Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Herod’s snarl deepened as pain erupted from his leg, the boy’s fangs biting deep into muscle with a savage ferocity that sent shock waves through his frame—an unneeded reminder of his own mortality.

He was forced to the ground, and within a breath, the boy was atop him. He twisted sharply, grappling against Hasdrubal’s fierce hold, every inch of his body engaged in the dance, every muscle straining to defend vital points from the boy’s ravenous assault.

How dare you? Herod’s voice was a hiss of seething wrath, his arms coiling like iron around Hasdrubal’s thin frame, each syllable laced with venomous disbelief. How dare you, you disgusting whelp! The boy’s paw twisted at his jaw, and Herod aimed to crush it in his teeth, the taste of defiance sharp on his tongue. All that I have done, all that I have built—it was for you! I carved a kingdom from the dust, forged it with my own blood and will! And this— he choked, his gaze shifting to see the boy’s other paw gripping the wine, its crimson shimmer signaling Herod’s ruin.

Horror curled in his gut, a sickening recognition of what was intended, and with renewed desperation, he lashed out, raking claws across Hasdrubal’s flesh with an animalistic fury—throat, chest, face, eyes—there would be no sanctuary, no inch left unmarked by his wrath.

You think you can ever be rid of me, boy? Herod’s voice, though strained, surged with a dangerous fury, an edge of panic that he could not entirely suppress. The lion’s bared teeth twisted into a grim sneer. His strength was fading quickly, but so too was the boy's—he only need buy a little more time. You were made in my image. Kill me now but know this—with each breath you draw, it is my lungs that fill, with every pulse, it is my blood that flows within you.

Do you not see, Hasdrubal? You are bound to me, fettered by the very life I gifted you. Slay me, but I shall not die—no, my spirit will eclipse even death, woven into your bones, twisted into every thought that passes through your mind! His paws gripped the boy's head, slamming it into the stone wall. Once, twice.

A bitter laugh bubbled from his throat, spilling forth in defiance and madness, a sound that echoed through the chamber, haunting and unending.

Thrice.

Herod.

That was all that mattered. All that filled Machiavelli’s focus, sharpening his senses to a single, searing point. He could not hear Eset scream his name; the world beyond the next breath and the frantic thud of his heart was lost to him.

Herod.

That voice, dripping with poison.

Machiavelli did not register the streaks of blood smeared along the cavern wall, or the way it spilled down his face. The way his vision sparked like a thousand stars before his eyes with every hit.

Only The Abbot's foul mouth and how it would not stop spewing venom.

The bowl—clutched in his trembling paw—was brought to Herod’s lips, forced between them, spilling its contents with each gasp and sputter.

And he would hold his mouth shut and never let go.

Never, even as The Abbot foamed.

And writhed.

Shook, clawed, bucked.

Went still.

Again, and again.

Overkill.

But Eset sees it as justice. Life’s triumph in the map of death.  A life lived in strife put to death. Azure veins over alabaster skin, coral lips brandishing their new blue. A conquest satisfied. Never again will hysteria please him best. Such shadows are the brain’s forgeries. Two masters laid to rest this night.

Mustering to the quiet stance, Eset takes a step, and another, until she is lain across the patterned shoulders, glistening in light and blood. Her hands wrap against the thumping heart, the nose to his cheek whispers, “Machi– Machi.”

“He is gone.”

Disgust, anger, hate—each emotion struck like a hammer blow, a relentless pounding that drove Machiavelli’s every movement, his every breath. His instincts screamed for him to continue, to tear and rend until Herod was reduced to something unrecognizable, something unworthy even of a burial. His mother had never received that honor, nor had Juno. Why should he?

But then—Eset. They needed to leave. She didn’t deserve to share his fate, to be swallowed in the aftermath of his wrath. The thought stilled him, cut through the haze with a clarity he hadn’t expected.

A long, tense moment passed before he finally unclenched his jaws, pulling away from Herod’s slackened form, not truly believing, not truly trusting.

When he turned to face the Hebsut, his vision blurred, though not merely from the blood loss. His cheeks were wet, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, unaware of when the tears had begun to fall.

A voice, barely more than a whisper, fractured and raw: I didn't think you were coming.




Thank you.

He thanks her. Had she not confounded his mess by dint of hardheadedness?

Eset does not let go, wrapping his thousand fears in the span of her own, every joint grimly shaking, remembering with utter clarity all the times in which she bloodied her mind against the want of vengeance. There is another side, one hope-kissed and full of breath.

Below them, Herod bleeds.

She shifts to reach for Machi’s hand, leading him from the depths of the cavern when the moonlight threw soldier’s shadows against the wall. 

“How do we breach them?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but her eyes are fast ushering.

Eset wanted home. She wasn't leaving without Machi.

The chill seeped through him, numbing his skin, and strangely, it brought a twisted kind of comfort, numbing the pain. After so many bitter days, the warmth of another—a touch that was friendly, gentle—was almost enough to lull him into a dangerous calm. He could feel himself drifting, eyes falling shut, heavy with exhaustion, but he stirred as Eset reached for his paw, a soft mumble of something incoherent escaping his lips.

With a wince, he forced himself upright, each step a fresh agony that radiated from his leg. He felt like a child struggling to keep up, leaning on her for balance, each breath dragging raggedly from his chest as he tried to smother any sound that might betray them. He could feel the trail he left behind, the smears of scarlet that widened to dark splotches as they moved through the shadows.

Eira's room, he panted, voice hoarse, Is next over—there are supplies.His gaze flitted around the stone walls, his opalescent eyes narrowing to scan each shadowed alcove, searching for anything that might offer a moment’s reprieve. We can draw them past us, into the main hall… and then slip out while they’re distracted.