The Falling

by J. C. Owens

  Brenaith eyed him, but bore the fingers that combed through his hair. Stratlin had often done a similar thing, a sort of vague fondness such as one would give a favorite hound. He struggled to shake off the pang of annoyance that the action always roused in him. In light of what he had suffered over the years, this was a small and harmless thing. Just one more humiliation in a long line of them. At least this gave no pain. There was little enough in his existence that did so.

  Shaynith-una rolled his head on the back of the chair, one eye viewing him with vague interest.

  “You are more intelligent, and perhaps stronger in mind, then even Stratlin knew. Even now, knowing what I am, there is a hint of rebellion in your mind. Interesting.”

  Brenaith froze, breath suspended for a moment, before his heart began to pound alarmingly. How could he have forgotten, even for an instant, that his thoughts were no longer private, no longer safe?

  The fingers clenched in his hair, lighter than Stratlin had ever gifted him, then relaxed once more, a small chuckle escaping his new master.

  “Peace, Brenaith. I am far too content to be home to consider punishment. This one time, I can let things go.” That red eye regarded him, coldness in the depths. “This once.”

  Brenaith sucked in a trembling breath, unable to look away.

  Shaynith-una blinked, and the coldness in his eyes dissipated a bit, the intense red fading to a duller shade. Brenaith could at last lower his gaze, staring at the ornate wooden floor blindly, willing his panic to die down.

  The gentle stroking resumed, and from the corner of his eye, Brenaith could see his master close his eyes.

  The crackle of the fire was loud in the ensuing silence, as Brenaith slowly felt his breathing slow, his heart resume a normal beat. Even the touch became less invasive, less a thing to reject.

  He slipped into a sort of pleasant stupor, his body warming, relaxing unconsciously. After the previous cold and rigors of the ride, this was entirely welcoming.

  He was only half aware of having slumped against his master’s thigh, his head cradled upon the hard muscles, his gaze dreamily watching the flames.

  The touch of his master’s fingers turned into an almost blissful, scratching massage, and he hummed under his breath, for the tiniest moment leaning into the motion.

  The opening of the door made him jump, pulling back with a start, dismay growing as he realized how submissive his posture had been, how accepting…

  Shaynith-una made a dismissive sound in his throat, levering himself up from the comfort of the chair as though it took an effort to resume motion. It surprised Brenaith from his musings, for the action was so—human—so mortal. It seemed so out of character for a being that he viewed as being something of legend, not quite real at all.

  He had never seen his master display any regard for cold or exhaustion. He seemed hardier than any other demon Brenaith had encountered, bringing his musing back to the possibility of Shaynith-una’s possible divine origins. Were the rumors of shadow knights being a part of the demon god true? It seemed wildly beyond possibility, but then, demons had been myth not so long ago, and today, Brenaith had seen an elf, of all things.

  Servants filed through the now open door, bringing trays of food that made his mouth water, his stomach clench. It was late afternoon, perhaps, hard to tell with no windows to track the sun, and his body demanded sustenance with a surly rumble that made his master glance at him, then turn away, but not before Brenaith had seen the merest twitch of that beautiful mouth.

  Brenaith could not even care it was at his expense. Humor meant his master was further from temper. He had never been able to track Stratlin’s moods, decipher where his actions might lead next. For such a dreaded being, Shaynith-una seemed remarkably even tempered. Even his sudden change of persona had been clear cut, and continued, not bouncing back and forth in an effort to leave him confused and vulnerable with it.

  Brenaith gritted his teeth, pushing stubborn hope to the side. There would be pain, there always was. Even with the respite he’d received over the last few days, it was not possible that life in this place could be an improvement over the last five years. Such hopes had long ago been driven from his heart.

  His master sat at the table with a graceful elegance that Brenaith knew he could never match despite his noble background. Everything his master did held a certain flowing refinement that he had never thought to see in demon kind. So beautiful…

  He knelt swiftly, but not before seeing those lips twitch once more.

  So lovely that he was providing his new captor with amusement. Before he could follow the thread of anger further, a juicy piece of meat was held before his lips, and he forgot grudges in the glory of food.

  One thing that clearly seemed to have improved in his new situation was that the knight never denied him food. Indeed, he was better fed than at any time since his capture, and his body was regaining some measure of strength, the desperate feelings of near starvation beginning to fade, although the anxiety remained to the fore. But at last, he was beginning to believe that, whatever other horror may come, his new master did not intend that he should be thin, weak, and malnourished. In fact, by several small comments Brenaith had heard, it seemed Shaynith-una found such looks distasteful. He could only be grateful for that.

  Indeed, the fact that the knight did not use food as a weapon against him made Brenaith less resentful when he was fed by hand. It no longer seemed quite the insult it had been, a furthering of his torture.

  Now he did not hesitate to take the tidbits he was offered, a certain trust that he would not be tormented, in this way at least, beginning to take root.

  At last he was replete, murmuring a low, very polite refusal, that he had learned his master accepted, when Stratlin never had. Either he had been given little, or in between, forced to gorge until he was sick with it.

  Whatever else may come, he was grateful for this, at least.

  When his master began humming under his breath, Brenaith looked up, startled, disbelieving. He had never heard a demon produce such a sound, or anything like singing. It was almost mesmerizing.

  “That is amazing.” The words left his lips before he could call them back. He cringed.

  The song ceased, his master glancing at him, but no fist was forthcoming.

  “My bearer taught me. It is of her people.” The calm tone indicated no resentment at his curiosity.

  Cautiously, Brenaith straightened a little, eyes on the shadow knight’s face. To speak was such a luxury, and as of yet, this new master did not seem to find it irksome.

  “You mean your mother?”

  Shaynith-una stopped chewing, frowning a little, but it seemed more confusion than any indication of anger.

  “Mother?” The head tilt suggested confusion.

  Brenaith blinked, confused in his own right. “It is what humans call the one who gave birth to us.”

  Those red eyes settled completely on him, perhaps taking note of his memories in order to understand. The feeling made Brenaith feel rather nauseous, but still, there was no pain to it, other than the sensation of vague defilement.

  He wished he could protest, but this was his future. On some level, he was going to have to learn to cope.

  The knight leaned back, the sensations in Brenaith’s mind ceasing. The frown was still there, as though he were processing what he had learned, the tilt of his head still indicating there was no understanding.

  “You feel great—affection—for this woman. This mother. And her actions and voice seem to indicate a return regard. Why?”

  Brenaith stared, speechless for long moments. “I am of her blood, her son, it is natural to have a connection, a bond. Even animals love their young.” His tone was cautious, reserved. He could not understand the question at all. It made no sense. Now that he knew that the shadow knight had been birthed, not magically or divinely created…

  “My sire is the demon God, Lutan. My bearer is the elf you saw today. I feel none of t
his—love—you hold so dear. Although I feel pride in my sire. He is the one who has trained me, formed me into the warrior I am. In return, he says he is proud of me. That makes me—content.” The tone still held confusion, as though Shaynith-una had no way of wording his feelings, as though there was no true word for the concept.

  It was chilling, yet in some way, sad.

  The knight blinked, watching him, the confusion seeming to deepen.

  “Why would such an absence of emotion be saddening? It makes me stronger, more resilient. Emotion was one of the reasons that humans were so easily overcome, my sire says. He lauds my lack of it.”

  Brenaith struggled for words. How to explain the complexity of emotion and all its joys and sorrows. To this creature, it would indeed seem foolish and weakening to possess such a thing. Brenaith certainly wished that he could have suppressed such a human failing during his captivity, but to not possess it at all? To never have known love, or the joy of friends, of family…

  “Your honor guard, they are friends, are they not? You feel for them?”

  The knight pondered the question for a few moments, as though it held no immediate meaning for him, as though he had to work through the words.

  “They are my siblings. Half my blood. They are from my bearer, but from a demon male, not Lutan. They were bred to be my guards, my companions. I—need—them.” The new comprehension seemed to concern Shaynith-una, as though he had exposed some terrible weakness to himself.

  “That is normal,” Brenaith could not prevent his words from escaping. He had wished for a lack of emotion all during his captivity, but to view it in another, even this enemy, was chilling. This was not how any creature should live. Surely even the demon god held emotion, even if only dark malice and pride. How then had the knight become so soulless, so unaware of what lay within his own mind? Was the god himself suppressing that, in order to keep his son completely under his sway, completely pliant to all he ordered?

  Shaynith-una jerked back as though stung, his expression darkening.

  “Silence. You will not speak of such things. My sire is all, and he does as he must. I am his creation and I will not hear of blasphemous musings. Begone from me. Sit by the fire and keep your thoughts from sullying him.” The words were almost hissed, as though the demon was rising within the knight, prodded into exposure with the force of his anger.

  Brenaith shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then went to kneel by the warm, pink stone of the fireplace, trying desperately to keep his thoughts blank enough to please his master.

  He waited, sure some punishment would befall him, but as time passed and nothing occurred, he glanced up.

  Shaynith-una sat at the table, still and silent, gaze blank and cold, staring into nothingness. The atmosphere of the room chilled, and even the fire could not warm Brenaith now.

  Cold currents of air swirled around him, wrapping around his body like chill fingers. Whispers of sound, demon born, echoed in his mind, and he shrank back, crying out as a malignant presence wrapped around his mind.

  The power was beyond comprehension, beyond endurance. He screamed, clutching his head as he collapsed to the floor. His mind was casually raped, in a fashion even Shaynith-una had not done, every nuance of his being examined and cast aside with brutal efficiency.

  The pain, the horror, was beyond comprehension, and his senses swirled, his heart feeling like it would burst as it pounded in his chest.

  He was going to die. He realized it in some primal portion of his brain, but at that point, he would have leaped toward death itself if it meant being free of this possession, this vile, destructive force that seemed to taint every fiber of his very existence.

  “He is asking for your life.” The hiss in his mind was filled with a seething hatred, a fathomless malignancy. “I can be merciful to those my son desires, to those who aid his existence.” Vast pressure squeezed Brenaith tight, half lifting him from the floor. He could not scream with the agony, this pain was beyond that.

  “Put such thoughts in his head again, and I will see you last for eons in my embrace, human. Know your place, and stay in it.”

  He was dropped with casual contempt to lie gasping on the floor, dragging each breath in with difficulty, his vision hazy at the edges.

  As he sank into blessed darkness, he could see his master watching him, eyes blank and uncaring, his sire once more in perfect control.

  * * *

  When he woke, he remembered it all instantly. He sat up, terror coursing through his veins, and scrambled backward until his spine hit the headboard of the bed. He huddled there, curled in on himself, panting, wild eyes scanning the room.

  Such was his fear that it took several moments for him to process what he was seeing.

  He was in a bedroom of great size, beautiful in its lush appointments and rich decoration.

  The size of the bed, the look of the room, pointed to this being Shaynith-una’s bedchamber. The fact that he was lying in it seemed beyond strange, seeing as he had done something so terrible as to rouse Lutan to action.

  He shuddered, pressed harder against the wood, wanting to crawl under the bed itself in a futile attempt to disappear entirely. His mind burned, as though remnants of that vile touch remained in his thoughts, on his body. His skin crawled in reaction. He wanted nothing more than to scrub every inch, wash the stain of that encounter from every part of him.

  He would have thought he would wake in a cell of some sort, suitable punishment for his foolishness in attempting to bring forth a gentler side of his master.

  To wake in softness and luxury seemed jarring, inexplicable.

  He drew a deep, quivering breath, trying to quell the panic that coursed through his mind, reduced his body to a useless, shivering heap.

  Movement in the doorway made him jump, a whimper breaking free in spite of his gritted teeth. He huddled lower, like a rabbit trying to avoid the attention of the fox.

  Shaynith-una stood motionless, watching, expressionless. He was dressed very simply in loose, light pants and a flowing shirt, more casual and relaxed than Brenaith had ever seen him. A few shadows swirled lazily around him, wisps more than solid forms.

  Somehow, despite the shadows’ presence, dressed like this he looked more natural, less like the demigod he was. To Brenaith’s senses, he was warm and inviting in sharp contrast to the god who had sired him. Compared to Lutan, the shadow knight seemed a haven of normality.

  His master finally strode to the bedside, looking down on him with fathomless eyes.

  “You have learned your lesson?” The tone was cool, but not vicious as Brenaith had half expected.

  He nodded, frantically, disjointedly.

  The knight relaxed, his shoulders lowering.

  “Good. I should not like to have to kill you. It was difficult to persuade my father you were worth leaving alive. He will not concede to me if this happens again.” He sat upon the bed, grasping Brenaith’s leg and drawing him to him with swift strength, leaning over his prone form before Brenaith could move.

  Brenaith felt frozen as he looked up into his master’s eyes, terrified of making the least move that might be viewed as oppositional.

  Shaynith-una put a hand over his racing heart.

  “Shh. Peace. He is not here. You have learned, and that is all that needs to happen. Beyond that, mind your words. My sire is quick with fury and slow to forget. Be calm, be quiet, and you will do well here.”

  They stayed there until Brenaith managed to calm himself down, to reassure his body and mind that there was no immediate threat.

  The fact that a shadow knight hovered over him, now seemed less dangerous, something he would never have believed possible until his encounter with Lutan. His master was almost comforting in comparison. At least Brenaith knew him to a degree, and had not seen the dark madness that pulsed through Lutan with such strength, as though he were created of nothing but chaos and malignancy.

  He shivered, desperately drawing his thoughts
away. He needed to block the memories, or he would never survive this place.

  His master nodded, then leaned forward, laying his palm across Brenaith’s forehead. His eyes darkened, and heat radiated from his hand, almost soothing.

  Brenaith collapsed utterly, his body going boneless. The memory became hazy, as though from a long time ago. There, but not as potent, not as disabling.

  When the heat of the hand disappeared, he made a low moan of protest, wishing that his master would dull more memories, leave him a mindless puppet that felt nothing at all. Something that would never attract the attention of Lutan again.

  The palm cupped his cheek, swept down to cradle his chin and turn his face to the knight’s intent stare. “I like what I find in your mind. It is interesting. I have no wish to destroy it.” Shaynith-una frowned a little at his own statement, as though it made no sense to him, then he blinked, and his eyes were clear again, as though he had thrust any confusion away.

  “I must feed now.” His lip curled a little. “Not much. You will taste bitter after this debacle, but I need enough to function today.”

  He rolled Brenaith slightly, who did not resist in the slightest, holding tightly to the soft muzziness that seemed to cushion his mind.

  He relaxed into the familiarity of the pain/bliss of the bite, staring up at the ceiling, hearing the soft sounds of his master drawing blood from his neck. So strange, that this was suddenly welcome, suddenly stabilizing.

  He hoped this lack of focus remained forever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brenaith longed for the sun, the wind. Anything at all that would signal freedom from the dark oppression that seemed built into the very stones of this place. A month, and he was already at his wits end, circling mindlessly in the room, pacing when the walls seemed to be closing in upon him, crushing him.