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Goood day, Ethan! If it would be possible to request some good old pvpciv iron level angst, could I?

I would love to see some PrinceZam manipulation, towards captured Evbo.

I am really fond of the whole "pvp!Evbo is a child" headcanon, actually. If it wouldn't be too much trouble to implement it, then including no romantic relationships would be my only ask!

of course semi :D

cross posted on ao3! for @mcyttitleswap [mcytts].

warnings for canon typical dehumanization, manipulation, violence and character death, and non-canon typical starvation,

Food is a luxury which Evbo cannot afford to indulge in on a daily.

He was raised by the fragile durability of his blade to preserve his saturation, to shy away from the armor stands that drop food, in the name of saving himself from his blade's impending breaking.

Evbo sharpens his sword's strength the best he can manage, over eager and wagering nature often getting the better of him, forcing his blade to hit against stand for useless necessities. That immature impulse of his leads to frantic fights and a dull blade painted with the insides of his own veins. His opponent within the arena had dropped its sword without any care, words choking in on itself as it began to shake and tremble, arm unsteady and fingers curling into palm without the weight of the hilt.

They were more than their swords, it had told him, a fool in civilization, a philosopher in a massacre. It had died like any other, no different from any other corpse. Evbo wishes he could've eaten it before the gates opened and he was meant to leave the arena.

A savior isn't meant to require food.

He will respawn regardless, the metal through muscle temporary but always returning. He finds that a sword is more often within his neck rather than a sheathe. The iron layer will not waste food on a messiah who will not eat.

Even if he begs and pleads, his stomach in the process of being either impaled or torn right out of his abdomen whilst he does so, the guards remain steadfast in their orders, in their refusals. Evbo learns that it's a waste of time, eventually.

It doesn't mean he can't want it all the same however. His requests have taken a standstill, yet his instincts remains a needy thing, hand grasping for a sword he isn't meant to wield as the window to his cell opens slowly, brick grinding against stone floor in a way that makes him grit his teeth. He doesn't remember what the last sword looked like, nor the one before, or the previous one, but even then, he can tell that this day has gone on longer than what is should've.

If this isn't the last visitor then Evbo thinks that he's going to— he doesn't know what, but he's definitely going to do something.

The Prince's shoes greet his eyes, right before she lowers herself to meet his eyes, smile ever present.

"Good morning savior," she greets, tone light and eyes crinkling with the force of her grin. It's going to be a longer visit than most, Evbo concludes absentmindedly, not enough energy within him to shudder at the thought of it. "Won't you come up to the steps? It's always so awkward, having to speak to you so far away."

He swallows back a sigh at the thought of moving his limbs, exhaustion clinging to his body, eyes trying their best to droop shut, but he shifts towards the light anyway. If he didn't do it himself, then the Prince would do it for him. The feeling of her nails clawing into his scalp as she pulled him closer still haunts him.

"Better?" Evbo asks as his knees hit the edge of the bottom step, his hopeful tone something he can't choke down.

He gets a small hum in return, the prince's smile able to be felt even as his gaze goes to trace the indents of brick instead. He swears that the mess isn't all him. It's not his fault that the iron swords are sloppy in their kills.

The Prince's hand comes to cup his face, grasping his cheek and bringing him closer. Evbo blinks up, hesitating for only a moment before he's following, shifting up onto the first step and resting his forearms onto the bloody ledge of his cell.

"The guards have been saying that you're complaining."

He blinks, eyes widening and his breath hitching at the thought, his pulse picking up a beat.

Should have known better, is the only thing which comes to mind. He knows that he should've stopped asking after the first time they told him no, but he was just so hungry that the pleas couldn't be stopped, but now he's going to get punished and maybe, just maybe--

Evbo hopes that Tabi won't be punished because of him.

"Only a little bit." The Prince's smile dies at the sound of his meek response, a whisper that would be inaudible, amusing anywhere else that was not here. He feels the phantom sensation of a blade cutting through flesh and his eyes flutter to the blade that rests at her hip.

"I see. Is food a thing to be wasted?"

Her hold on his face digs in, refocusing his attention back to her.

"Tell me," she drawls, bringing his stare up to the glint in her eyes. "Answer me," she demands. "Should we?"

He hesitates. The Prince's glare narrows. "Should we?" she repeats, and finally he nods, to which she gives an expression which can barely be called a smile.

"Then it explain to me," she drawls, voice a charming thing, like that of a meal within the metal jaws of a trap. "Why should we give food to you?"

He swallows past a lump in his throat, chokes down a sob at the fact the question is justified: he will not live long enough to need the meal, he will not live long enough to see the day of which his hunger is solved.

"Because I'm hungry," is all he manages to breath out on shaky lungs.

Because he lets the iron swords kill him day after day with complaint. He's owed this, isn't he? Just one bite of something, that's all he wants, he doesn't care if it's half rotten or spoiled. He can't afford to be picky.

Please, Evbo wants to beg. But the word doesn't come, overwhelmed by his foolish pride that sickens him. He's a blade of ego however.

The Prince looks disappointed. She had forgotten that her savior's human, a still a teenage boy with an appetite of his own. As she stands, Evbo thinks of this as the moment where she's meant to kill him, this is the part where blade slices into neck and chops off his head, this is the part where his pulse halts in its beats and the day is reset.

But it doesn't happen.

He watches without comprehension as she turns on her shoe's heel and walks away, her figure he can still see through the gap. The window remains open. It's still her turn with him.

There's a murmur of conversation a few blocks away, he can't hear it that well, but it's the ambiance to his monologue, his mouth opening on whispers naturally, instinctively. He doesn't want to know what she's going to come back with, and so he distracts himself with the parched nature of his own voice.

Dehydration is a terrible thing, only resolved by respawn and the only thing he can take from himself.

His blood has an iron tinging to it on his tongue. Even within himself, he can never be free from the cell he was made to be in.

Evbo takes another glance to the view of the outside he's allowed, the same corridor wall, the same hallway floor, the same everything. He examines the stones which construct the walls, the foundation, the floor, before he's redirecting his gaze to the sound of the Prince's footsteps creeping closer, someone else's shuffling away, further and further.

The guard has left. He wonders what that means for him. Will she be more cruel this time, more so than any other day?

It's going to be a long visit, he knows that, dread creeping up his spine at the thought of it. At least this means he won't be alone with his thoughts for so long. At least there's that.

He flinches at the hand which runs through his hair, tugging and pulling him and his gaze up.

"Savior," the Prince tuts, irritation a glint within black beady eyes. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

She gives him a smile when he meets her gaze, barely resisting the urge to shut his eyes and turn his head back, the urge fuelled by what little rebellion he can muster up within himself.

"I'm glad to see that you're learning," she praises him, mocking and like one would to a dog barely restrained in its feral nature. "I told you that you'd get used to this."

At his further silence, her smile grows, a glint in her eye sparkling. "It's so nice, seeing you learn your place," she praises, her nails scraping his scalp to the point of pain, dragging out a flinch from his features.

He swallows past spit, retracts his teeth which urge him to bite the wrist of his captor.

"Thank you," he says instead of a curse, and the Prince's expression softens even more, her hand migrating from his scalp to his cheek. Her palm pets his skin, as if she's attempting to do a facsimile of soothing him, as one would to a struck mutt to comfort it.

Evbo breathes out a quiet sigh, sincerely hoping that this day ends sooner rather than later. Even then, he remains as still as he can manage, unmoving like a doll upon a high shelf.

*

Death blurs Evbo's memories. Respawn brings a haziness to his mind that cannot be currently remedied or resolved, one which frustrates himself with this weakness of his body.

His voice grows useless over time, vocal cords coming stagnated and irrelevant as the respawns go on and on. His hunger remains, consumes him to the brink of hollowness. Immortality cycles it, restarts the whole process, and he curses the armor stand which bears his life.

He's learned not to beg for a morsel now, too weary of another scolding and a possible strike by the Prince, but he still longs. It's been so long since he's bitten into something that isn't the metal of a blade, feels like years he's been free from the pangs of hunger.

The wall slides against the floor with the same screech as always. He blinks open bleary eyes, staring up at the glint of iron that rests on the sword his death will lie at. The hilt attaches itself to a hand of softness, a young face staring unabashedly at him, a terror imminent and without reason. He wonders if he looks the same, if he still has the youth he was spawned in with.

Evbo hopes he doesn't look as scared.

"Are you— are you our chosen one?" his murderer murmurs out, voice a shaky, trembling thing. Evbo swallows down a laugh. Who else would he be?

"Yeah," he rasps out. "I think I am."

Eyes dart from his no doubt tear streaked face, to the dirty place that is his palace, and then back to the sword which will slay the monster in the cage.

A pause cues, and he watches a myriad of expressions cross its face. "How long have you... how long have you been here?"

He shrugs, offers no verbal reply. The time has come to be confused, and he barely bothers to attempt to decipher the monotony of his massacre.

"Oh... are you—" it breathes out, and he feels himself to be growing tired of this conversation.

"Try to get the neck first try," he suggests, cutting it off. He urges himself to climb the steps, kneeling down until the back of his throat is fully exposed and his forehead is brushing against the moss of the stone. He can tell that the words are a futile thing even then. An amateur is what this killer is. He'll just have to suffer through the pains of blood loss.

The death is a memory which he forces to blur, the sheets scratchy under his freshly made skin as Evbo breathes in the smell of stagnant rebirth. He lays there, motionless and silent, the sounds of boots against brick impending and inevitable.

The pseudo-hunger he feels burns against his gut, the facsimile of starvation tearing through his abdomen.

Trapped inside the stone walls of a measly one-bedroom apartment, a young savior, though admittedly he is more of a maggot-ridden mutt than a fairytale hero, prays that the gold layer will bring less strife to him and Tabi.

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