The coins themselves are simple, mostly silver with a few copper ones, all of them displaying the two headed eagle of the Ravkan empire, the writing etched on it Cyrillic, giving it a distinctly eastern European flare. Touching them transports Athena to a dark night, long ago, in a secluded dacha nestled deep in the woods.
The house is simple but modest, candle light illuminating the areas where the moonlight from the windows can't reach. The sense of urgency is overwhelming, a vague, uneasiness simmering beneath the surface of his emotions. The Darkling is trying to keep panic at bay as he packs provisions and supplies for a journey that's to be made with haste. A girl in red--Luda, beautiful, mortal Luda--assists. The Darkling makes sure to keep his voice calm and tempered--he is a leader. There are people counting on him. Luda is counting on him.
The sound of horses is easy to hear, hooves thunderous in the quiet night. A small hunting party, he guesses, and the voice calling out for him, calling him 'Darkling,' confirms it. Luda and he exchange looks, and the Darkling thinks quickly, despite the small shake of Luda's head.
"Remember Ryevost?"
Luda nods. "The same plan?" she asks, and the Darkling casts one last look of longing before exiting the dacha.
He steps forward, meeting the men in their uniforms, slowly, confidently, and he reminds himself to steel his jaw, to look evenly at everyone. To quell the nervousness, and the worry for the safety of the beautiful woman hiding in the little hut. He recognizes the captain of the soldiers, the men dressed in fine blue, some with torches, most with bows and full quivers, all with wariness in their eyes. The Darkling reminds himself that he will survive. He steps forward.
"It is you. Darkling." The captain, Chiruk, stands in front of his group. The Darkling lifts his jaw, a proper display, a sign that he does not fear otkazat’sya.
"I approach peacefully," he reminds them, hands not raised, but instead in full view where the others can see them.
"The King wants you back alive," Chiruk says. "But maybe you resisted. So--" he gives the signal.
Two arrow fly through the air directly at The Darkling's chest. The pain is unbearable, and he grunts, falling to his knees, gritting his teeth. Push through it, he thinks, determined. His shaky hand grasps at the shaft, and he groans as he pulls it out, fighting the pain. He can feel Luda's healing abilities seal the wound almost immediately from her position in the dacha. He pulls the other out, too, and once muscle and skin has been mended secretly, he stands up.
"Please. I don't want to hurt you." There's a small part of the Darkling that does, but he keeps that part in check. Three more arrows land in him. He staggers back, the pain overwhelming, pulling them out with gritted teeth and a sickening squelch. Rage flares up, and causing his voice to rise as Luda continues to heal him. Let them fear him.
"I have a message for the King. If he or any of his men slaughter one more of my--"
The door to the cottage bursts open, a soldier emerging as he holds Luda at knife point. "Stand down, Grisha," he warns, and then to Chiruk: "Here’s the little witch who’s been stitching him back together."
The Darkling's rage has been replaced with a cold fear. "Luda--"
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the Darkling's fear is immediately replaced by something more, something visceral.
"Hands at your back," the Chiruk orders, "or the next arrow will do its job."
The Darkling keeps his eyes on Luda as the leader binds him, allowing him to, the iron shackles biting at his wrists, a wooden pole between his hands so he can't use his gifts. He thinks quickly. He tries to bargain. He cannot keep the emotion from his voice, not when it comes to her.
"You have two prizes for the King," he pleas, his voice losing the confident and controlled edge he'd once had. "You want a promotion to lieutenant, take us to the palace!" He needs Luda. He needs her alive, he needs her safe. He's kicked down to a kneeling position, and he finds himself shaking. He's not sure if it's rage or concern for the love of his life, but it seems to set his whole body on fire.
"I only need you," the soldier says. "Not your Healer." The Darkling's lip curls up into a snarl as the other continues. "You thought the two of you could just quietly train witches among us?"
The Darkling is fighting, trying desperately to get his hands to touch, the wooden pole preventing him from using his power. "You want my cooperation, you bring us both in. Is that understood?!" He allows himself anger, he allows himself to growl, a nearly feral warning.
"I told you, those were not our orders."
It happens fast. The Darkling cries out, his desperate pleas swallowed among the trees, too slow, too useless as a knife slides in between Luda's ribs. She'll take hours to die, some strange detached part of the Darkling thinks before he feels it, before he loses himself to a cacophony of emotions. Grief was something he thought he'd done well with when it came to keeping it at bay, he knows his mother has warned him not to get close to any mortal, he knows this is why, but it's bubbling up to the surface. He's dimly aware that he's shouting her name, voice hoarse as the knife twists and she falls to the floor, breathing laboured. At some point, he begins to cry.
"Now," Chiruk says simply, taunting. "You still have a message for him?"
The Darkling grows still. Calm, despite fresh tears. He looks up, sheer determination in his eyes. "Yes," he says, and with a burst of adrenaline, somehow manages to snap the wooden pole between his hands with a grunt. "This."
He stands up, clasping his hands together summoning the shadows of the night, drawing on his own, the trees, the small company of soldiers'. It happens in an instant, raising his hands in a flourish, the inky blackness becoming deadly. A Cut, a surge of power so immense it's stronger than even Grisha steel, and when he brings his hand down in a swift arc, it cuts all 10 men down. The leader is sliced neatly in two, innards spilling onto the ground, and the Darkling stands above them, panting, power coursing through him, surveying the fresh corpses of the people responsible for Luda's pain.
Memory (tw murder, gore) - closed to Athena, also a fucking novel whoops
The house is simple but modest, candle light illuminating the areas where the moonlight from the windows can't reach. The sense of urgency is overwhelming, a vague, uneasiness simmering beneath the surface of his emotions. The Darkling is trying to keep panic at bay as he packs provisions and supplies for a journey that's to be made with haste. A girl in red--Luda, beautiful, mortal Luda--assists. The Darkling makes sure to keep his voice calm and tempered--he is a leader. There are people counting on him. Luda is counting on him.
The sound of horses is easy to hear, hooves thunderous in the quiet night. A small hunting party, he guesses, and the voice calling out for him, calling him 'Darkling,' confirms it. Luda and he exchange looks, and the Darkling thinks quickly, despite the small shake of Luda's head.
"Remember Ryevost?"
Luda nods. "The same plan?" she asks, and the Darkling casts one last look of longing before exiting the dacha.
He steps forward, meeting the men in their uniforms, slowly, confidently, and he reminds himself to steel his jaw, to look evenly at everyone. To quell the nervousness, and the worry for the safety of the beautiful woman hiding in the little hut. He recognizes the captain of the soldiers, the men dressed in fine blue, some with torches, most with bows and full quivers, all with wariness in their eyes. The Darkling reminds himself that he will survive. He steps forward.
"It is you. Darkling." The captain, Chiruk, stands in front of his group. The Darkling lifts his jaw, a proper display, a sign that he does not fear otkazat’sya.
"I approach peacefully," he reminds them, hands not raised, but instead in full view where the others can see them.
"The King wants you back alive," Chiruk says. "But maybe you resisted. So--" he gives the signal.
Two arrow fly through the air directly at The Darkling's chest. The pain is unbearable, and he grunts, falling to his knees, gritting his teeth. Push through it, he thinks, determined. His shaky hand grasps at the shaft, and he groans as he pulls it out, fighting the pain. He can feel Luda's healing abilities seal the wound almost immediately from her position in the dacha. He pulls the other out, too, and once muscle and skin has been mended secretly, he stands up.
"Please. I don't want to hurt you." There's a small part of the Darkling that does, but he keeps that part in check. Three more arrows land in him. He staggers back, the pain overwhelming, pulling them out with gritted teeth and a sickening squelch. Rage flares up, and causing his voice to rise as Luda continues to heal him. Let them fear him.
"I have a message for the King. If he or any of his men slaughter one more of my--"
The door to the cottage bursts open, a soldier emerging as he holds Luda at knife point. "Stand down, Grisha," he warns, and then to Chiruk: "Here’s the little witch who’s been stitching him back together."
The Darkling's rage has been replaced with a cold fear. "Luda--"
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the Darkling's fear is immediately replaced by something more, something visceral.
"Hands at your back," the Chiruk orders, "or the next arrow will do its job."
The Darkling keeps his eyes on Luda as the leader binds him, allowing him to, the iron shackles biting at his wrists, a wooden pole between his hands so he can't use his gifts. He thinks quickly. He tries to bargain. He cannot keep the emotion from his voice, not when it comes to her.
"You have two prizes for the King," he pleas, his voice losing the confident and controlled edge he'd once had. "You want a promotion to lieutenant, take us to the palace!" He needs Luda. He needs her alive, he needs her safe. He's kicked down to a kneeling position, and he finds himself shaking. He's not sure if it's rage or concern for the love of his life, but it seems to set his whole body on fire.
"I only need you," the soldier says. "Not your Healer." The Darkling's lip curls up into a snarl as the other continues. "You thought the two of you could just quietly train witches among us?"
The Darkling is fighting, trying desperately to get his hands to touch, the wooden pole preventing him from using his power. "You want my cooperation, you bring us both in. Is that understood?!" He allows himself anger, he allows himself to growl, a nearly feral warning.
"I told you, those were not our orders."
It happens fast. The Darkling cries out, his desperate pleas swallowed among the trees, too slow, too useless as a knife slides in between Luda's ribs. She'll take hours to die, some strange detached part of the Darkling thinks before he feels it, before he loses himself to a cacophony of emotions. Grief was something he thought he'd done well with when it came to keeping it at bay, he knows his mother has warned him not to get close to any mortal, he knows this is why, but it's bubbling up to the surface. He's dimly aware that he's shouting her name, voice hoarse as the knife twists and she falls to the floor, breathing laboured. At some point, he begins to cry.
"Now," Chiruk says simply, taunting. "You still have a message for him?"
The Darkling grows still. Calm, despite fresh tears. He looks up, sheer determination in his eyes. "Yes," he says, and with a burst of adrenaline, somehow manages to snap the wooden pole between his hands with a grunt. "This."
He stands up, clasping his hands together summoning the shadows of the night, drawing on his own, the trees, the small company of soldiers'. It happens in an instant, raising his hands in a flourish, the inky blackness becoming deadly. A Cut, a surge of power so immense it's stronger than even Grisha steel, and when he brings his hand down in a swift arc, it cuts all 10 men down. The leader is sliced neatly in two, innards spilling onto the ground, and the Darkling stands above them, panting, power coursing through him, surveying the fresh corpses of the people responsible for Luda's pain.
It feels good.