“You can’t keep me here forever, you know.”
Their voice bounced back at themselves in the darkness. No answer. This prison was not made with stone and metal, but a ravenous void that pushes at the edges of sanity and consumes all light that dares to shine. Merlin wriggles their restraints experimentally for the third time since waking. Even the abyss is not absolute; living cracks snake through like ribbons. Escape is not impossible.
The last they remember is the fight with Cyran, right in front of the dying King. Cyran had lost; of course he had. Not because he was lacking in skill, but because the magic he used was so similar to their own.
Perhaps he realised that too. Why else would he call upon the abyss after being defeated?
The abyss had answered. Accepted his life as the price for power. Abyssal Cyran was bigger, darker, hungrier. Defeat was not enough. When Merlin grabbed his hand, he yanked them together down into…this place.
“I’ll get bored here. You might want to think about that.”
Cyran looms from the void, eyes glowing. His form fills up the darkness, replacing the prison with himself. One large hand grips Merlin by the chin and jerks their head up. From the decaying breath blowing onto their face, a hint of sandalwood breaks through.
Merlin looks impossibly small at this angle. Cyran jerks their head this way and that, feeling the squish of flesh in his hand. His claws easily pierce skin, drawing out beads of blood that fill the air with living richness. Their blood glistens red in the light of his pulsing scars. Cyran leans down.
It tastes like life. It tastes like them.
Merlin is watching him with an expression between wariness and confusion. Not fear. Not anger. Who are they to retain such composure in the face of abyssal power? They should kneel! Tremble at his feet! Beg for mercy!
“Arrogant. You think yourself better than the rest of us.”
Merlin looks like they are about to argue back, deliver a lecture on doing the right thing. Cyran silences them with a swipe of his hand. The blow snaps their head to the side, making them wince. They turn back slowly, the look in their eyes undiminished. Filled with a self-righteousness that makes his claws twitch.
“Look at you. You’re nothing. Nothing.”
“You keep saying that. Are you trying to convince yourself?”
His roar stirs up the darkness into a frenzied shaking. Cyran is on them, his form swallowing theirs entirely. Even pinned to the ground, Merlin shows none of the fear and deference they should. He tightens his grip, watching discomfort bloom on their face. Bruises on their skin crawls outwards from his fingers. At this distance, their scent fills his lungs. The warmth from their body burns him. It stirs the darkness.
“You are beaten.” Cyran raspes.
They stare back. “Dark magic cannot replace skill or morality.”
“Skill?! We do not speak of skill when we have power-”
Merlin’s light slams into his pouncing form. It tears holes in his wings, stabbing into him. Their light is bright, like a burst of Starshower. It forces the darkness back and fills him with a warmth not found in the abyss.
The abyss has been so cold.
He’s ripping off chunks of the light and swallowing it, almost choking on the warmth of it. He pays no heed to the grip in his hair, or the urgent voice repeating nonsensical words. Cyran buries his face deeper, licking and biting and nuzzling. The warmth in his mouth begins to infuse with a metallic flavor that taints the taste of the light.
Cyran. That’s what the urgent voice was repeating.
Merlin is looking up at him, their hair still glowing faintly in a sprawling mess. Their shoulder lies bare in a hole of jagged fabric, the skin there speckled with blood. The blood continues to leak from puncture wounds matching the shape of his mouth. The taste on his tongue has never been the sweeter.
The abyss is hungry for more.
Cyran rears back at the look in their eyes. Not fear, not anger. Just pain tempered by curiosity. As if he was a specimen for examination. As if what he did was just another note in their observations. As if no matter what he did, they remained high above him, untouchable and unshakable.
He’s going to pull them down.
“Do you need more?” Merlin asked. Voice soft with concern. “Does that help you?”
That horrible word again, help, like he was some charity case instead of an equal. Cyran shoves himself off them with a snarl. “You’re in no place to offer help-”
Merlin’s light blinds him once more. He can’t help himself; the abyss is hungry, he is hungry, and they taste so good.
By the time he devours the light, there is no more of it. Merlin is gone. Cyran tears the prison apart to no avail. His light is gone.
No matter how much he shrieks and snarls at the abyss, it won’t let him leave to find them. Alone again in the darkness, Cyran retreats into himself to bide his time.
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