answers and whoever this person was, they were bound to fill in another piece of the puzzle. He glanced over his shoulder, this time studying Desmond’s expression to try and decipher where his head was at, “I want you to join me.” He continued before Desmond could reject the offer, “Like it or not, we need each other. If that’s the life you want, if you truly want to move on, then we need to figure this out together. All of us.”
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Post by starrea on Dec 24, 2020 21:41:58 GMT
As hard as Desmond tried, he couldn’t ignore the obvious warning in Destrian’s tone when it came to Cyra. He hadn’t anticipated caring about anything other than Freya’s freedom, and while that was undoubtedly still his number one priority, he was surprised by how compelled he felt to ensure Cyra’s termination. Now that he had seen her, witness how unhinged she was, he knew that she needed to put down. As long as she remained alive, no one was safe – including Freya. The safest option, for all of them, was to unload her onto the only organization that was designed to deal with her. It was obvious that they hated each other so Desmond really struggled to understand why he was so hesitant to hand her over. "It isn't just your business, not when you're protecting a terrorist," Desmond shot back hotly, "People who do hideous things never look like people who do hideous things. Evil doesn’t have a face. Whatever you did to her was well deserved compared to what she did to thousands of other people,” Desmond couldn’t stop, the need to get Destrian to see Cyra for who – for what – she was was consuming all sensible thought, “Under your own laws, she would be executed for what she did anyway. If you’re going to feel like shit for something you’ve done, feel like shit for taking her away from the organization that could have eliminated her as a threat from everyone.” Now wide awake and fuming, Desmond snatched the scrap of paper from Destrian. He paled, staggering back to lean against the porch railing as the reality of their situation sunk in. “No,” Desmond started, shaking his head, “I am not killing her. I didn’t escape with her just to kill her out here,” His tone of voice left no room for argument. Their future was uncertain, but there was one fact Desmond was certain of; Freya would live. He had been raised to die for his cause, and if it meant ensuring her safety, Freya was a worthy cause to die for. The situation was spiraling out of control faster than Desmond could follow. The future he had envisioned for him and Freya moments before was shattering to pieces before his eyes and Destrian was trying to replace it with a foolish mission that would only result in their deaths. “No, no. You hid her for years – from Paragon. We can go off the map, we’ll disappear, just like she did.” The idea was weak with plenty of room for error, but it was all Desmond could come up with. His desperation swirled, becoming more volatile until only anger remained. This wasn't just his fault - this was Destrian's fault too. “You need to kill her. Freya hasn’t done anything wrong, they only really care about your fucking terrorist.” Desmond snapped, his eyes blazing. It all felt like a colossal mistake – coming here, seeking Destrian out. Destrian wanted answers that Desmond couldn’t care less about, and they needed to get out before Destrian dragged them down with him.
Cyra hadn’t felt true fear. She recognized it, had seen it countless times of the faces of the people below her, but hadn’t actually felt it. There was an inherent knowing attached to the amount of power she wielded, an assertion that she was stronger than anyone else. Even forgotten and abandoned in the mountainside, she hadn’t been scared – just bitter, jaded, and enraged. Fear was for those who had something to lose, and Cyra had absolutely nothing. That being said, when a snake dropped onto Cyra’s head and shoulders from above, she screamed like a banshee. As it turned out, fear wasn’t a choice. Her body didn’t need her mind’s permission to feel fear and her breathing came out in short, panicky breaths against her authorization. She grappled for the assailant, all too aware of the frenzied way it slithered around her shoulders and down her back. Every time she managed to grab it, it thrashed and slipped through her hands. Eventually, after several terrifying seconds too long, her hands clamped down on the snake like the hand of God, unyielding to its wild, panicked thrashing. She wrenched the snake off her, finally holding it victoriously in front of her. For a split second, they stared at each other; two predators of different varieties, each equally unfond of the other. Then the snake struck. She had made the mistake of holding the snake by the midsection, giving it plenty of leeway to rear its head back and sink its fangs into her wrist. “Motherfucker!” Cyra screamed, and with a single decisive motion, she ripped the snake in two. From the strike of the snake to its demise had only been a second or two and the snake hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to pull its fangs out of Cyra. Now the head hung off Cyra’s arm limply, fangs still embedded into her arm. The body of the snake twitched for another moment but then it, too, hung listlessly from her hand. Disgusted, she flung the body of the snake away and hurriedly ripped the fangs from her arm, unconcerned that the careless motion resulted in jagged cut trailing away from the puncture wounds. She didn’t even hold the head of the snake for a second, dropping it quickly as if it burned her. The scene, however grotesque, didn’t even hold a handle to the gore and violence Cyra had initiated throughout her life. She looked down at her hands and the blood that stained them, feeling her heart race in her chest. Something unfamiliar washed over her, a sharp foreboding that there was something deeply wrong about this. Something coiled around her, tight, too tight, squeezing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. She burned for oxygen, hotter than fire, but even with her lips parted in a helpless ‘o’, relief wouldn’t come. The fire in her throat descended to her chest, burning her up from the inside until there was nothing left, nothing but fire. The pressure crushed her from all directions, making her smaller and smaller until she was sure she couldn’t get any smaller. She was wrong; an audible snapped filled the silence, then another, and the pressure coiled tighter and she got smaller.
Darkness enveloped her head, but not the sort of darkness that she was hoping for. There were two different kinds of darkness; the kind of darkness that stole all the light, and the kind of darkness that people slipped into, the one behind their eyes, right before it stole them away. This darkness was more like nighttime, like someone had snuffed out the sun. The entire time the darkness ate her, she kept waiting for the other kind of darkness to come take her away, but it never did.
Once the darkness ate her, the pressure lightened up. The air whooshed through her, putting out the fire in her chest with a single breath. The relief was so glorious that she almost was able to ignore the way her broken ribs painfully shifted with each wonderful breath.
Time was nonexistent in the darkness, but pain was constant. Every now and then, the darkness would ripple and squeeze her, shifting all the broken pieces inside of her. The darkness had broken up all her insides and they swam around inside of her like fish in a pond.
Something started to burn her. The fire that had ravaged her insides was now on the outside, scorching her skin. The pain was hot, too hot to ignore, too hot for her to continue laying there. Her body didn’t wait for her mind’s permission; she waged war on the darkness, clawing and twisting and thrashing. It resisted, squeezing her tight, shifting all the broken pieces inside of her. It tried to hold her down, push her into the heat that was eating her skin. She couldn’t stop now, she had to finish what she had started. The more she fought, the more the darkness retaliated, thrashing and slamming her down so hard it stole her breath.
There was an ugly ripping sound and her foot pushed through, erupting into the light. She squirmed, clawing at the seam in the darkness until it was big enough that she could crawl out of it. Around her, the corpse of the python still twitched as the life drained out of it and a young Cyra, twisted in ways the body wasn’t meant to twist, collapsed next to it. That is how she was born - naked and covered in blood like all babies. Fangs, poised and ready to strike. That was the first thing she saw as the world slid back into focus. Shock ignited her, The fangs were still, attached to the decapitated head of the snake she had torn in two. She couldn’t look away, not at first, not until she was sure that the snake wasn’t going to somehow reanimate and come for her. She hadn’t remembered losing consciousness, but it was evident a significant amount of time had passed. Nighttime was starting to recede, slowly being chased away by the first rays of morning. The dream lingered – but it hadn’t been a dream. On the outside, it looked like nothing short of a feverish hallucination. But this wasn’t the same; Cyra had hallucinated, had visions that were so clear, so real that she could delude herself into escaping reality for a few moments – and this wasn’t it. Even from the perspective of a small child, that snake had to be at least thirty feet long – did snakes even get that big? And the implausibility of not only being eaten by a snake but clawing her way free couldn’t be discounted. But she couldn’t have been more certain of the fact that this was a memory. She was that girl, and she had been in that snake. After spending so many years without so much as a clue to who she was or where she came from, Cyra had stopped searching for answers that she had accepted would never be found. Now that she had a clue, she was desperate for more and she pushed the periphery of the memory, trying to force the haziness to slide into focus. It didn’t work, and the more she pushed, the farther the memory seemed to sink away from her. But not all was lost; she had discovered a piece of herself that she hadn’t had before. The discovery of the memory, however insignificant, was enough to make her forget about why she had been angry enough to storm out of the house in the first place. She needed someone to tell, someone to share her good news with but the only name that came to mind was Destrian. It was slightly disheartening to realize that the only real person in her life was Destrian, but even that thought wasn’t enough to dampen the excitement of her discovery. She rolled to her feet, and without a single parting look over her shoulder towards the severed snake head, she ran back to the house. It was so hard to think straight, so distracted with all the what-ifs, that it wasn’t until Cyra was about to round the corner of the house that she heard voices and she came to an abrupt halt. “You need to kill her. Freya hasn’t done anything wrong, they only really care about your fucking terrorist.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out who Desmond was talking about and his words effectively extinguished her excitement. Every since Destrian had retrieved her from the mountain, she had found safety in the fact that she couldn’t die. Now that she was free of the crushing isolation and unforgiving environment, the last thing she wanted to do was die – but she couldn’t keep living like this, a caged monster that Destrian couldn’t look at, either. It wasn’t fucking fair. She hadn’t chosen this life – she hadn’t chosen to be what she was, hadn’t chosen to become the monster she was now. And now, after a short life of nothing but bitter fucking disappointment, Destrian finally found the balls to do what he should have done instead of abandoning her up on that mountain. It didn’t matter that she had explicitly asked him to allow her death, her heart still uncomfortably bled at the thought that after everything he had done, after he knew about all the pain he had caused, he was still going to trade her away like trash. She stumbled back a step, anger sizzling hot below the surface. Her body fought to explode outwards, in a show of sheer destruction that would remind Destrian just how small and insignificant he was, but the curse coiled around her like a snake, forcing her to stay small and human. She gasped for air as the curse tightened around her, slowly closing off her airway but she remembered the snake – the way it crushed her, made her small, and the way she clawed her way out of it – and she kept pushing. The cursed coiled around her throat, uncompromising as it cut off her airways. She didn’t yield, instead embracing the way the fire in her chest burned through her. Her show of resistance only lasted a couple of seconds; her body, despite her strong will, gave in and she collapsed to her knees, alternating between choking down air and coughing. |
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Post by Val on Jan 11, 2021 7:07:42 GMT
Destrian grew closer to his breaking point with every word of ignorance out of Desmond’s mouth. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what evil was. He knew evil; he’d bore witness to it, and he’d embodied it. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what laws governed his life; his moral compass was far more complicated than the rigid rulings of the kingdom that he no longer swore fealty to. Most of all, he didn’t need anyone telling him what he should feel. For a long time, he hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything at all, but now he had let those emotions in and was finally beginning to live with the pain of what he had done and what had been done to him. The inner turmoil churned within him, kept just beneath the surface by a thin layer of self-restraint. He appeared to zone out, distancing himself from the anger as Desmond mulled over the note and voiced his unnecessary objections. It didn’t matter what he said because Destrian’s mind was already made up; no one would be killed.
Just when he thought he might be able to contain the volatility through sheer force of will, Desmond lit the fuse all over again- this time with a fire of his own making. Destrian turned rigidly to fixate the man with a dangerous glare, looking downright predatory as thoughts of violence filled his mind. Before he could even make a move, he felt it. Cyra. He didn’t need to see her to know that she was there, and that she had heard. Her stifled explosion wracked through him, testing his control over the erratic entity as it struggled to break free. Cyra’s very presence acted as a contagion, disrupting the careful balance between the darkness and light within him. It was so easy for the darkness to spill over, tainting the light and forcing him to succumb to the evil that was so desperate to escape. That part of him suddenly wanted to release Cyra and give her the freedom to obliterate everything, if that meant he would be free of the suffocating hold of darkness for even a moment. Instead, he bottled it up and finally snapped.
Destrian lunged and gripped Desmond by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward and using the momentum to throw him clear over the front steps that led up to the porch. By the time Desmond had even hit the ground, Destrian was on top of him like an unrelenting beast upon its prey. He pinned him to the ground with the ease of someone who had performed the same maneuver on countless men in countless brawls. His eyes, endlessly dark, locked with Desmond’s. All at once, he realized that Desmond was the very embodiment of what Paragon had done to the world. He was spineless, thoughtless, and contemptuous. He was oblivious to his own naivety and the fact that not even one of the thoughts plaguing his mind actually belonged to him. He was a mere pawn in a game he couldn’t comprehend.
“I warned you,” he seethed. In the moment, Destrian was convinced that the attack was justified. Desmond deserved a bruise to match the one he’d inflicted upon the girl he claimed to care so much about. He deserved to pay for condemning Cyra to death and ruining any chance Destrian had of mending their tattered relationship. He needed to know that he was wrong. Destrian’s fist was already drawn back, tattoos aligning across his scarred knuckles as he prepared to throw a devastating punch.
Freya had awoken not long after Desmond slipped outside. It was the first time she had slept a full night at his side, surrounded by his warmth, and his absence was painfully noticeable. She longed to wake up in the safety of his arms, but when her eyes did finally open, she found herself cold and alone in a foreign place. As the events of the previous day caught up to her, she sat up slowly and rubbed at her eyes, wincing at the reminder of where the back of Desmond’s hand had connected with her cheek. Eventually, the sound of muffled voices outside the front door caught her attention.
Slipping off the couch, Freya crept toward the front window and peered out at the two men as they spoke on the front porch. She watched as a slip of paper passed between them and witnessed Desmond’s body go rigid. She knew him well enough to realize that he was devastated by whatever information the note held, and she felt the cold grip of uncertainty take hold of her as he objected. Suddenly, her life was in question again. Fear manifested within her almost instantly but being able to witness Desmond come to her defense this time managed to soothe her rising panic. She mentally scolded herself for ever questioning his intentions when he had so clearly dedicated his life to saving her. He deserved better from her.
Freya winced when Desmond raised his voice and shrunk away from the window as though the words had been directed at her. Just as quickly as her heart had warmed over Desmond’s loyalty, it froze over at the harsh words of contempt he held for Cyra. Despite her deep-seated fear of the girl, Freya already felt a connection with Cyra after their conversation and considered her to be a kindred spirit who was struggling to belong in an unforgiving world just as much as she was. Hearing Desmond demand her death caused a stir of unease and she felt immediate doubt over his call to action.
Before she had time to mull over the complicated and divergent feelings, Destrian shattered the stillness that had fallen over the scene. She watched in horror as Desmond was thrown from the porch, feeling every ounce of air become sucked out of her lungs as she witnessed the violence firsthand. She was frozen to her spot by the window, helpless and useless to protect Desmond in the way that he promised to protect her. All the emotions that were once suppressed by her medicine were now bubbling to the surface, overwhelming her with their potency. Freya blinked through a layer of tears and suddenly he was there; the spirit who had become her guide when she needed one most. The ghostly figure loomed over the two struggling men, but his empty eyes were fixated on Freya. Watching. Waiting.
Fear gripped Freya as she imagined Desmond sharing the same fate as the lost soul at the hands of Destrian. Her feet started moving as if they had a mind of their own and she burst through the front door, stumbling out to the edge of the top step as she watched Destrian draw his fist back. “Stop!” she screamed, her desperate cry piercing the air. Unable to bear the sight of Desmond being hurt, Freya immediately covered her face with her hands and crumpled to her knees.
Destrian swung, but his fist never made contact with Desmond’s face. Instead, he felt the distinct clamp of cold fingers around his wrist, abruptly stopping the attack. Destrian grunted in frustration and whipped his head around to see who had managed to not only intervene but overpower him. Instantly, a frigid chill shot down his spine. There was no one to see. Rather, his fist remained trembling in midair as he struggled to overcome the unseen force that was preventing him from moving. The grip tightened, trapping his wrist in a painful vise of inhuman strength. Destrian’s face contorted as a distinct sense of dread seeped into his bones and the sickly scent of death invaded his senses. With his rage abruptly forgotten, Destrian stopped struggling and surrendered to the invisible entity. Instantly, he was released from the death grip and he removed himself from Desmond altogether, scrambling backwards on his hands and feet to put distance between himself and what he could only describe as death itself.
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Post by starrea on Jan 15, 2021 21:15:32 GMT
It shouldn't have been shocking that after all of Desmond's provocations, Destrian's woefully flimsy self-restraint couldn't hold up against the truth, but the attack was unanticipated all the same. His brain, still sluggish with sleep, barely processed being thrown off the porch until his body hit the hard ground, the jarring force pushing the air out of his lungs. There was no time to react; Destrain was on him, cocking a fist back and ready to punish Desmond for truths that were far larger than both of them. Desmond knew little of what Destrian had been up to since he abandoned Paragon, but it was clear that he hadn't been slacking off. He towered over Desmond by at least half a foot and was solidly built of the kind of muscle that extended beyond the grace of genetics. By no means was Desmond out of shape, but he wasn’t a trained solider, either. He wasn’t going to win this fight, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except take the beating that was coming. "She hates you," Desmond seethed, staring up at Destrain brazenly. "It doesn't what you or anyone else believes. She isn't capable of change. She isn't capable of anything but hatred and violence. You can't fix the kind of evil she is. It's not just who she is, it's what she is.” When he saw Destrian hesitate, he seized the opportunity and forged ahead, unafraid of the consequences his words might provoke. "People forget that nature exists in a state of balance. No one is above the laws of nature, not even those with reality-bending abilities. She is what happens when someone tries to mess with the balance of nature. When someone tries to elevate themselves to godliness, their sins do not disappear. Someone else must be made to carry them. She isn't like you and me," He hadn’t meant to reveal so much information, especially not after he had deliberately lied about knowing anything related to Cyra’s past, but the words tumbled out regardless. If the truth was what it took for Destrian to finally see that she wasn’t worth saving, then it was worth it. "She will never forgive you, and she will never be anything other than a threat to everyone around her. Do you seriously want to spend the rest of your life being her gatekeeper? Because you will never be able to let her out of her cage," Desmond finished hotly, letting the weight of his words sink in as he met Destrian’s glare unflinchingly. Then Freya's voice cut through the cold morning air, and for the first time, worry crept into Desmond’s features. "Freya!" Desmond called out, his stare breaking away from Destrian to search for Freya. For a second, he struggled under Destrian’s weight but quickly gave up when the other man didn’t so much as budge. "Don't come any closer!" He warned, worried that she was going to entangle herself in the encroaching mess of violence. "No matter what happens, don't come any closer!" He repeated, his gaze snapping back to Destrian and bracing himself for the hit that he knew was coming. The hit never came. Instead, Destrian paled with fear and jumped off him as though he carried the plague. As soon as Destrian's weight lifted, Desmond scrambled to his feet and almost tripped over himself as he ran to Freya. He sunk to the ground beside her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his embrace, soothingly stroking her back. Whatever had just happened, Desmond had a sinking feeling that it was because of Freya. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Desmond soothed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. He lingered, dipping a little lower to whisper something into her ear, “Thank you, for whatever you did to save me.”
“…She is what happens when someone tries to mess with the balance of nature…Someone else must be made to carry them. She isn't like you and me…Because you will never be able to let her out of her cage…”
It was hard to heard over her own labored breathing, but snippers of their conversation floated back to Cyra. Their significance sunk in slowly, and then all at once she realized that they weren’t just talking about her – they were talking about her past.
An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu crawled over her, stirring up long-forgotten memories deep in her subconscious. There was a thick layer of ice that separated Cyra from whatever her mind desperately wanted to forget, and there was nothing she could do except stare down at the shadows of movement, proof that the memories did indeed exist, in the murky waters of her subconscious. The ice had already started to crack. One memory, the memory of the snake, had freed itself and flopped onto the ice. She grappled for it, hungry for more answers, but the peripheries of the memory were shrouded in darkness. The details slipped through her fingers like water and she was left with a sense of dread and no reason why. Desmond’s words chipped away at the ice, widening the crack that protected her from the truth below. The darkness that shielded her from the moments before the snake coiled around started to dissipate but the colors wouldn’t slide into focus. Instead, the truth slammed into her and she didn’t need the visual memory to confirm its validity; someone had deliberately fed her to that snake.
The fact that someone had intentionally fed her to a snake was somehow less impactful than the memory of when Destrian had assured her that he knew nothing of her past. By this point, it was her fault for expecting the truth from Destrian. With Cyra’s entire world revolving around Destrian, it was hard to see anything other than how he chose to present himself to her, and she often lost herself in the illusions of what he wanted to be. He pretended to share an ounce of the same agony she suffered, bending the truth, and reshaping it into something that ultimately made her more compliant. She was so desperate for resolution and affection that she believed he struggled with remorse, even though he had yet to offer an apology. His freedom came at the price of her own – and he didn’t even have the decency to thank her. So, when the betrayal of Destrian’s lies coiled around her heart and started to squeeze like that snake had done to her all those years ago, it felt like her fault just as much as Destrian’s.
The shock reverberated through her, leaving a cold numbness in its wake. It extinguished the hot flames of fury that fueled her, cooling them down to just simmering rage. Numbly, her hands searched the ground in the dark for something – she didn’t know what yet – until her fingers closed around a sizeable rock. It took both hands for her to lift it and she examined it in the low light, an idea forming in her head. She didn’t need to be a tall, all-powerful pillar of dark, destructive smoke to kill someone. Violent fantasies played out in her mind, featuring her lifting the rock and bringing it down on Desmond’s head again and again until his head caved in. As much as Destrian latest betrayal made her want to bash his skull in, the curse wouldn’t allow her. Desmond, albeit not the true target of her hatred, would still be satisfying to kill, nonetheless. Anyway, she had never tried to kill someone with her own two bare hands and now the premise was sinfully tempting.
Cyra stumbled to her feet, heaving the large rock with her, and walked around the corner. Her face, usually representative of whatever brooding emotion she felt, was void of anything significant other than her passing shock. Her eyes lingered on the three of them, taking in the scene in front of her but not really interpreting it, as she slowly approached. The rock was heavy and cold and as her gaze slowly shifted back and forth between Destrian and Desmond, she imagined their skulls would break beneath the weight of her rage.
Eventually, her gaze landed on Destrian but her gaze seemed to go right through him. “You knew,” She mumbled, an obvious accusation but her tone lacked any bite. It was a statement spoken far too casually for the level of betrayal it signified. “You knew about my past, and you lied to me.”
Finally, she turned to Desmond. Anger started to melt the chilling numbness that had taken ahold of her, and she gripped the rock so hard her knuckles were white. “You know something about me. Tell me what you know.” It wasn’t a question, and there was no room for negotiation. When he didn’t immediately comply, she lifted the rock and took a step forward. Destrian wouldn’t let her get carried away with carving a hole into the side of Desmond’s head, but she didn’t need multiple hits. All she needed was one, well-aimed strike and there would be nothing Destrian could do about it.
Tension enveloped the three of them as the sound of someone approaching filled the air. Cyra emerged from the low light, looking unhinged and carrying a large rock, and things only got more tense. Cyra was a stick of dynamite and the smallest bit of friction would be enough to light her up. When the crazed girl took a step towards him, towards Freya, and lifted the rock, Desmond started to get nervous. Desmond had been prepared to take a beating from Destrian, but ruthless killers like Cyra didn’t strike to injure – they attacked to kill. “Destrian,” Desmond called out lowly, as if to avoid startling a violent animal, “If you lose control of your -” He cut himself off, thinking better of his wording before he continued, “I think you should calm her down.” He finished pointedly. If Destrian lost control over Cyra, then there was no reason for Paragon to spare them. Without her, they were defenseless against Paragon – who would undoubtably take advantage of their weakness and finish them off. As subtly as he could, Desmond slowly pushed Freya until she was behind him, shielded from whatever violence Cyra wanted to incite. He reached one arm behind him to interlace his fingers with Freya’s, giving her hand a squeeze of assurance that no matter what, he would always protect her.
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Post by Val on Jan 25, 2021 5:21:04 GMT
Even though the mysterious entity had vanished, the chilling sense of shock remained as Destrian stared down at his wrist. Already, a distinct handprint was forming across his pale skin, interrupted only by the faded tattoos that already covered his body. He could feel that the blood had drained from his face, leaving him lightheaded as he mulled over the experience. For the first time in a long time, he felt the dreaded tendrils of fear gripping at him mercilessly.
Fragmented memories forced themselves to the surface, drowning out his immediate surroundings. He recalled the image of dark, cloaked figures surrounding him, holding him down. A foreign chant began, growing louder and louder until it was absolutely deafening. Every inch of his skin burned, like he’d been repeatedly stabbed with thousands of needles. The faces that surrounded him were shrouded in darkness, refusing to reveal their identities. Except for one. A young girl was laid out beside him, just a few feet away. In the flickering firelight, he could see that she, too, was tied down. He focused on her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered and struggled to remain open, as though she had been drugged. He opened his parched mouth to call out to her, but no noise escaped him. Instead, he felt his airways become cut off, as though something was constricting his throat and his lungs. The pain became amplified and a loud hiss reverberated through his skull, though there was no logical source of the sound. He stared deep into the girl’s eyes- dark yet familiar eyes that often reflected his own; Cyra’s.
The sound of his name being called startled Destrian back to the present. Dazed, he focused on Desmond, where he was crouched defensively by the house. He turned slowly to follow the man’s gaze and the fog that was clouding his mind evaporated at the sight of Cyra. He registered the rock and the alarming look in her eyes and swiftly rolled to his feet to face her. Confusion rippled across his features in response to her mumbled accusation and he shook his head slowly.
“Cyra, I…” he struggled to put his defense into words. It felt impossible to explain to her that his memory was fragmented seemingly beyond repair. His childhood was almost entirely wiped from his consciousness, while his early teens and most of his time with the Paragon was characterized by choppy segments where he’d blocked out the worst of it. When he did recall things, they felt surreal , like they were happening to someone else. A child’s mind was surprisingly adept at disassociating, and he’d learned from a very young age to separate himself from the pain in order to survive. Deep down, he knew that Cyra was right. The knowledge of her past was buried somewhere within the recesses of his mind, but he was too weak to face the truth.
A profound sadness began to creep in, replacing his fear with sorrow over the unspeakable things that had been done to Cyra, countless other victims, and himself. He inched forward, raising his palms slightly in a display of surrender. He approached Cyra cautiously and reached for the rock, managing to pull it free of her death grip with some effort, and dropped it to their feet with a resounding thud. Before he could talk himself out of the moment, he reached for Cyra and looped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. A shudder immediately wracked through his body, as if he were embracing the embodiment of his own pain and suffering.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, only loud enough for her to hear. He’d never hugged Cyra, and the longer he had his arms locked around her, the more he realized how cold and cruel he’d been to her since the moment they were cursed to each other, “I’m so sorry.” There was so much more that needed to be said, but Destrian was a man of action, not words. He didn’t care what Desmond said about them, and perhaps he was crazy for thinking that either of them deserved any kind of forgiveness, but he felt that their bond went beyond a curse and shared trauma. Maybe, they needed each other.
Freya waited for the sound of fists hitting flesh, but it never came. A strange silence fell over the scene and all she could hear was her own uneven breathing. She kept her hands firmly over her eyes, refusing to witness whatever was transpiring between the men, and focused on the sounds of rustling grass and then rapid footsteps approaching her. She was startled by Desmond’s touch and only relaxed when she finally looked up and laid eyes upon him. Leaning into his arms, she reached up to brush her fingers along his cheek bone, relieved to find that he was unharmed. She allowed his words to soothe her and reveled in the feeling of his lips against her skin. Freya had grown used to his touch over the years, but ever since they escaped, the moments between them felt distinctly different to her.
Desmond’s next words sent a chill up her spine. Her eyes snapped to the spot where she had last seen the spirit, but he had already faded into netherworld like a mirage that was never meant to last. Freya shook her head slightly, as though denying that she had anything to do with the turn of events, but she knew deep down exactly what had happened. The ghost had done what she could not. Nervous, she peered up at Desmond, expecting anger or disappointment that she had deliberately disobeyed their number one rule. But all she saw was gratitude and…unease.
Before she could mull over the event, Desmond called out to the man again and all of the things he had said in the heat of the moment came rushing back to her. She’d been too overwhelmed at the time, but now, as she looked upon Cyra and saw the emptiness in the girl’s eyes, she realized how cruel Desmond’s words had been. He didn’t just fear Cyra, he hated her, and that poignant feeling made her feel sick to her stomach. The way he spoke to Destrian was provocative, like he was trying to turn the two against each other. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to view their new acquaintances in the same light that Desmond did. And there appeared to be one glaring fact that he was conveniently ignoring; if Cyra was dangerous, then so was she.
Freya remained still as Desmond moved in front of her, blocking her view of the scene that was unfolding. She watched as his fingers gripped hers and felt the familiar squeeze of his fingers; an ever constant reminder of his promise to protect her. Except this time, she wasn’t sure that he could. Her newfound temper flared and she used her free hand to grip at his wrist, squeezing until she was able to pull her hand free. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried down the front steps and rushed toward the tree line, desperate to get away from the scene that she felt they were now intruding upon. She knew that Desmond would follow her, and that meant that he would stop inciting chaos amongst the group. Freya wasn’t afraid of Cyra, but she knew that Desmond should be.
By the time she reached the cover of trees, Freya realized that her feet were clad only in socks, which were now soaked with morning dew from the grass. Frustrated tears blurred her vision and the overwhelming emotions threatened to boil over, unregulated by Desmond’s “medicine”. Hugging her arms around herself, she stared into the depths of the forest and allowed the silent tears to spill over her cheeks as she tried to sort out her confusing feelings.
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Post by starrea on Jan 30, 2021 16:04:06 GMT
For the first time, answers to questions that she hadn't even thought up yet were just out of reach, stowed away in the sad excuse for a humanitarian in front of them. Rage surged through her as Desmond completely disregarded her, speaking only to Destrian. The way he looked at her was the same way a man watched a diseased animal, with concern for their safety and unmasked disgust, as if the very existence of a mangy, suffering animal was an insult. Of course, there was no regard to his own participation in the transformation of something perhaps capable of virtue and goodness to something unrecognizable, neurotic and crazed with misery. Men, supposedly governed by reason, refuse to see hypocrisy, as if their blatant transgressions didn't apply to her. Long before her infamous spree of destruction, paralleled only by Mother Nature herself, someone had fed Cyra to a snake. Murder, it seemed, was only subjectively reprehensible. Over and over, she had been subjected to hearing about her wrongdoings, but now these two defenders of moral preservation openly discussed her murder right in front of her. Her decade of isolation, something considered despicable for even the worst offenders, did not incur even a drop of guilt. Destrian had even killed someone, but still walked free, unburdened by his society's harsh repercussions. Overall, men were every bit as ugly as they damned her with, and if Desmond was adamant about excluding her from the exclusive group of humanity, then Cyra was all too happy to oblige.
Up until that very moment, Cyra had been assured in the fact that her monstrosity had not been born, it had been crafted at the wicked hands of man. How was she expected to love thy neighbor when someone had fed her to a snake? Why should she respect man, when they continuously condemned her? They locked her away, out of sight and out of mind, and let her suffer with the knowledge that her life would be nothing more than wretchedness and solitude. Once upon a time, Cyra was pure of the insurmountable anger that consumed her now. The memories came to her like the melody of a soft lullaby she couldn't quite remember, just clear enough that she was absolutely sure that at one time, she had capacity of love. Instead, she had punished and cast away for circumstances beyond her control and the emptiness inside of her meant for all that love was repurposed to burn with anger. If she couldn't have love, then she would have fear. But Desmond seemed to think the opposite - that she had been cursed with inherent darkness, and goodness was simply beyond the reaches of her very nature. Just like a fish couldn't survive on land and a pig couldn't fly, Cyra was inherently incapable of goodness.
It was only natural to want to refute Desmond's claim. It felt like an easy scapegoat to excuse any wrongdoings, freeing man of moral conflict in her mistreatment. If her descension into corruption was inevitable, then all of their transgressions against her were meaningless. Was the choice between being good and bad an illusion? She had never bothered to try to be anything more than her anger, but the choice to be better, to be more had always been there - hadn't it? But Desmond's story was plausible. Without her memories, he knew more about her origins than she did. The prospect of his story was daunting, and it made her stomach queasy. The apprehension was surprising, enough to give her pause and make her wonder if she really did desire answers. On one hand, the very inclination of knowing how she came to be was tantalizing. With answers came the possibility of resolution - but it also came with the possibility of agony. As someone powerless to change, knowledge had only ever deepened the pits of despair she sank to.
Before Cyra had a chance to make up her mind, Destrian was in front of her and prying the rock out of her hands. By now, it was inconceivable that she would have the opportunity to bash Desmond's head in, but she still struggled against surrendering her weapon. In that moment, the rock was more than a rock - it was symbolic, something that was hers. The powerlessness filled her lungs like smoke, a burning sensation that started in her throat and traveled all the way to the tips of her fingers. In the end, she was weak against him. He pried her fingers free of the rock, stripping it away from her and dropping it at their feet. For a long moment, she just stood there, looking down at the rock, wondering if it really mattered how she came to be. Regardless of her origins, she had been deprived of love and with Destrian as her jailer, she lacked the means to incur fear. Without that rock, she had nothing.
Then something profoundly peculiar happened, something Cyra was completely unprepared for. With their arrangement, Destrian had never laid a hand on her - he hadn't needed to. Whenever he wanted her submission, all he had to do was tighten the noose around her neck until she yielded. It meant that during their limited time together, there had hardly ever been the need for any sort of physical contact. Destrian obviously lacked the pain of being deprived of touch, evidence of Ari warming his bed, but the idea of a hug was so foreign to Cyra that his unanticipated gesture sent shock-waves through her. As necessary for survival when condemned to complete isolation, she had become numb to the memory of touch. It was useless to long for something she couldn't have, and even after she was retrieved by Destrian, their turbulent dynamic kept her from seeking comfort from either him or Ari. His simple act of kindness shattered through the numbness, reigniting her desire for basic human intimacy. Too surprised to stop what was happening, she found herself feeling validated and secure, emotions that had long appear dead, revive within her. They carried her away and for a moment, she wasn't a monster and Destrian wasn't her jailer - they were just two damaged people who, for a second, needed one another.
I'm so sorry. The apology hit her with the force of a punch, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She had spent years dreaming about this very moment, fantasizing every conceivable, wicked way she would make him beg for forgiveness. Yet none of her fantasies had played out like this, an apology amidst a gentle moment of weakness. What did he expect her to say? That it was okay, that she forgave him? It wasn't alright; without spending a decade up in the mountain cave, Destrian wasn't capable of knowing the depths of despair he had sentenced her to. He hadn't just stripped her of her control and freedom, he had taken ten years of her life and let her waste away in solitude - unable to die, and not allowed to live. Coming back to civilization hadn't been a smooth transition, either. Instead of seamlessly sliding back into life, her few trips to towns had only left her scared and depressed by her inability to adjust to town-life. It didn't matter that he had granted her the freedom to explore nearby towns and cultures; his imprisonment of her had somehow burrowed its way inside of her, and she was incapable of leaving it behind. It had taken her weeks to adjust to things as simple as using furniture. How could three words alleviate all of that pain, all of that damage?
At the same time, how could she deny herself the opportunity of basic intimacy? Every little piece of her personality stemmed from one overarching desire - to be accepted. To refute his apology felt like actively eliminating her perhaps one chance at having a true, meaningful connection with someone. But that someone wasn't just anyone - it was Destrian, and Cyra had already resolved herself to the truth that their relationship was shattered beyond repair. Every time Cyra hoped for something more from Destrian, he disappointed. If he went back of his word now, took back his apology and denied her the connection she was hopelessly vying for her, there would be no coming back from that. Any last bit of humanity would die within her, and she would commit herself to ending her misery - through her own death, or Destrian's.
It was too good to be true, and it started to feel like another cruel play by Destrian but she was too weak to pull away. "I hate you," Cyra whispered, but the words weren't angry. They were soft and sad, soaked in regret as if she wished it weren't the case.
It wasn't the rock hit the ground with a thud, signifying the successful disarming of the threat, that Desmond allowed himself to breathe. He wasn’t blind to her inherent strength over him, over all of them, but he rightfully trusted that his appeal would spur Destrian to defuse the situation. Their moral philosophies concerning Cyra’s fate might have differed, but Desmond was confident in the fact that Destrian wouldn’t let her harm anyone. If not for compliance with his personal morality, then for his own self-preservation. He was only useful for as long as he remained in control of his beast; a lion tamer was of no use if he couldn’t continue to tame the lion. Time slowed down. Where there should have been subtle submission in Freya’s touch, there was blatant resistance. Years of her compliance slowed his reaction and by the time he reached out to grab her again, she was already gone. Shockwaves rolled through him, waves of icy fear, at the looming reality of his single greatest fear; Freya running from him. He didn’t have time to process the onslaught of emotions her show of defiance incurred, couldn’t sort through the betrayal and insensitivity of her stupid, foolish act. Instinct took over, and without another wayward thought towards Cyra, Desmond was on his feet and chasing after Freya. Freya had already nearly come to a stop by the time Desmond had caught up to her, but her pause was hardly a reassuring sentiment. He reached out, grabbing a fistful of her hair and jerking her back into his punishing embrace. This time, he locked his arms around her with the intention of keeping her there. “Stupid girl,” Desmond drawled sardonically, his words sharp with hardly concealed anger. He spun her around, pressing her up against his chest. Even though she had only barely run a hundred or so feet, he was desperate to feel her in his arms. His hand remained knotted in her hair, and he pulled down to tilt her up, forcing her to look at him, “You know better. You never run from me.” His body stilled hummed from the high of the short pursuit, taut and ready to chase her down again. Now that he had her, he needed to reassert control. It wasn’t enough to just have her in his arms again – she needed to know that she belonged to him. Without an inkling of warning and before rational thought could talk him out of it, Desmond dipped his head down and pressed his lips to Freya. The kiss was not gentle. Still riled up from her impromptu getaway, his lips were rough and punishing against hers, a show of his dominance. He overpowered her with his kiss, nipping and tugging at her bottom lip until only the need for air made him break away from her. He hadn’t ever allowed himself to indulge in even the fantasy of becoming involved with Freya, but now that he had a taste of her, he was thoroughly addicted. “You,” Desmond started, locking eyes with her so there was no doubt about how deadly serious he was, “are to never run from me again. You are mine.”
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Post by Val on Feb 8, 2021 1:19:51 GMT
Embracing Cyra for the first time left Destrian with an unexpected sense of enlightenment. Despite what he knew about her and what undeniably lurked beneath the surface, actually holding Cyra in his arms made him question every aspect of their time together. She felt…small. His arms encircled her body with ease, and the top of her head only reached his chin, giving her no other choice than to rest her face to his chest. He sensed her shock and tightened his arms accordingly, willing her not to pull away from what could be the absolute make or break moment between them. In that moment, he could accept her for what she was beneath it all; a young woman with the entire world against her.
“I know.” Destrian’s whisper was a direct reflection of Cyra’s quiet condemnation, heavy with the sorrow that he struggled to express time and time again. He knew hatred well, but his was not directed at the girl with whom he’d been destined to share a life sentence with. Rather, his blood ran hot with the need for revenge on the people who had condemned them both to a life of suffering.
When it came to Cyra, he was governed by resentment. Although Destrian would never admit it, he feared Cyra more than anything. Her presence was a constant reminder of his weakness. With her, he was one half of a monster, and without her, he was painfully human. Coming to terms with the magic that tethered them was a challenge he had yet to overcome, but he knew in his heart that Cyra was not the enemy.
Despite her words, Destrian found consolation in the fact that Cyra did not fight the hug. It provided him with hope that had not been there before, and determination to keep trying no matter how much she pushed him away. Some part of her, deep down, wanted to accept his apology and move on. After several long moments of standing still and holding her close, Destrian finally let his arms fall away. He remained close, avoiding eye contact as he dug into his pocket to retrieve the now crumpled letter that had been left for him to find. He wondered if they had expected him to conceal the letter from Cyra, and he took great satisfaction in taking her hand and pushing the paper into her palm.
“I don’t want you to die, Cyra.” The appeal would’ve been strange under any other circumstances, but he needed Cyra to know his truth without Desmond’s interference. He stared at the rock at their feet for a moment but was at a loss for words. He could only hope that she held some semblance of trust in his motives after everything that he had done.
Destrian took a step backwards and turned toward the house, walking away from her slowly. He climbed the front steps and paused, reaching into his pocket once more to produce the small vial of black liquid. Swallowing back the anxious lump in his throat, he placed the vial on the bannister where she could see it. Once she read the letter, she would understand. He was done dictating her life. Aside from keeping the monster at bay, he wanted to give Cyra the freedom she deserved to make her own choices. If that included taking her own life, then he had no right to stop her.
“Ari and I are leaving in search of answers,” he announced, finally looking back toward her, “You are welcome to join us. And Cyra,” He paused, eyes drifting toward the tree line where Desmond and Freya had disappeared for the first time. His disgust toward Desmond was evident, but it wasn’t until he experienced Freya’s display of power that he felt threatened by the duo. “You should stay away from that man.” His tone was clear- it wasn’t Desmond’s wellbeing he was worried about, but Cyra’s. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the house to begin preparing for the next step of his endlessly complicated journey.
The sound of storming footsteps alerted Freya to Desmond’s approach, but she never could have anticipated the extent of his fury. Before she could wipe her tears away and face him, her scalp erupted in pain as he yanked her backwards. His cruel insult reverberated in her head, causing her already heightened emotions to skyrocket. Her ever present sense of helplessness left her body frozen in his embrace, but her mind was elsewhere. Something had awakened deep within her, seeping out like an oil spill and spreading its tendrils to infect her with unspeakable thoughts and feelings. Time slowed as Desmond turned her around and they faced each other. Darkness blurred the edges of her vision and she could feel them; spirits emerging from the depths in response to her fear. Her eyes were not focused on Desmond, but behind him- where her true protector laid in wait in all his gory glory. You never run from me. Desmond was right about one thing; she didn’t need to run.
All it took was a touch of his lips to send her crumbling to ruin. Freya had spent a considerable amount of her life imagining what it would be like for Desmond to view her as more than a pet. Her curiosity had become unbearable at times, but she’d never summoned the courage to probe about his life outside of her. She had studied his lips on many occasions, wondering what it would feel like to be kissed and if he’d ever kissed someone before. But no matter how close and comfortable they became, there had always been a line that both were forbidden to cross. Until suddenly, that line was gone. In a split second, the dynamic between them was irreversibly changed.
It wasn’t like she had imagined. His mouth was rough and punishing, and effectively shattered her fantasies about what a kiss was meant to be. Nevertheless, she accepted it. Unable to keep up with his aggressive tempo, she resigned herself to becoming pliant. Freya had always felt small, especially when compared to Desmond, but in that moment she felt miniscule. The overwhelming nature of the kiss caused all her defiance to shrivel away and retreat into a tiny pit in her stomach. He was right; she had been foolish to run from the only person who cared about her. And now that he’d closed the gap in their relationship and provided her with the intimacy she’d longed for, there was no going back.
Freya gasped for air as he pulled away. She met his eyes, entranced by his intensity, and could do nothing but nod shakily. With the looming spirits long gone, there was a distinct change in her demeanor. Desmond had her full attention and the only question on her mind now was what he wanted from her next.
“I’m yours,” she agreed breathlessly. There was no question, no hesitation in her voice. Once again, pleasing Desmond was at the forefront of her mind. Her tongue swept across her lower lip, tasting the faintest hint of blood. As startling as the revelation was, she still wanted more from him- but not this side of him. Over time, it had become apparent to Freya that there were two sides to the man that she shared a life with, and she was desperate to appeal to whatever brought out the gentle side of him.
Suddenly, Freya’s face melted into a pity inducing look and she peered up at him as though she had committed the worst possible act of treason. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and she leaned into his constricting grip, desperate for him to realize that she had no intentions of fleeing, “I’m sorry, Desmond. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” It wasn’t the first time she’d played up the idea of being out of control, and it wouldn’t be the last, “Please help me.” It was important for Desmond to know that she needed him and, in that moment, she found herself utterly reliant upon his forgiveness.
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Post by starrea on Mar 7, 2021 18:35:21 GMT
The lines between puppet master and puppet blurred, and for a split second, Desmond caught a glimpse of the way Freya pulled his strings. The realization was jarring, a sharp reminder that while his control was apologetically transparent, Freya had covertly manipulated him into doing exactly what she wanted. Freya willingly accepted her role as puppet, happy to let Desmond make her dance, and it was easy to forget that a different dynamic lurked behind the scenes. While neither of them acknowledged it, Freya was more influential than he cared to admit. The dynamic in which the foundation of their relationship was built upon was crumbling, too disrupted by the drastic shift between them that all began the moment he decided to save Freya.
By this late in the game, Freya was an expert at playing Desmond. Her brief flight had been a show, a distraction to shift Desmond's attention off of Cyra and back onto her - and it worked. And it would work time and time again because every time she ran, he would always chase her. His body hummed with paranoid adrenaline, but Freya knew the cure to that, too. Her words washed over him like warm water and the tension slowly seeped out of him, taking the paranoia with it. While her manipulation wasn't intentional, similar to how a child exploited situations for their wants and needs, he needed to stay vigilant. He wasn't just protecting Freya from the rest of the world, he was protecting the rest of the world from Freya.
Eventually, Desmond's constricting grip melted into something more affectionate, similar to how one might hold a lover. Her compliance was rewarded; his anger melted away, replaced by lust. The blatant show of manipulation was pushed to the back of Desmond's mind, too distracted by the way her lips moved against his to worry about those implications right now. He had spent years memorizing every line on her face, every curve, every expression, but he could have never imagined the way her lips tasted like something sweet. The kiss, for all its imperfections, had been perfect, so perfect that when it ended, Desmond realized that this was only the beginning. The fire inside of him, the one that burned solely for Freya, burned out of control, spreading heat down his extremities and deep within his bones.
Without releasing her, Desmond reached up and brushed a stray wisp of hair out of Freya's face, trailing his fingers lightly along her pale skin. "This," Desmond said, his voice considerably softer than the harsh domineering tone he had just scolded her in, "is how I should have kissed you," With that, he leaned down again, brushing his lips up against hers delicately. This time, he didn't crush her beneath his presence. He moved slowly, using his lips to guide her along. Her kiss breathed new life into him, answering questions that he hadn't asked yet. All of his sweet anguish, all of those trials and tribulations that continued to plague him, those dark secrets that slept within him - it all awoke and took on new meaning, and suddenly, it all made sense. Everything happened to bring him to this moment, to be here with Freya.
Eventually, Desmond pulled away but only far enough to rest his forehead on hers. They were both hot and sweaty, breathing hard and caught up in the essence of one another. He wanted to lose himself in that moment, in the essence of Freya and her kiss, and have it stretch out into eternity until there was nothing other than intensity of the passion he felt in that very instance. "I love you," He breathed, unsatisfied with how the words felt like a cheap representation of the true magnitude of the depths of his emotions. His arms slowly unwound themselves from around Freya's tiny frame and he brought his hands up to gently cup her cheeks. His eyes leisurely traveled up her face, taking the time to appreciate each and every piece of Freya in a new light, before he locked gazes with her.
"I love you so much," Desmond repeated, losing himself in the depth of Freya's eyes, "But, if you ever run from me again," Their lips were so close already but Desmond leaned in more, powerless against the magnetic draw she had on him. The air practically hummed with the electricity of anticipation of another kiss but his eyes swirled with something more serious than lovesick passion, "I'll kill you."
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Post by Val on Mar 16, 2021 3:45:46 GMT
As always, Freya’s obedience was eventually rewarded. She could feel the rage melting away from Desmond’s body as he relaxed his grip, replaced by something perhaps even more intense. The feeling was one of pure infatuation, and she reciprocated it completely. Desmond was the one and only person in her life, and it had been that way for as long as she could remember. But this wasn’t the first time her feelings had shifted toward something deeper. The past several years had been a confusing time for her, filled with lingering touches and suppressed thoughts about things that any young woman in her position might ponder. Still, the narrow line between them had never been crossed- until now. And crossing was an understatement. Desmond had leapt over the line and then erased any evidence that it ever existed in the first place, leaving Freya to be dragged unprepared into foreign territory.
Still, she wanted this, and that was apparent in the way that she leaned into his touch and hung on to his every word. By the time their lips reconnected, her body was practically humming with need. The delicate touch of his lips was exactly what she had always imagined, soft and full of promise. It was night and day compared to the previous assault, and she clung to the beauty of what could be. This is what they were meant to be, so long as she continued to please Desmond. This objective was ingrained into her psyche by now, but the sudden physicality between them added a layer of complexity to their dynamic. It was new and exciting, but simultaneously nerve wracking to imagine how his expectations of her might shift. Everything was changing, and Freya was incredibly ill-equipped to handle change.
I love you. Freya was so wound up by the heated kiss that it took a while for her brain to catch up to the declaration. When it did finally sink in, all her worries suddenly felt insignificant. The promise of love- something she thought only existed in fairytales- was enough for her to see past the doubts that plagued the future. She forgot about the threats that loomed over them, about the buried uncertainties that she felt toward Desmond, about their new acquaintances, and even about the spirits that were becoming more present with each passing day. Desmond had managed to replace her doubts with tangible hope for the future.
Freya opened her mouth to return the sentiment with ardor, but Desmond cut her off with an unexpected follow up. With their eyes locked on one another, the eerie shift in Desmond’s eyes was obvious. It wasn’t a common look, but she knew what it meant; that Desmond was about to remind her about who and what she was. When he uttered such unspeakable words to her, Freya didn’t visibly react. The whiplash was so sudden that she had no choice but to stand and bear it. The threat incited a chill straight up her spine, but she continued to stare up at him unflinchingly. Freya knew death, and she knew it wasn’t the end. She wasn’t afraid of death, but she was afraid of losing Desmond.
Instead of responding, she tilted onto her toes and reconnected their lips. The kiss was long and deliberate, as though she was stalling to avoid whatever needed to be said next. When she finally rocked back onto her heels and met his gaze with piercing blue eyes, she spoke, “I love you, too.”
Freya encircled her arms around his torso and rested her cheek to his chest, curling into him as she had done so many times before to seek comfort. Her mind drifted to simpler times and she spoke to fill the silence, “I want to go to our place, Desmond,” she murmured, “I want to go to the waterfall.” It was a place they could go to discover this new side of their relationship, but the location was more significant than that. Freya had been inexplicably drawn to the destination time and time again, as though some unseen force was calling out to her. Under times of duress, it was sometimes easier for her to allow such energy to guide her along like a brittle leaf floating away with the wind.
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Post by starrea on Apr 3, 2021 2:45:57 GMT
When Desmond looked at Freya, he felt it. Their love was his air; he breathed it in, felt pieces of Freya fill up all the empty spaces inside of him, and breathed it back out to her. But there was a sadness between them, a deep sea full of things that neither of them had said over the years, and now that Desmond was finally ready to say them, he couldn't find the words. He could see everything around them changing, shaking the foundation of their relationship, and Freya changing with it, but he felt stagnant. Between the two of them, Freya was coping with their new reality far better than he was. For years, they had relied on the rigidity of a system bigger than both of them. Paragon gave Desmond an identity, and Freya gave him purpose. Now, he was acutely aware that her need for him was becoming obsolete. Out here, she didn't need him and as much as that killed him, he knew that she needed to be free anyway - even if that meant someday, she'd be free of him.
"Shit," Desmond cursed, panic starting to seep in and poison the moment. The gravity of their situation started to weigh down on him and he felt the pressure build, making it hard to breathe. Paranoia crawled over his skin and his eyes strayed from Freya's to scan the horizon for signs of life, but there was no relief when he didn't find any. It was only a matter of time until Paragon caught up to them, and they weren't the type to forgive and forget. His death was uncomfortably imminent, and even now the air felt borrowed and each second that passed felt meaningless and wasted.
"They're going to come for us... for you," Desmond started slowly, trying to work through the flurry of thoughts in his mind. Suddenly, it was imperative that Freya would be able to continue on without him. If they recaptured and killed her, then his life was wasted. "I need you to promise me something. If they come for you, and I'm... not there, you need to do whatever you have to do to get away. Don't worry about me, don't worry about anyone else. Do what you have to do, even if that means doing what... you do," The words were coming out faster, freed by the fading inhibitions that usually kept all of Paragon's secrets locked away deep in his mind. His commitment to the cause and to the greater good faded in comparison to ensuring Freya's survival.
"If they do get you, tell them you know where the dragon is. They won't kill you if you tell them that, it'll buy you time, okay? You'll need to go to Nethilor. You'll be safer there than in Raevaryn. Do not go north to Grovakha. This is important, you can't forget this," By the end, he was almost crazed as he stared down at Freya. He knew that wouldn't know what he was talking about, but the pieces of information would be enough for her to keep herself alive. Sometime during his allocution, his hands had dropped to her shoulders and and it wasn't until several seconds after he finished speaking that he realized just how tightly he had been gripping her. His grip loosened but the intensity in his look stayed, "All that matters is that you're okay. Nothing else matters, just you."
Desmond finally released Freya, taking a step back and let the space where she had been fill with cold air and cool him down. "That is all just hypothetical though," Desmond said coolly, making a lame attempt at appearing casual as he raked a hand through his hair. He finally gave heed to Freya's request and tried to come up with a good reason to refute it, but there was none. They had no plans, no allies, and nowhere to stay. Going back to their waterfall was just as good as any other place. Additionally, not that it mattered, it was reassuring to hear that Freya wanted to retreat to a place sacred to them. Right now, she still needed him and that would have to be enough.
"It's a long walk," Desmond cautioned, "Are you sure you're up for it?"
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