While the orchestration of words had been his forte, the execution of deliberate action had always been Mhoirbheinn's. What his inaction was as poignant as his decision to walk away. Balmoral knew he should say something, anything...even if it were sweet lies. But despite all that led to this point, he still couldn't disrespect Mhoirbheinn in that manner.
This feeling swayed back and forth like churning tides that created maelstroms. It was a feeling that was rare but every encounter with it wracked Balmoral with pang he could not shake. Not now not centuries later. Bereft of his anchor and deprived of his armament, it seemed he could only default to his cornerstone. His eyes loitered on the empty hall for moments longer before reentering the room.
Inside Foirtchern appeared to have been waiting. That infuriating nonchalance of his demeanor evident as he opened his mouth to speak. However no proper wording came out as a stiletto was thrust within, tongue forcefully coiled so it was not severed and its end a guileless threat of bloodshed. He barely missed being hung from the window that now sprawled with webs of frost that obfuscated the snowfall. Though he was certain that if not what he were, some innard would have burst from the force he was pushed back. He looked down to an eye drained of his color, its silver shimmer harkening to the merciless torrents that made mortals fear when all the leaves shed from the trees.
"Coming into my realm, making a fool of me in my own fucking Court, you must have either guts of steel or a longing for death," Balmoral said. Despite the words that could hint propriety, he held no such regards. Through his gaze, Balmoral could already imagine the withering of the lungs. Breaths wracked with glass-like shards rattling and ripping into it, "Your purpose here, Abyssborn."
"So cold to your own, Balmoral," the other remarked clearly despite the knife uncomfortably close, "though I commend the name choice. Has a heft to it and a nice mouthf--"
Silver spilled as the fae's wrist flicked to cut into flesh, "King Balmoral to you, bastard. Your purpose."
"So forward, did you learn it from your protector? Speaking of, where did he--" there was a crack but whether it was the wall or bone was anyone's guess, "--as I told him, for you. A warning."
"A warning that involves unraveling such intimate information," his tone reflecting his disbelief. The stiletto was withdrawn. There was a measured look shared between them. Suddenly the blade pierced the clavicle, heedless of any muscle or bone for protection, "Who do you take me for? A hapless soul lying in desolation and desperation? 700 years of silence for your word now? Is this the gilded tongue that blinded my mother?"
"I thought it was closer to a millennia," Foirtchern interjected as he slid down, seemingly uncaring of the tearing of his body, "And let's not pretend Faolan was innocent in all this. She and I came to an accord. For a gamble for freedom. Even at the expense of a necessary yet reviled mistake."
Balmoral bristled yet didn't make another attempt against him.
"And you wield both her savagery and that supposed gilded tongue so well. Far better than my expectation," he admitted, "After all, I didn't think you'd make it past infancy. What with that hunger and the circumstances to escape. Yet here you are, King Balmoral, subjugating the Unseelie, duping Fateweavers...quite the feat for a walking casualty."
"Well, can't make a quality product with slipshod material now can you?" Balmoral quipped, almost missing the slight narrowing of the other's eyes.
"Yet you made it work. Though you still have far to go to truly hone that silver tongue to be tongued-tied before your protector. I could teach you if you wish."
"I have no desire to gain anything resembling you."
"Oh? So you intend to confess your sins to him?" Foirtchern didn't bother to let the silence hang before he said, "Of course you don't. Because you and I both know that if you did, he would not be here. A straight shot like that with a reputation for never being crossed unscathed, if he knew, he would have never agreed to all this. He would never forgive your 'little' transgression."
The temperature plummeted, revealing the crawling clouds of breath. The strength of his legs draining yet the newcomer still stood. If anything spurring his smile further.
"Am I wrong? You're a smart enough boy to discern the reality. To know that those sweet nothings are just that. Nothing. If he met the being, the monster, you are he would turn away. See through all the delusion you constructed, revolted by every lie constructed. You veil it so well but cracks are present. And you know what lies ben--"
A spike of ice skewered his throat before bursting into a violent bloom from within. The sharpened petals quartered limbs and shredded flesh. A spray of silver shimmered over the crystalline cluster that seemed to spread as if to ensure the destruction of the one before the king.
Shallow breaths gave the illusion of a dragon whose wrath was receding. He would hear no more. Despite knowing the word, Balmoral didn't quite 'hate.' At least until now. He hated this man that gave him this existence. He hated how he spoke so candidly about affairs that should have never seen the light of day. He hated this entire conversation. He hated how he had been laid bare by a person that had never deigned him important until this day. And above all, Balmoral hated that he was right.
No matter how many times he imagined it, cast it, wondered about it...he couldn't see it. No matter how many times he rehearsed, pondered and tread to broach Mhoirbheinn about the matter of his fatestealing and all its consequences...it always ended the same. The seizure of fear and anxiety overwhelmed him. The questions and answers that haunt and torment him every time.
How could he be forgiven when he had robbed Mhoirbheinn of what was rightfully his? What made him better than the brother that the fae killed when he took all that boy knew? He voraciously built by taking from others, what makes him better than the nobles his love detested? He was frighteningly selfish, taken by his obsessive heart to want what he'd never had before and whose talons refused to let go once he tasted it. He was greedy for wanting to have it all--his purpose fulfilled and his only desire sated. If Mhoirbheinn knew every aspect of him--the truth--he would see Balmoral as the parasite--the vermin--that he truly was.
A muddled gray eye observed the carnage. Splatters of blood strewn across the walls and furniture. Sinew draped like discarded clothes. Fragments of bone shattered across the rug. Yet he knew that this would not be enough to silence his father. Only hush for a moment. And with that moment, Balmoral stepped from the room. There was no guard recalled to the room...and he didn't call for one.
Instead he stepped, unescorted and without guidance, through the hall. The bloodshed already dismissed and an uncertain fate that loomed.