Bonesplinter Ravine [M] ‘Cause Anything’s Better than the Way I Feel Right Now

It was too loud.
The buzzing.

It grew, swelling louder by the minute. By the second. Faces flashed by in sickening bursts.

Mother.
Juno.
Dead.
Rotting.

And the flies swarmed around them.

Feasting.
Buzzing.

He needed @Elveera. She would know what to do. How to make it stop.
Machiavelli poked his head into the alcove where the healer had stored her supplies.

His body ached, eyes red and weary.
Mouth dry.
Eira?

She’s not in, I’m afraid.

Two golden eyes gleamed from the back of the chamber, predatory and unblinking.

The lion sprawled lazily upon the stone floor. His gaze, cold and hawkish, tracked Hasdrubal’s every tentative step as he entered the chamber. The silence was broken only by the faint rustle of Herod’s paw as it toyed with a scarlet bud, rolling it between his knuckles. A heap of them lay scattered beside him.

Looking for a healer, boy? Herod’s voice was a low purr, dripping with amusement. You look like death itself.

Machiavelli’s throat tightened, his fur bristling with unease. His eyes locked on the flower spinning in Herod’s paw, the ruby petals blurring as they moved. Herod.

Where is she? What did you do to her? Machiavelli demanded, his voice edged with desperation, pale-pink nails digging into the cold stone beneath him as though the ground itself might give way.

Do to her?

Herod’s laughter rang out, low and chilling, reverberating off the cold stone walls like the echo of some ancient and terrible beast. As he laughed, his paw closed around the delicate flower, the fragile petals wilting under his grasp, bleeding scarlet into his palm.

Why do you always think the worst of me? Herod’s paw opened, the crushed petals falling from his grasp like blood-soaked confetti.

Is there something I should know, boy? he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, taunting, prodding at the fragile boundaries of Hasdrubal’s composure. Something about the little bird, perhaps? Or the messages she’s been sending? His golden eyes flashed dangerously, warningly, lingering on the boy before he waved the crimson smeared paw. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Hasdrubal? Of course not.

Machiavelli’s jaw locked tight, teeth grinding together as he met Herod’s wheat-colored eyes, rotten and gleaming. He could smell the pungent aroma of the crushed flowers with every one of Herod’s breaths, the scent heavy, intoxicating—almost visible, like a mist coiling around him, pulling him closer.

Are you going to give those to me? The dog’s voice was hoarse.

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The lion exhaled slowly, twin puffs of sickly sweet air from his nose. I am not feeling generous anymore, not after your last little outburst when I offered them to you. No, if you want them now you will have to work for them, I am afraid. Herod's silver paw trailed down his stomach.

I missed you, you know, The Abbot drawled, reclining further into the shadows, eyes gleaming up at the stone ceiling. These thoughts kept slipping into my mind, vivid little scenes of the two of us… you, on the ground, looking up at me with those wide, doe eyes while I— he stopped, cutting himself off with a chuckle. But you always knew my fantasies better than I did, didn’t you? He flashed a jagged smile, his yellowed teeth flecked with bits of crushed petals.

Machiavelli’s stomach turned, anger and need warring within him as he glared down at Herod, golden-pelted and grinning. He needed to think—needed a way out—but his mind was spiraling. The scent of the flowers hung heavy in the air, clouding his thoughts and making it impossible to focus. Just once… he could quiet his mind. Just enough to figure out how to save Eira and himself.

One last time. Until he could get back home.

The Prophet stepped forward, hips swaying on uneven steps and damaged legs, and settled onto Herod.

Images of his paws pressing heavily into the man's neck until the veins bulged and the golden eyes popped danced darkly in his mind.

Comforting.

Herod's mouth curled into a wicked smile, the gleam of his fur catching the dim light of the chamber as he brought his paw to caress the sunken contours of the ivory face. He hoped Hasdrubal did not expect his appetite to be sated quite so easily.

What are you imagining, boy? He asked, claw tracing the carved cheekbone.

Machiavelli’s smile unfurled slowly, a soft, delicate thing, almost too pretty to hint at the malice behind it. He nuzzled deeper into the withered paw, shattered-glass gaze never leaving Herod's own. All the things I’m going to do to you.

Leaning down, his lips ghosted along the other's, a teasing brush of warmth before he pressed closer, trailing his mouth with agonizing slowness. He could feel the velvet petals graze his tongue, their faint bitterness blooming between his teeth.

One last time, and never again.