Geddesmck
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The girl’s screams wrenched at even Aurim’s hardened heart. The magical blizzard raging against the Scarred Prince began to sputter and die, as did its master. A part of him wanted to look away in disgust and shame. But another part of him, the part that guarded him from his own pain and longed to see others subjected to the same torture, revelled in the sight. The Spitter’s corrosive magic had taken the young entrant in the chest and face, burning the flesh away with horrifying efficacy. Yet the true cruelty of the spell came in its reluctance to finish its victim. Maimed and brought to the edge of death, the girl clung to life with ragged breaths seized between gurgled screams.
The pain she felt was iridescent to Aurim’s senses, like nothing he’d ever felt in such concentration, or such variation before. It was glorious and unbearable.
“...mercy... mercy... mercy...”
The Broken Knight frowned behind his helm, trying to locate the source of the desperate pleading. The ice-wielding girl could not form any kind of words in the spaces between her agonised cries, but only slowly did he realised that the words were coming from Cullan’s skull, as they had been ever since he’d taken the head from his belt.
“Yes. I can show mercy. I can still do that,” Aurim croaked, surprised to find himself choking on his own disgust. Cullan’s muttering’s fell to silence.
The Scarred Prince’s helm fell to the floor with a crash, followed by his right gauntlet. For the first time in what seemed an age, he felt the sun against his bare, broken skin. His revealed hand was as blackened by flame as his armour, little more than scorched skin stretched too-tightly over broken bones. His face was more horrifying. Skin had melted like wax where it still remained; in other places there was but a burnt-red mockery of flesh to hide the bones beneath. Lidless eyes and lipless mouth added to the ghastly sight. Stripped of his helm, the Scarred Prince revealed to all present the truth of his title.
In silence he knelt before the girl he’d destroyed, watching as the final remnant of the Spitter’s spell degraded into black smoke and fled to reveal the ruined mess beneath. The girl’s screams were quieter now, but only because she’d scoured her throat raw. Her eyes flickered open to look upon her tormentor and Aurim could see her pain and fear all too clearly.
“I grant you my gift, and show you what mercy I know how to give.”
He locked eyes with the girl and laid two fingers upon her untouched brow. Pain rushed out of him, leaving him feeling more empty than he ever had before. He could feel it rushing into the poor girl and, despite the damage to her throat, it summoned a scream of such pure suffering that it caused even Aurim to flinch. “I’m sorry, but it is for but an instant,” he whispered, even as he felt the bond reverse. Pain returned to him like the familiar warmth of a fire. Yet the fire kept growing. New pain assaulted him, all that belonged to the girl. The pain of her ruined body and ruined mind tore at Aurim and he wondered suddenly if perhaps he’d found his limit.
From the outside, it looked as if the disfigured combatant of darkness was merely kneeling before his downed opponent in silence; a surprisingly quiet and calm moment amongst the fighting. Such a calm exterior hid the truth of the raging battle Aurim fought against all the suffering of his life and of the girl’s.
The Broken Knight did not move for a long moment, before he slumped forward. He threw out his arm and caught himself, letting out a shaky breath and tears of pain.
And then the Scarred Prince stood again, collecting his heavy mace and helm to prepare for his next challenge.
“Is she dead?”
“No,” Aurim replied even as he slipped the helm back over his head, “and I do not think she will die anytime soon. But even if she does, she will do so unencumbered by the weight of suffering I forced upon her.”
“I am... surprised. I thought this side of you dead.”
Aurim chuckled darkly at the comment, “It is, I think,” he laid his free hand on the skull of his friend, “but I carry it with my anyway. Without you my friend, I fear what I may become.”
“Don’t worr...”
Light engulfed Aurim and threw him to the floor. He felt something being dragged away from him, something he was not aware of until he felt its absence. He laughed bitterly. He knew what had happened: someone had tried to drain his magic. How disappointed they would be; Aurim held barely any magical potential. His weakness, which had made him rely on using the heads of mages or, long ago, his friend Cullan, had proved his strength in this case.
His laugh grew in volume as he climbed back to his feet. “Seems we’ve found a new challenger, Cullan, and one who’s already proven themselves a fool.”
There came no reply.
Aurim looked at his belt and saw Cullan’s skull still there, but something felt wrong.
The truth dawned on Aurim in a terrible instant.
Cullan was a soul bound to his long-dead remains with ties of old and powerful sorcery. Cullan was nothing but magic.
The Scarred Prince roared in fury as he charged towards the bone-clad warrior with his mace held high.
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