little death

Vizaeth paces around the altar, savouring the terror in Kenafin’s eyes as they roll to extremes in their sockets, trying to follow his movement. His own blood still stains the sacrifice channels cut into the stone, and his stomach prickles at the memories the sight conjures. He wishes—not for the first time—that Pharaun could be here to witness this. It’s too great a risk for him to be involved, though, and Vizaeth can’t risk endangering his position. Not when he’s barely begun to make amends.

He smooths Kenafin’s hair back from his clammy forehead, smirking at the blunted moan that slips from his frozen lips. The same venom that once coursed through his veins as Pharaun claimed him now binds this blasphemous excuse for a drow to the sacrificial block, though Merdax’s experience with it will not be nearly so transcendent. He trails his fingers over Kenafin’s cheek, his jaw, his neck. His mouth is bloodied, a tooth missing where Rhylfein hit him. For someone so slight, apprentice Dyrr has an impressive arm.

Another moan—a whimper—escapes Kenafin. It echoes off the high walls, caught by shadows and crimson torchlight. Vizaeth leans close, so his breath will brush like a razor over Kenafin’s skin.

“Do you like that?” he whispers. “Does that feel good?”

“Are you planning to fuck him up or just fuck him?” Rhylfein calls. He’s leaning on the workbench, nursing split knuckles from the blow that put Kenafin on his back. “How long does that stuff last, anyway?”

Vizaeth glares at him. “Hours. Less if he fights.”

“Better get a move on, then. He likes to fight.”

That stupid grin on his face as he says it. Teasing. He’s been doing it all afternoon. Vizaeth ignores both the comment and the heat the smile provokes in him, and returns to the other end of the workbench, where a small cauldron seethes with arcane fog. It spills lazily over the sides, misting across the open book laid next to it. It rises to meet him as he approaches, reaching out with eager tendrils to wrap around his bare arms, chilling them, making his scars itch. He dislikes letting Rhylfein see them again, but he needs access to his own blood for the ritual, so bare they lie.

“So how does this work?” Rhylfein leans over his shoulder to peer at the book.

“I don’t need your help,” Vizaeth replies curtly. “You’re here for your own amusement. Don’t interfere.”

“I’m not going to mess up your spell, Thaezyr. But you’ve been annoyingly cagey, and so far all I’ve seen are rat bones and rotten meat. Given that you’ve somehow gotten your pretty little hands on a Thayan tome, you can’t blame me for being curious.”

Vizaeth traces a hand over the pages of dense necromantic lore, blackened nails lightly scraping the yellowed paper. A little gift from Charon’s Claw, that permanent stain. The book thrums beneath his fingertips, a sensuous calling unlike any other—just being near it makes his blood sing. He resents Rhylfein even seeing it.

Still. He’s the reason Kenafin was so easy to get down here, so perhaps Vizaeth does owe him something.

“Have you bound a familiar yet?”

“I’m sure I’ll get around to it eventually.”

“I haven’t.” Vizaeth draws his finger down the page. “But that changes today.”

“You’re going to summon one with necromancy?” Rhylfein sounds intrigued. “Please tell me you have to carve Kenafin into pieces for it.”

“Just one piece.”

The next page is filled with an old diagram, the ink faded but still clear enough to follow. Rhylfein peers closer, pressed right up against his back now, breath brushing his neck. He should have left his hair down, not braided up, exposing him like this. Rhylfein’s mouth can’t be more than an inch from his jugular.

“Oh, that’s hideous,” Rhylfein murmurs. “I love it.” He straightens up, and Vizaeth finds it significantly easier to breathe. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

“I am waiting for my brew to reach saturation. You can keep an eye on Kenafin.”

“It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

Vizaeth narrows his eyes, which is apparently amusing, for Rhylfein chuckles softly as he wanders over to Kenafin, who whines in fear at his approach. Leaving Rhylfein to his entertainment, Vizaeth turns his attention to the cauldron. The fog has taken on a crimson tinge—it’s almost ready. He lowers his face into the vapours, inhaling greedily.

When he exhales, the fog is the colour of heartsblood. Time to begin.

He takes up his knife and finds a narrow strip of clear skin on his arm to draw it through. Flesh parts easily—he keeps his blades sharp and clean and worthy—and he holds his wrist over the cauldron, where the spilled blood makes the brew sizzle and seethe. Swirls of mist rise to meet his hands as he plunges them in, shoving their way beneath his skin. Vizaeth hisses in pain, mouth twisting in a snarl of satisfaction.

When he lifts his hands free, he’s wrapped to the elbow in red mist, all his scars stinging as though freshly made. Agony sits on the back of his tongue, iron and honey, but the spell has a time limit so he cannot savour it. He returns his knife to his belt, takes up the sharp-edged scoop, engraved with Thayan sigils in his own neat hand, and joins Rhylfein at the altar.

Kenafin’s face is streaked with tears, and he’s making weak, choked little sounds, like a frightened child. Vizaeth cocks his head, and cups Kenafin’s face with a vapour wreathed hand.

“Hush,” he says, channelling Pharaun’s soothing cadence. Tendrils of red smoke drift from the corners of his mouth. “You brought this on yourself, Merdax. You laid hands on a sacred thing—did you think there wouldn’t be a price for your blasphemy?”

He presses the back of the scoop to Kenafin’s cheek and knows just how vibrant the chill of it feels. If Merdax isn’t hard right now, he’ll be surprised.

“And now Lolth takes her pound of flesh,” he continues. “Though you should count yourself fortunate you’ll lose significantly less than that. I only need one of your eyes, after all.”

Next to him, Rhylfein makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing, just…you sound exactly like Master Mizzrym. It’s uncanny.”

“Thank you,” Vizaeth says, though from Rhylfein’s expression it wasn’t intended as a compliment.

No matter. Time is ticking, the magic boiling in his blood; if it doesn’t get what it wants soon, it will take it from him. He sets his palm over Kenafin’s neck, atop his pulse, and brings the scoop to bear. Those lovely, bright crimson eyes widen in deeply satisfying terror as he sets the sharp edge along the socket, by the nose. His own pulse is nearly as fast as Merdax’s, and he draws a breath to steady his hand. No mistakes.

A sound that wants to be a scream struggles from Merdax’s throat as the scoop sweeps along the bone in a sweet slide of parting skin and eager blood. Vizaeth pushes down, digging into the muscle that holds the eye in place, and bloody vapour rushes forth from his hand and his mouth, gleefully easing the eyeball’s passage to freedom. Another strangled noise escapes Merdax’s frozen mouth, and out of the corner of his eye, Vizaeth sees his hand come up off the block.

“Rhylfein!”

Rhylfein grabs Merdax’s wrist and pins it down. “Sit still like a good little dog, Kenafin. Let Lolth take what She’s owed.” The taunting edge to his voice sends a shiver down Vizaeth’s spine.

Push. Lift. Kenafin’s eye comes free, trailing the bloody strands that bind it to his head. Vizaeth reaches for his knife, only to find Rhylfein’s hand already there. They lock eyes as he draws it from the sheath, slow, and presses the hilt into Vizaeth’s palm. His fingers brush Vizaeth’s wrist through the fog, across the open wound through which his power flows, and a red jolt leaps through him, a sudden vision of the two of them entangled atop the altar, bare flesh slick with sweat and blood.

“Finish the ritual, Thaezyr,” Rhylfein murmurs, and it takes two very long seconds for Vizaeth to rip his gaze free.

With a swift motion, he severs the cord and pulls Kenafin’s eye free. The knife clatters to the floor as he darts back to the cauldron, which is vomiting so much red fog now it’s barely visible. The thick clouds rise to meet him, whispering untranslatable death like a lover where they caress his skin.

Kenafin’s eye falls into the miasma and he swipes his fingers through the cut on his wrist, quickly marks a symbol onto his face. Immediately it burns like acid—the magic is so very, very hungry. He grasps the cauldron with both hands, incanting the spell with quick, sharp syllables that double back on themselves, buzzing in his throat.

He can still feel Rhylfein’s eyes on him, and risks a glance over his shoulder. Bright as blood they stare back at him, and the place inside him Pharaun touched when last he was here pulses with want. There’s a tightness in his thighs, a throbbing between his legs which the necromancy can only partly account for. He wets his dry lips and forces his attention back to the ritual.

The fog is returning to the cauldron, drawing in slow at first, then faster and faster, until it’s a small whirlwind spinning down into the blackness of the magic Vizaeth has crafted. Blood and power is ripped from him so violently he almost comes right then and there, a great, gasping moan tearing from his throat.

Silence fills the chamber. Even Kenafin has ceased his crying. Heart thudding, Vizaeth leans over the cauldron. Darkness lies heavy within. Blood crusts the rim. Tentatively, he reaches in, and something touches his hand. Swallowing, tasting blood and ash and magic, he lifts his hand back out.

Seated in his palm is the skeleton of a rat. Contained within its ribcage is Merdax’s eye, and, as Vizaeth raises his arm, it rolls towards him in recognition. A thin thread of power springs to life, running from the centre of his mind to the centre of hers, and she sits up on her hind legs.

<Master!>

He’s done it. He’s done it! A smile splits his face, and when he looks at Rhylfein, he finds an answering grin.

“Nice work,” Rhylfein says.

Vizaeth looks back to his familiar, who cocks her skull to one side, tail twitching, and warmth clutches at his heart. She’s more than nice work.

She’s perfect.

---

“What’ll you call her?”

Vizaeth finishes wiping the blood from his face—careful not to damage his makeup—and tosses the rag aside. He holds out a hand to the workbench and his familiar darts up to perch on his wrist.

“Lothaphyon,” he says.

“Little death.” Rhylfein smirks. “Cute.”

“She’s a powerful necromantic summons, forged from my blood and bound to my soul,” Vizaeth retorts. Lothaphyon nudges at his thumb with her tiny skull and warmth strangles his heart again. “But she is very cute.”

“Mm.”

Rhylfein is looking at him strangely. Candlelight flickers, glinting off the rings in his ears—five either side, symmetrical hoops. There are, Vizaeth notices, a few strands of his long red hair caught in one on the right-hand side. A sudden, distressing urge to fix it cramps his hand. He flexes his fingers, shaking it out, and a blink later Rhylfein is back to his usual faintly smug expression.

“We should deal with that mess,” he says, gesturing at the bloody, unconscious form of Kenafin. Vizaeth sighs. If he had his way, he’d simply cut the toad’s throat and raise him as a thrall, but that would only get them all in deep trouble.

At his silent command, Lothaphyon scurries up onto his shoulder as he flicks to the back of the Thayan tome and draws out a spell scroll.

“You’re not going to heal him, are you?” Rhylfein’s lip curls.

“Don’t be stupid,” Vizaeth says. “I’m going to make sure he remembers what I want him to remember, that’s all.”

He smooths out the scroll on a clean patch of stone by Kenafin’s head. His eye socket is a ruin of crusting blood and ragged flesh, and oh, the urge to take the other is strong. He’d never so much as look at Lolth’s Blessed again. But then he’d never see his ruined face, never know—not truly—the wrath She has delivered upon him.

“Are you going to take everything?” Rhylfein is at his shoulder again, far too close, a hand on the small of his back. Vizaeth sidesteps away.

“No. He’ll remember the pain. He just won’t remember who did it.”

“Shame.”

“Necessary. You might have House Dyrr to run back to, but I am not losing Sorcere for him.”

Rhylfein’s jaw tightens at the mention of his House, but he says nothing. Whatever problems he has with his family are his own; Vizaeth has enough to worry about. He takes up his knife and begins to read from the scroll, slicing into his other arm for the blood to change enchantment to necromancy. Typically, the subject needs to be awake for the spell to take—necromancy will sink the changes into Kenafin’s very bones. He’ll wake in agony, and the shadow of the horror will haunt him the rest of his days.

The casting drains him, especially after summoning Lothaphyon. Vizaeth sags as he completes the incantation; he’s spent too much blood today by far. He’s dizzy, weak, and he can’t let Rhylfein see it. He forces his spine straight.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” Rhylfein says.

“I can’t work enchantment,” Vizaeth snaps. “It hates me. Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“No, I mean you shouldn’t be able to cast that as necromancy.” Rhylfein catches his bleeding wrist and holds it too tight when Vizaeth tries to jerk away. “How many times have you done that?”

“Take a wild fucking guess.”

“Does Master Zaurett know you can do it?”

“No.” Vizaeth finally wrenches his arm free, glaring at him. “And you’re not going to tell him.”

Rhylfein holds up his hands. “My lips are sealed. But damn, Thaezyr. You’re really something.”

What kind of something he is, Vizaeth doesn’t want to know. Rhylfein helps him pack up the ritual, and between them they drag Kenafin’s unconscious, still mostly paralysed body into one of the hidden passages. They dump him in a corridor near the infirmary, and leave him for a priestess to find.

Vizaeth has to pause when they slip back into the passage, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. He’s not built for such manual labour, and the blood loss isn’t helping. Lothaphyon nudges at his ear, her eye rolling in concern.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, stroking a comforting finger along her spine. She’s so small, so fragile, and already she trusts him with her life. He trusts her too, this bone-caged piece of his heart.

“She’s going to attract a lot of attention,” Rhylfein says. He’s not winded at all. Bastard. “She’s a pretty unique familiar.”

“I’m not going to parade her around like a trophy.” Vizaeth curls a protective hand over her—she immediately squirms out between his fingers, the dry rasp of bone over skin making his hand tingle. “She’ll stay in my quarters. Or unsummoned.”

“Pity to hide something so special.”

“You can come and see her if you want.”

It’s a stupid offer. He winces internally at the pure idiocy of it. Lothaphyon is a familiar not some hapless pet, and he doesn’t need Rhylfein showing up at his quarters, why did he say that?

Rhylfein flashes a grin. “You asking me on another date, handsome?”

Vizaeth flushes, and he knows that’s exactly the reaction Rhylfein was hoping for, because his smile widens, all the way to his eyes, and he laughs—not cruelly, not the way Vizaeth is used to, but with a warm, full-throated amusement. He reaches out, and for a second Vizaeth is sure he’s going to touch him, but then his hand goes to Lothaphyon. She bumps her skull against his knuckles.

“I’ll come visit,” Rhylfein says. He holds Vizaeth’s gaze as he strokes two slow fingers over Lothaphyon’s head. “I’d like to see her again.”

The tight heat in Vizaeth’s stomach says it’s not her he’s talking about. He swallows. Manages a nod. His tongue’s too heavy for words right now.

Rhylfein leans in, and Vizaeth can’t think, speak, stop him—his lips part involuntarily and he hates them for it. A thumb swipes over his cheek, and Rhylfein steps back, holding it up. It’s smeared with red.

“You still had blood on you,” he says. Licks his thumb clean with a slow pop.

Vizaeth can’t breathe. His blood is in Rhylfein’s mouth. He’s inside him. He didn’t—doesn’t—want to be, but now he is and he can feel it; the slow slide down flexing throat muscles into red darkness, digested, absorbed.

Rhylfein has no idea what he’s just done.

“I need to go,” Vizaeth rasps.

“Do you?” Rhylfein’s voice is low, makes his insides ache, and he thinks about Pharaun, thinks about Pharaun, thinks about Pharaun.

“Yes. Thanks for the help with Kenafin. I…I’ll see you in class.”

Vizaeth ducks around him and flees into the tangle of Sorcere’s veins. His heart is trying to crack his sternum, and when he finally seals himself in his room, it’s not much calmer. He shoves his fist into his mouth and bites, hard. This is ridiculous. Rhylfein Dyrr is nothing, no-one, just another bloodthirsty apprentice who likes to run his mouth. And anyway, it might not even have been his blood, it might have been Kenafin’s.

His veins sear, angry at the thought, and he shakes his head furiously. He needs to pull himself together. He’s seeing Pharaun later, spending the whole night with him. His reward, as promised.

“It’s Lolth’s will,” he whispers to Lothaphyon, letting her run down his arm to his hand, where she fits perfectly in his palm. “It’s Her design for us to be together. Rhylfein can’t interfere with that.”

He sets about readying himself to fulfil Her will, and as he’s changing, he finds a long, red hair caught on his shoulder.

He ignores how much his hand shakes as he burns it to ash.