She/her, Russian American, 18. This blog is composed of writing snippets and short scenes, mostly fantasy. These same snippets are available in Russian on my other blog, Царица Змей (tsaritsa-zmey-ru). For random shitposts see my alt blog, zmeyposts. My Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsaritsa_Zmey/works
Если вы здесь для шуточек или Советских фильмов, прошу пожаловать на мой другой блог, zmeyposts. Если вы здесь для Русского перевода того что я тут пишу, тогда вам в мой блог tsaritsa-zmey-ru.
IF YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE I WAS LIKING YOUR LINGUISTICS POSTS, YOU WANT MY OTHER BLOG, zmeyposts!!!!!!
If you're here for random shitposts, Soviet cinema, fandoms including but not limited to Hadestown and Homestuck, or anything else miscellaneous, you're welcome to my other blog, zmeyposts. This is my writing blog! (By the way, the "translated" tag means that I first wrote the story in Russian and then translated it to English, the original is then on my other blog, tsaritsa-zmey-ru). Here, I write short fantasy stories, usually a mix of queer romance and whump with plot. Check a few out, clock the vibe, see if you like it!
Trigger warnings are in the tags. There's... a lot of trigger warnings...
I take requests and prompts! Go ahead and ask, don't be shy. It makes me feel popular
Masterlist of my short stories linked here! This list is meant for finding things you've already read, you will NOT get the vibe of the story from the random words I put as titles.
My Ao3 is linked here!
Feel free to share my work as long as you credit me! But do NOT give my work to AI!!!!!!
Casimir yanked at the magical bonds as hard as he could, but the trap held tight. Through the slit in his black helm he could only watch the knight come closer… closer… He extended a hand toward the magical gleam of the helmet.
“No!”
Casimir tried to jerk back, twist away, but he couldn't. The knight ripped his helmet off. A flash, and the magical armor crumbled.
The knight's eyes narrowed disbelievingly. In the armor, Casimir was the Dark Warrior, mighty and statuesque. His voice rumbled like thunder, his blows struck like lightning. Without them, he was just a cripple: frail, sickly, thin, black-haired and dark-eyed, with unhealthily pale, pointy features.
“Impossible,” the knight mumbled, retreating a step.
Casimir bared his teeth, struggling to hold back tears. Things had turned out so stupidly!
“You're the Dark Warrior? I struggled for so long to defeat you? How old are you, anyway?”
The knight's voice dripped with contempt and revulsion.
Nineteen. Who was the knight to talk, anyway?! He looked no older than twenty five himself!
The magical bonds loosened. Casimir tripped, his bad leg gave out and he almost crashed to the ground. But the knight had made a mistake: He'd released Casimir.
Casimir lunged, swinging his knife.
His wrist was crushed with an iron grip, the knife slipped free and clanged to the stones. The knight's fingers snaked across Casimir's waist, retrieving and discarding the second knife. Casimir tried to punch him in the jaw but the knight caught his second hand with ease. Casimir tripped on his own leg and would have fallen if it weren't for the knight.
“So that's why you need the armor,” the knight smirked, looking at Casimir's foot.
“Don't you dare–”
Casimir's voice broke, leaving the phrase unfinished. Don't dare what? Pity him? Despise him? Consider him less than himself? But it's true, a voice in his head whispered.
“Not everyone is born with everything,” Casimir hissed.
The knight didn't need magic armor. Even with it, Casimir could barely beat him!
“You think I was born like this?” the knight growled.
He hurled Casimir to the ground and began advancing on him.
“You can't even imagine how much I trained, how much blood and sweat I spilled so that people like you don't destroy the world!”
Casimir scrambled back, struggling to drag his bad leg. Fear, real fear awoke within him at the sight of the rage twisting the knight's face.
The knight yanked him up by the collar, setting him on his feet. He punched Casimir in the face, then the stomach. Casimir bent double with a cry of pain. He couldn't breathe, burning panic filled him to the brim. Usually they fought as equals. Even when he was hit, he could get up and fight back. This was different. Casimir was completely helpless.
The knight released him and he fell to his knees, fighting with all his might to hold back the sobs threatening to spill forth.
“You're pathetic. Without your armor, you're nothing. Killing you would be shameful.”
Casimir didn't try to rise. He was shaking head to toe. Even in his normal state he struggled to stand up without something to lean on, let alone now…
Casimir felt the knight's gloating smile rather than seeing it, for he was staring at the ground.
“Get up,” the knight ordered.
For the first time ever, Casimir felt a rush of true hatred for his foe. All his pangs of conscience burned to ash in a single moment. Roiling, bubbling fury rose within him.
“I said get up,” the knight smirked.
Casimir didn't move. The knight slapped him across the face.
“Are you deaf?”
Pain, fear, loathing, humiliation, and rage mixed within Casimir, turning his vision red. Tears rose to his eyes. He was shaking, heart pounding in his ears.
“Alright.”
The knight seized Casimir's wrist, pulling out a rope.
Something inside Casimir snapped. He scratched, bit, writhed like a snake, screeched with helpless fury, kicked with his healthy foot, ignoring the blows and curses raining down upon him. It was all futile. The knight pinned him down and tied his hands in front of him. Casimir stopped holding back, tears streamed down his face. He couldn't move, the knight held tight.
“You'll rot in a dungeon for the rest of your life,” the knight said, rising to his feet.
He tied the end of the rope to his saddle and Casimir realized what was about to happen. The knight would ride through town and Casimir would trip after, weak and pathetic. Crippled. Defeated. Not even worthy of a cage. He could already hear the mockery of the passerby, their laughter rang in his ears louder and louder…
The knight picked up the magical helmet, examining it from all sides.
“Must be powerful if it could turn you into a warrior,” he tossed. “I wonder…”
“Wait!” Casimir yelled, but it was too late. The knight put on the helmet.
The armor sparkled into existence on his body. White as bone.
The knight clenched and unclenched a fist, admiring the light glinting off the metal. Casimir froze in terror. The armor didn't just change the body, oh no. You needed time to get used to it, first by simply carrying the helmet with you. If you just put it on like this…
The knight slowly turned toward Casimir. The helmet obscured his face. He'd been large already, but the armor turned him into a real giant.
Primal fear gripped Casimir. He didn't have time to move a finger before the knight grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air.
Casimir let out a hoarse cry, kicking his feet in search of support. He seized the knight's hand, prying at his fingers, but it was futile.
He would die.
“Please… please…”
Casimir shook with sobs, choking and desperately trying to suck in even a tiny bit of air. A red veil crawled over the world, slowly darkening.
“Thank you.”
The knight's voice sounded hollow and warped.
“You've earned a quick death.”
Casimir screamed, but no sound came out.
The knight snapped him over his knee like a twig. The corpse collapsed to the ground. Tears glistened on the wide-open eyelashes of the forever stilled, oh-so-young face.
The knight left the body and set out toward town, not looking back once.
The dart flew between the bars of the cell and hit the fairy in the shoulder. She tore it out, but it was too late. The villain smiled as she watched her fall to her knees, then sprawl bonelessly on the ground. The fairy fought with all her might to stand, but below the neck, she couldn't move a muscle. She couldn't even feel the floor beneath her, or the bruises on her body. Only her cheek seemed in contact with the rough stone. It was like the rest of her just… wasn't there.
The villain unlocked the door and stepped inside. Her shoes stopped in front of the fairy's face. Instead of her usual sleek, black boots, her feet were clad in something crude and oversized. The old, brown leather was covered in suspicious stains.
“Good morning,” she purred, crouching down. Her face came into view, along with the rest of her clothing. She'd tied back her hair and exchanged her fine clothing for simple brown.
“What did you do to me, witch?” the fairy rasped.
“Oh, this?” The villain picked up the dart, dangling it from her fingers. Her lips curved into a pout. “I hate needless cruelty. That's a little mixture of my own design, to save me from it.”
“If you hate cruelty then let me go!” the fairy snapped, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.
“Needless cruelty,” the villain corrected. “You… You I need. Just think of how much good we're going to do together!”
She grinned, a look of crazed glee in her eye. A loose strand of hair stuck to her forehead.
“Don't worry, the potion will wear off in an hour or so. Though… you may wish it didn't.”
The villain straightened and shook out an apron she'd been holding rolled up under her arm. As she pulled it on, the fairy saw splatters of red and green blood on the fabric.
Her eyes widened as pure horror flooded her, turning her blood to ice.
“No. No, no, you wouldn't!”
“Don't worry. It'll be over very quickly, and after that, you can go free! Though if I were you, I'd stay a bit. You'll need to heal up, after all!”
The villain stepped out of the fairy's line of sight, behind her.
“Wait! Stop! St–”
The fairy's breath caught, heart hammering a frenzied beat in her ears. She heard the villain crouch, humming to herself.
“What are you doing?” she asked, voice rising hysterically.
She couldn't feel anything.
“Smooth,” the villain commented. “I've always wanted to touch these, but your kind guards them so zealously…”
Her wings!
“Stop it!”
The fairy's eyes shot around, frantically searching for any hint, any shadow, any flicker to tell her what was happening.
“Those gravediggers are idiots and charlatans, bringing back pieces of corpses that have less magic than a rock left in them. But these… These are powerful indeed.”
Gravediggers did decimate fairy resting places to get their wings to use in healing potions, but at least they had the decency to wait for their victims to die!
“You can't do this!” the fairy gasped.
“I do believe I can,” the villain giggled madly.
Something scraped across the floor, shifted, thumped…
“What are you doing?!” the fairy demanded shrilly.
The villain only chuckled.
Tears seared the fairy's eyes. Wild terror grew within her, she'd have given anything to feel the pain because at least then she would know! She had no way of telling if the villain was touching, cutting, prodding… WHAT WAS HAPPENING?!
Then came a ripping sound, like of a knife slicing through paper.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!” the fairy screeched, twisting her chin in an attempt to at least see. The rest of her body refused to move, no matter how hard she fought. It just sprawled simply, like a corpse. Except she wasn't a corpse and she NEEDED TO KNOW!
It had to be clothing, it had to be, IT HAD TO BE. The villain was just cutting through her clothes! It had to be that, because otherwise… otherwise…
Something light thumped to the ground. The villain shifted toward the fairy's other side.
“STOP IT! Stop it…” the fairy sobbed. “Please…”
A second slow ripping sound, a second light thud.
Glass clinked and fabric rustled as the villain pulled something from a pocket.
“This will heal you right up. It burns nastily at first, but you're safe from that!”
“Don't touch me!”
The fairy had no way of knowing if the villain had listened. Terror pounded through her veins, turning her breaths quick and shallow. It was too late, too late, too late…
The villain stood, whistling to herself. The whistling swooped toward the ground as she bent over, something rustled, then she straightened again.
“Once the potion wears off, you'll be able to move, but you probably shouldn't. I'd give you more, but it becomes dangerous in larger doses. I wouldn't want you to get hurt!”
I wouldn't want you to get hurt. The fairy almost burst into insane, manic, shrieking laughter.
“I'll take my leave now. I have work to do!”
The villain's shoes appeared again, splattered with fresh green spots. At her side, she held the fairy's severed wings. They looked so small and dull in her grip… So brittle, so fragile… They couldn't really be hers, they couldn't be the wings that had carried her up, up, into the endless sky. They couldn't be the wings that shone so brightly in the mirror. They couldn't be her freedom, her identity, her pride and joy, her life..!
A broken, ragged scream tore from the fairy's throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and wailed; ugly, gasping, heaving sobs ripping free and echoing off the walls of the room.
The villain hummed to herself as she walked away, not slowing once.
I support Ukraine in its war with Russia. I have family living there currently, and one of my relatives actually died while fighting for the Ukrainian side. However, I categorically disagree with the "every single Russian in Russia is evil and deserves to suffer" line of thought. I want to keep politics out of this blog in the future, so if anyone has further questions just message me directly.
The prince walked briskly down the corridor toward the king's quarters with strides so long that the knight almost had to jog to keep up. The self-centered bastard didn't spare him a single glance. In fact, he'd barely said a word to the knight for the days he'd been assigned to him.
It was ridiculous that the knight had to guard the prince at all. The assassin had fled, and besides, whoever it was clearly wasn't about to attack the prince physically. The assassination attempt had been through poisoned wine, and the prince had food tasters to protect him from that. The knight had more important things to do than watching over a haughty, arrogant aristocrat that considered himself so far above him! His station at the palace was nothing but a waste.
The prince paused beside the door to the king's chambers and glared over his shoulder at the knight.
“Hurry up,” he snapped. “How do you intend to protect me from back there?”
Damn longlegged bastard.
The knight sped up, suppressing a glower.
“It would take a speedy assassin indeed to catch you at that pace, Your Highness,” he said, injecting sickly sweetness into his voice.
The prince sent him an icy glare, raising his chin.
“In the future, you will keep up.”
The knight's jaw ticked.
The prince turned to the door, face settling into a neutral expression. After a moment's hesitation, he pushed it open. The knight followed him inside and took his place beside the entrance.
The door shut behind them, plunging the room into semi-darkness. For some reason the curtains were drawn, despite it being midday. With his pale hair and coloring, the prince looked almost ghostly in the dim lighting.
The king was waiting, a scowl on his haggard face.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “When your king summons you, you come immediately and with haste! You do not crawl at a snail's pace!”
A single blink betrayed the knight's surprise. The second the servant had delivered the order, the prince had dropped everything he was doing to obey it. His speed had been far from snail-like.
“You have my apologies, Father,” the prince responded in a carefully emotionless voice.
Another shock. The knight had never dreamed that the prince was capable of apologizing, especially for something he hadn't done. Over the last few days, he'd been all snapped orders and unreasonable demands. Most frustratingly, he himself seemed perfectly capable of meeting his own high standards, which made it impossible to make excuses. He simply arched a brow and outlined what you should have done in a scathing tone. And he was always right. It was infuriating.
“Next time, you will do better,” the king snapped.
“Yes, Father.”
“Now tell me, how is it that the assassin is still free? Why have you not clapped him in chains yet?”
The king's eyes darted around the room as though the killer could emerge from the shadows at any moment.
The prince straightened his already perfect posture, clasping his hands behind his back.
“My investigation is not yet complete, however I believe I know the identity of the assassin. I have spoken to the castle staff and searched the archives, and I am certain that the killer was a young woman who went by the name Pauline. She worked in our kitchens for a year, and begged leave to visit her supposedly ill mother a mere two days before the assassination attempt. She has still not returned, and there is no trace of her mother, either. Not a single healer reported being consulted about any illnesses, and their neighbors mentioned seeing the mother in good health the day before they vanished.”
The knight had to make an effort to keep his jaw from dropping. The prince was a genius. Fragments of various conversations he'd had with the maids and cooks floated through the knight's memory in a new light. He'd thought the prince was just wasting time, idly flirting instead of taking action. All that time in the archives… It must have taken him ages of painstaking searching to find what he needed! The castle employed many, many servants that came and went quite frequently. The knight felt a surge of shame for his earlier judgement. He felt like a complete and utter fool.
“Also, her mother worked at an apothecary, which means she could have supplied–”
“Nonsense,” the king interrupted.
The prince fell silent. His fingers twitched behind his back.
“You're telling me some maid and her halfwit mother managed to think up this clever plot? Ridiculous! It was a foreign enemy, I told you this!”
“But, Father–”
“They plot against us. They have for years! You were supposed to determine which kingdom supplied the assassin, and you failed!” the king raged.
The prince’s shoulders stiffened an almost unnoticeable amount.
“But suppose–”
“Silence! You dare argue with me?! Begone, and don't come back until you find something real!”
The prince hesitated. His knuckles went white.
“What is it?” the king demanded.
“Pauline would have had reason to attempt the assassination,” the prince said slowly.
“What reason is this?”
The prince paused once more. Though his blank face betrayed nothing, the knight got the sense that he was choosing his words very carefully.
“Her mother once worked here, in this castle. There have been some… persistent rumors about Pauline, and about her parentage.”
“And what might those be?”
“They say that she is your bastard,” the prince said. He continued quickly, “Perhaps her mother wished to seek revenge against you, or force you to acknowledge her daughter's claim by removing me as heir. I am quite certain that this is the case, and if you give me time then I will bring you–”
The king backhanded the prince across the face. The sound rang out, echoing in the sudden, oppressive silence.
The knight's eyes flared as he involuntarily rocked forward.
The prince stilled, head bent at the odd angle. His blank expression didn't shift, but his lips began to tremble. The knight’s wide eyes jumped from him to the king as he bit down on his tongue.
“You will not defy me again,” the king hissed. “I gave you one simple task, and what did you do instead? Cavorted with commoners and let them fill your head with poisonous lies! You have achieved nothing. Worse than that, you have wasted my time! Next time I see you, you'd better have something to show that you're not completely worthless! Now get out.”
“Yes–”
The prince's voice caught. He cleared his throat before continuing.
“Yes, Father,” he said flatly.
“You will stamp out that rumor. Anyone that repeats it will get fifty lashes, and that includes you!”
The prince bowed and turned on his heel.
“Sniveling weakling,” the king spat under his breath as the prince opened the door.
Only a twitch of the prince's fingers betrayed that he'd heard the phrase. He raised his head and strode out the door, leaving it for the knight to close.
The prince set off toward his own quarters at a speed double the one with which they’d arrived. The knight's mind whirled as he jogged to keep up. Was this always how the king was?! So many of the prince's traits were cast in a completely different light as the knight reflected on them. His demands, his uptight nature, his insane perfectionism…
The door to the prince's rooms slammed shut behind the knight. The prince turned to him, the haughtiest of all his expressions on his face. The mask was cracking, though. His narrowed eyes glistened, his lips trembled all the harder, and the tip of his pointy nose was reddening.
“You will not–”
His voice broke. He began again, clearly trying to keep the thickness from his voice.
“You will–”
The prince’s shoulders began to shake. He spun away and clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling the sobs threatening to break free. With his narrow shoulders hunched, he looked so small… Vulnerable, even, though that was the last word the knight would have used to describe him a mere ten minutes ago. Something in the knight’s chest twisted at the sight, stealing the breath from his lungs.
The knight knew he should go, but something pulled him a step closer, then another… He placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder.
“Your Highness…”
The mask shattered. The tears began to pour in earnest, propelled by desperate, hitching sobs. The prince twisted his face away from the knight in an attempt to preserve his dignity. The knight's heart broke for him. How long had he been dealing with all this alone behind locked doors, terrified of showing weakness? His entire life, it seemed.
Obeying a sharp impulse, the knight embraced the prince. After a stiff moment long enough for the knight to feel as though he’d made a terrible mistake, the prince collapsed into it. His fingers curled into the knight’s shirt, tears soaking through the fabric. The knight’s arms tightened around his shaking frame as he remembered the king’s voice snapping like a whip.
“You did not deserve that,” he said firmly.
“Shut up!” the prince sobbed, slamming a fist into his chest. “Just… don’t…”
The knight shut up and let the prince cry, rubbing soothing circles into his back. As each hiccuping breath sliced into his heart, dark, bitter loathing for the king reared its head within him. He would never forget this.
The carriage rolled through the woods, jolting over bumps and roots. The gilded wheels weren't suited to the forest. Here, in the thicket with barely even a road, it struggled to make it through.
Kaspian mulled over these unfortunate facts from the plush interior. Every bump or gap in the road sent him on a short flight ending in an uncomfortable landing. Despite that, the unfitting mode of transportation was far from his greatest concern.
Faster, faster, he thought, nervously fiddling with his long, pale fingers. Why are they crawling like this, the miserable worms? The second we arrive, I'm firing the coachman to all seven hells!
If we arrive.
The treacherous thought made Kaspian shudder and hug his thin shoulders.
It was utterly impossible to read while bouncing up and down like this, so he entertained himself by calling all manner of curses down on the coachman's head, including words that a prince was definitely not supposed to know.
The end to his fun came abruptly. A scream, a thump, loud neighing. The carriage jolted, then stopped.
Whistling and guffaws sounded.
Kaspian paled. Bandits.
He rushed about the carriage frantically, but there was nowhere to hide.
The door swung open, letting in the fresh forest air. Had that been the end of it, it would have been wonderful, but the impudent door decided not to limit itself to that and also let in a bandit.
Kaspian flinched back to the opposite wall, but the second door opened as well and he practically fell right into the arms of another bandit.
The second man, a brute with stubble on his face and a very large nose, seized Kaspian's wrist and yanked him out of the carriage like a cat pulling a mouse from its hole by the tail.
“Look!” he called to his comrades. “What a bird flew into our trap, eh?”
He twisted Kaspian's arms behind his back and dragged him toward the others. Kaspian bit his lip, stifling a cry of pain.
Pine needles slipped and slid beneath his boots, which instantly became filthy with mud. The offensively clear sky overhead was beginning to darken. Passing birds seemed to mock Kaspian with their freedom.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kaspian saw the coachman's corpse. He lay on his back, unseeing eyes looking upward, an arrow sticking from his neck. On the other side of the carriage sprawled the guard that had been assigned to him, in a similarly sorry state.
Kaspian's vision went dark as he began to hyperventilate. This was it. He was doomed. He felt sick with terror, trembling knees refusing to hold him.
“Just look at these horses!” a man praised. ”And their harnesses, too…”
“Leave the goddamn horses,” the bandit holding Kaspian barked. “We have something better! Boss!”
“Well, who is it?”
One of the bandits, presumably the leader himself, approached Kaspian. A scar bisected his unshaven face. The gemstone dangling around his neck looked out of place next to his simple, filthy clothing. He must have taken it off of his previous victim.
The rest of the bandits neared as well, forming a circle around Kaspian. Each was identically unwashed and unshaven with tangled hair.
“Drop him already,” the leader grimaced. “What's he going to do? He can barely even stand upright.”
The bandit released Kaspian and retreated into the circle. Kaspian swayed, but managed to keep his footing.
“Who are you?” the leader asked gruffly. “If you lie, I'll rip the tongue from your throat.”
The bandits laughed approvingly.
Kaspian swallowed.
“Kaspian,” he forced out. Neither his lips nor tongue wished to obey him.
“Kaspian,” the leader mocked. “You could be called Mary for all I care. I don't give a damn about your name, I asked who you are. A duke? A lord?”
“Boss, the prince is called Kaspian,” one of the bandits rasped.
“That's true…” the leader mused, looking at Kaspian with new interest. “Are you a prince?”
Kaspian nodded, not daring to lie.
The leader whistled.
“We've never had your kind before! What the hell brought you to these parts?”
The bandits voiced their agreement.
Kaspian looked around in search of a gap to escape through, but it was futile. There was nowhere to run. He could only wait and see what happened next. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good!
“Well, Your Highness,” the leader said with a mocking bow. “Give me your hands.”
His hands? Why? Would he cut them off? Probably not, but…
Kaspian squeezed his eyes shut and extended his palms toward the leader. His heart threatened to leap out of his chest and run far, far away.
The leader seized his wrist in an iron grip and began dragging off his rings.
“Look how hard his hands are shaking,” one of the bandits laughed.
“If you were him, you'd soil your pants,” another retorted.
An argument flared up, the filthiest of phrases tossed back and forth.
The leader finished with the rings. Other than then, Kaspian wore no jewelry. He retreated, leaving Kaspian alone in the circle.
“Quiet,” he barked.
The bandits fell silent.
“Have you forgotten? We have a noble guest.”
The leader's eyes slid over Kaspian.
“Pretty buttons. Silver?”
Kaspian nodded, unable to say a word.
“Your Highness, would you spare a doublet for your subject?” the leader asked with a crooked smirk.
Kaspian understood the implication and began removing the doublet. The stupid little buttons refused to work. The leader was waiting, and the bandits were watching, and they could kill him for being too slow..! Finally he finished, and the doublet ended up in the leader's hands.
Kaspian wasn't just trembling. He was shaking hard enough to rattle his teeth. His knees knocked together, body screaming that he needed to run. A little bit more and he'd pass out.
“Nice shirt. Would you share it? I can see you're not greedy.”
Kaspian dragged off his shirt. Then the leader took a liking to his boots, undershirt, and pants. Finally he was left in nothing but his underpants, shivering from the cold. He folded his arms tightly, feeling smaller than he'd ever felt before in the circle of enemies.
“Are you sure this is a prince? He’s a little skinny,” the leader said, sparking an explosion of laughter.
“He's pretty enough, though,” a bandit leered. “Easy on the eyes.”
“You five, follow me with the horses. The rest can take care of our guest. But I'm warning you! Leave him alive, or you'll be in his place next!”
The chosen bandits whistled away with their boss. Kaspian was left alone with the rest.
Their crooked smirks and the strange fire in their eyes made his blood run cold with terror. He backed away and right into the grip of a bandit behind him. He seized Kaspian's bare elbows and spun him around.
“Now we can have some fun.”
-------------------------------------------
Kaspian gained consciousness slowly and unwillingly. His head pounded. He felt horrible, whole body sore.
The memories came flooding back. The carriage, the bandits, the robbery, and then…
Kaspian started shaking. Furious tears rose to his eyes at the memory of screaming, begging, thrashing, fighting to break free of rough hands. He wanted to rip his own skin off, anything to get rid of the phantoms crawling all over his body like he was still there.
By the way, where was he?!
Kaspian opened his eyes, revealing some kind of hut that clearly did not belong to bandits. He lay on a low bed, covered with an itchy blanket. Sitting up, he realized he was wearing a huge coat and rough pants. If Kaspian stood, the sleeves would just about reach his knees. He rolled them up and discovered bracelets of bruises around his wrists.
He shuddered, mind readily serving up flashes of yesterday's nightmare. He unrolled the sleeves, biting his lip hard.
A huge axe stood by the brick oven. That didn't add to Kaspian's bravery. He himself wouldn't even be able to lift it. Who lived here, and what did they want with him? No, no, not again!
The door creaked and a tall man with a blacksmith's build entered the room. His muscles were visible even through his shirt. He had no beard, and there was a friendly look in his eye.
“You're awake,” he said, surprised. “That was fast. I thought those bandits might have chased you into the grave, you were hit on the head hard. Let me see.”
With those words, the giant began approaching Kaspian.
“DON'T TOUCH ME!” Kaspian screeched, flinching as far back as he could.
Pain lanced through his head at the sudden movement.
The giant stopped, looking at the prince with pity.
“They really hurt you badly,” he said, shaking his head. “Don't worry, I won't harm you. I'm no villain.”
“Stay back!”
Something tightened in his throat not letting him breathe in or out. Kaspian shook head to toe, sobs catching in his throat.
“Alright.”
The giant raised his hands and stepped back.
“I'm called Tolya,” he said. He spoke softly, gently, like with a small child. “I live here. I'm a woodcutter, sometimes I take logs down to the village. I make toys for their children, too. I'll show you later, if you want. For now, you need to eat. Restore your strength. I'm going to take the food out of the oven.”
Having said that, Tolya began moving toward the oven.
Kaspian clamped a hand over his mouth, suddenly and vividly remembering why his jaw ached. His head spun faster and faster. The hut danced before his eyes, Tolya's kind eyes blurred into the crazy whirlwind.
Kaspian threw up onto the floor. He heard a distant gasp from Tolya. His throat burned. The tears he'd been holding back finally began to pour in heaving, convulsing sobs. Image after image flashed through his mind, one more horrible than the next. He buried himself in the blanket and cried until he ran out of tears. Then, he lost consciousness.
After that, the fever began. Kaspian rambled, he shook with chills. Hot, cold, hot again. Over and over, he was chased and caught by bandits. He was burning up, torturous visions pursuing him.
Finally, it was over.
The first thing Kaspian felt after waking up was hunger. He raised himself on an elbow and saw Tolya sitting at the table with his back turned. Kaspian slowly sat up. The bed creaked.
Tolya leaped up like he'd been burned.
“You're awake!”
“Yeah,” Kaspian nodded weakly.
“How are you feeling?”
For about a second, manners and tact battled hunger. Hunger won.
“Do you have any food?”
Tolya raced toward the oven. Kaspian stood, wobbling, and covered the distance to the chair. His head still spun, but not as much.
A pot of grains thunked onto the table before him.
“Eat as much as you want, you're too thin.”
Kaspian flinched, remembering the similar words of the bandit leader. One memory summoned another, another, another…
“How did I get here?” Kaspian asked, and shuddered at the sound of his own voice. Raspy, hoarse, someone else's.
“I brought you. I was walking through the woods with my axe, and heard bandits. But not the whole gang, just a few. So I thought, let me take care of them! I've been looking for the opportunity. You were laying there, barely conscious, and then one of them hit you in the head, too.”
So, he'd seen…
Kaspian hugged himself, cuddling deeper into the coat. He didn't look Tolya in the eye. He couldn't.
“I killed two, if that makes you feel better,” Tolya said calmly.
Killed. So, two of them were dead. Two of those bastards, those monsters, those animals, those… Those…
Yes. That was good news. But what if Tolya decided to kill him, too?
“Go on, eat.”
Kaspian took the bowl, still not meeting Tolya's eyes. Getting tangled in the sleeves, he placed a spoonful into his mouth. For some reason, swallowing was difficult and painful. Kaspian touched his neck. It hurt. Then there were bruises there, too.
Hands, tight on his throat, pinning him to the cold ground.
Kaspian shoved another spoon into his mouth, chewing quickly. Don't think, don't think, don't think…
He returned to reality when the pot was empty. Kaspian put down the spoon and reddened.
“I'm sorry, I didn't leave you anything…”
“I ate already,” Tolya responded.
Kaspian nodded silently.
Subtly studying Tolya, Kaspian realized that he was still young, not much if at all older than Kaspian himself. Blond curls, blue eyes. So unlike Kaspian himself, with his long, straight black hair and dark eyes.
“You probably want to wash? There's a stream nearby–”
“No,” Kaspian interrupted harshly. The thought of stripping and wading into the river made him start shaking again.
“No, then,” Tolya agreed. After a brief silence, he asked, “What's your name?”
“Kaspian.”
“That's a beautiful name. Foreign. Are you really a prince?”
Kaspian nodded reluctantly.
“Then why were you traveling through the Bandit Woods?” Tolya burst out. “We only get merchants around here, and just the dumb ones, too!”
“It wasn't my decision,” Kaspian snapped. “Were it up to me, I'd have stayed a hundred leagues away from this damn place, curse it to hell!”
His voice rose to a shout. Tolya's eyes widened slightly in surprise.
“Sorry,” Kaspian mumbled.
“There's nothing to be sorry for. I understand.”
Kaspian shuddered, crossing his arms.
“Who sent you here, then?”
“The queen,” Kaspian responded after a long silence.
“Varvara?”
“Well it wasn't Zalina, was it?” Kaspian exploded.
No, his birth mother would never have sent him to a place like that. Unfortunately, the dead have little say. Even dead queens.
“Why'd she do that to you?”
“Because I'm not Vasiliy.”
How could he be? Vasiliy was a strong, fast, glorious warrior. Kills an army with one hit. Kaspian was nowhere near his level. He was so weak he couldn't even do anything against a few bandits!
Kaspian barely noticed himself saying the last part aloud. Tears rose to his eyes. Weakling. Now he was embarrassing himself in front of Tolya. Though he could hardly shame himself any worse at that point.
Kaspian turned away, wiping his eyes angrily. Pathetic. Small. Helpless. He felt like a useless, broken toy that nobody cared about. Everyone only wanted to hurt. Even his family.
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
Kaspian flinched with a panicked sob.
“Sorry,” Tolya mumbled, pulling away.
The door creaked and Tolya walked out. Kaspian was left alone.
The villain screamed, legs dangling above the void. Her fingers dug into the hero's wrists, yanking her halfway over the edge. The hero's knees slammed into the small ridge, keeping both of them from falling.
The villain's eyes were crazed, pure panic reflected in her every feature. Her feet kicked, but there was nothing to latch on to. Seeing the always-mocking, cocky villain like this felt like the world had flipped over.
“OH GODS, HELP ME! I'M GOING TO FALL, I'M GOING TO FALL, I DON'T WANT TO DIE! PULL ME UP, PULL ME UP, PLEASE, HELP ME!”
Tears streamed down her face, torn away by the fierce wind. She screamed as a gust sent her swaying like a human flag, black cloak flapping. Her long, inky braid snapped like a whip. The hero shouted in pain as the villain's grip on her wrists tightened.
A second burst of wind tore the cloak off entirely. It whirled away, twisting like a serpent, before disappearing forever.
The hero's knees began to slip. The villain's panic was infectious, but she forced her racing thoughts into submission.
“Listen to me!” she yelled. “Hey! Look at me!”
The villain's wide eyes locked onto her, dilated pupils trembling.
“You have to let one of my hands go!”
The villain shook her head frantically.
“No, no, I can't, I can't!”
“We'll both fall!”
The hero's back ached from the awkward position, her knees continued to slip.
“You'll drop me!” the villain screeched.
“Look at me!” the hero shouted again.
Tears gleamed in the villain's eyes as their gazes met.
“I promise I won't drop you! I swear it!”
“No, no, NO! You threw me off, you'll–”
“Do it or we both die!” the hero yelled.
She yanked her right hand up. With a wild shriek, the villain seized the hero's left wrist with both hands. She swung above the void, sobbing aloud.
The hero braced herself with a hand, inching back from the edge. There were no real handholds other than the small ridge, making the process slow and perilous. The villain was thin but tall, her weight dragged the hero down. Her hand felt ready to fall off.
Should she throw the villain down? That had been her plan, after all. Her hand was free. All it would take was a bit of prying at the villain's fingers, and she'd cease to be a problem.
No. She'd sworn. She'd made a promise. The villain's terrified face swam before her inner eye, her ragged breathing echoing in the hero's ears. Hysterical whimpers escaped her when the wind picked up.
With a final heave, the hero hauled the villain onto solid ground.
The villain scrambled away from the edge, knocking the hero over in the process. They landed in a heap, villain on top. Her arms locked around the hero.
After a moment of panic, the hero realized that the villain wasn't fighting her. She was embracing her, trembling like a leaf. She'd buried her face in the hero's shoulder, shoulders spasming with frantic, relieved sobs. The hero could feel her wild heartbeat.
The hero hesitantly hugged her back, wrapping her arms around her bony frame.
What did she do now?
Kill the villain, her duty commanded. But deep in her gut, the hero already knew that she couldn't do it, she would never be able to do it.
When the door opened, something suspiciously like hope stirred within the villain. He’d been rotting alone for… weeks? It was difficult to tell with no windows. Even meals seemed to be delivered at irregular intervals. Throughout that entire time, thanks to the wonders of teleportation, he hadn’t seen a single soul. He’d never been social, solitude was a familiar friend, but he could feel his sanity beginning to fray as he spiraled deeper and deeper into hopelessness and self-loathing. He’d lost. His magic was gone, gone forever! Without it, he was nobody. Without the power nestled in his chest, he felt empty. Hollow. He was broken, and it made him want to scream until his throat went raw. Alone in the cell, he had nothing to distract himself with.
So, as much as the villain hated himself for it, a spark of relief ignited inside him at the creak of the dungeon door. It went out immediately when he saw who waited outside.
The hero’s sidekick smirked at him, insufferably smug. Something cruel and hard lurked deep in his eyes.
“What a sad sight. I knew you’d lost your magic, but I didn’t think you’d look this pathetic without it.”
The villain injected all the cold disdain he could muster into his sneer, concealing the furious catch of his breath at the words.
“I don’t even know why they bothered chaining you, look how weak you are,” the sidekick said, barking a laugh.
Rage spiked through the villain. How dare he?!
Still, he couldn’t let the sidekick know that the remark had gotten to him.
“Remind me, how many people did it take to defeat me? And even then you had to cheat,” the villain drawled.
The sidekick crossed the cell in two steps and slammed a fist into the villain’s nose.
White-hot pain blinded the villain. He doubled over with a cry, chained hands flying to his face. Blood gushed through his fingers.
“It’s about time someone taught you a lesson. You never could hold that forked tongue of yours,” the sidekick snarled.
Terror shot through the villain’s veins, drowning out the pain. Everything was happening too fast, he hadn't expected such immediate violence! He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long, long time. He’d always been better, more skilled, more cunning!
“You got off easy,” the sidekick hissed. “You deserve to suffer for everything you did!”
He seized the villain by the shirt and slammed his back into the ground. The villain gasped for air, world tilting. The sidekick planted a foot on his wrist, pinning his chest with a knee.
“What was it you always called me? A weakling?”
The villain swung at him with his free hand but panic and the heavy chains made him clumsy. The sidekick caught his arm and smashed it down with ease. His blown pupils and bared teeth were mere inches from the villain’s own face.
“You’re going to eat those words today,” he grinned maniacally. “You’re going to beg me for mercy, scum.”
The pressure on the villain’s wrist increased. He could feel the bones grinding against each other. A band of fear tightened around his chest, turning his breaths quick and shallow. He clenched his teeth, but hitched gasps of pain slipped through. The sidekick’s cruel smile edged wider with each one.
“Go on. Beg.”
The villain let out a muffled cry as the sidekick leaned more of his weight onto the foot. The nails of his other hand dug into his palm as he squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering breaths whistling in and out.
“Alright,” the sidekick smirked.
The villain screamed as his wrist cracked. Tears rolled down his face, agony burning up his arm.
“What a sweet sound,” the sidekick sighed, rising. “Have you had enough yet?”
The villain curled into a shaking ball, cradling his broken wrist to his chest as a high-pitched keening ripped from his throat. He would not beg, he would not beg, HE WOULD NOT BEG! He desperately clung to the thought pulsing in his mind.
“You know what you have to do,” the sidekick sing-songed.
Pure loathing crashed over the villain, stealing the breath from his lungs with the sheer force of it. The sidekick was just a miserable, worthless little bully picking on those unable to resist and thriving on their humiliation! He would never know the taste of victory over an equal, oh no. He wouldn’t even try, because he was a cowardly carrion-eater! The villain would never, ever give the sidekick the satisfaction of seeing him beg! He would rather die than lose to someone like him!
“Never,” he hissed. “You’ll always be a weak little coward, and nothing you can do to me will change that!”
The sidekick yanked him up by the shirt front, visage twisted in fury. He punched the villain in the face again and again and again in an enraged frenzy. Tears mixed with blood and spit as sobbing laughter tore from the villain’s throat. He can’t make me. The dizzying thought cut through the pain and the villain clung to it tooth and nail. Even now, he still can’t make me.
The sidekick flung the villain to the floor. He let out a ragged scream as his wrist banged against the stones. His back hit the wall as the sidekick slammed a foot into his ribs. He kicked harder and harder, the villain was caught between hammer and anvil.
Something snapped. The villain couldn't even scream, wave after wave of fire burning through his chest. His breath seized in his throat, suffocating him, trapping the pain inside.
“Am I weak now? AM I?!” the sidekick screeched, crazed.
The villain could only sob in response.
“You are going to REGRET BEING BORN!”
By the time he left, the sidekick made good on the threat.
The fisherman's son knew the deal. Every sacrifice did. Each year, a youth was sent underneath the waves, given to the Prince of the Sea in return for the safety of their village and bountiful fish. This year, it was his turn.
The grey sea stretched before him, choppy and unforgiving. Endless water, all the way to the horizon, not a single sail in sight. The captains had seen the gathering clouds and made the sensible decision to remain on land. Oh, how he envied them.
Normally, he loved the sea. Never did he feel more whole than when he was out alone in his boat, watching the face of the waves change. Choppy to calm, grey to blue to white, smooth to rough and back. The light gleaming off their crests beckoned him, tempting him to dive in and become one with it all. Submerged in the cool depths, he could twist and dive and live.
Today was different. Each step forward was a struggle. His hands shook as every fiber of his being begged for him to run, but he had nowhere to go. A neighboring village had once refused to make a sacrifice. It had been destroyed within a week.
Every brush of seaweed against his cold-numb feet made him jump as he imagined it was a sea monster's tentacle preparing to drag him into the depths. The icy waves crept higher and higher, up to his waist, his chest, his chin… What did he do now? Start swimming?
A sudden current yanked him down, down, into the sea. He instinctively gasped, and regretted it instantly as salt water flooded his lungs. He clapped his hands over his mouth, convulsing from the lack of oxygen as he was tugged forward. He was going to die, alone in the unforgiving depths of the ocean.
Bluish light flared behind his eyelids, abruptly replacing the darkness. Something brushed his forehead, and the pain in his lungs went away. He inhaled and cool water flooded his throat. After a moment of panic, he realized that it didn't hurt. Breathing this way was an unusual sensation, but more pleasant than not.
He finally dared open his eyes. He was floating in a kind of throne room. The blue floor was inlaid with dozens and dozens of shells swirling into patterns, but the sacrifice’s eyes were drawn to the coral throne.
The Prince of the Sea lounged there, watching the sacrifice with curious eyes. A cat studying a mouse. The sacrifice had imagined an ancient monster with fins, claws, tentacles, crusted with algae and barnacles, but the Prince was as breathtaking as the ocean he ruled. His pale skin was tinged blue, fading into a deep sapphire tail that ended in draping, half-transparent fins. The smooth scales flashed like wave crests in the dappled light, and beckoned in the same way. They looked so smooth… The sacrifice felt the absurd urge to run a finger over their surface.
Reddening, he forced his gaze higher, across the prince's bare chest, the shells draped around his neck, the shivering slits of gills in his neck, the long, black hair tied back from his face, the webbed tips of his ears, his impossibly, inhumanly beautiful face. He was thin, but nobody could possibly mistake him for weak or fragile. His lithe body had the grace of an eel, lightning-fast and dangerous. Next to him, the fisherman's son felt clumsy and inadequate.
"Welcome to my kingdom.”
The sacrifice caught a glimpse of pointy teeth as the Prince smiled. There was a sharp edge to it, danger lurking under the surface.
He forced himself to blink and tear his eyes away from the Prince.
"I won't be staying long," he said. It came out too loud. "You know the condition," he added, quieter.
The condition was real, wasn't it? It wasn't just bait meant to make sacrifices more complacent? No, no, it had to exist. Even though it was simple, too simple. Even though nobody had ever returned.
"It is ironic that you, of all people, were the one sent to me. Now you are trapped in my net,” the Prince smirked.
The Prince nodded, and the sacrifice exhaled in relief. There was a loophole. A ray of hope for the condemned. The rule was this: If they could remember their names, they were free to go.
"I had hoped you would be the one they'd send," the Prince said.
"Me? But... but you don't even know me."
"Strange words from one who spends day and night in my domain. I know you very well, little fisherman. You have received many a gift from me, and I am glad to see you have kept at least one of them."
The sacrifice followed the Prince's gaze to his necklace. A shell, the most gorgeous he'd ever found. He had threaded it painstakingly, not daring widen the hole in the top for fear of breaking it.
He thought back to each of his finds, every seashell, every net full of fish, every piece of seaglass. He'd thought himself simply lucky, but... was there more to it?
The sacrifice couldn’t suppress a shiver at the words.
"But if you are in such a hurry to leave... Tell me, little fisherman, what is your name?"
"My… my name is Kiran," the sacrifice whispered, hating how uncertain he sounded.
The Prince leaned closer, tail swishing. His eyes pierced the sacrifice to the core. Under that gaze, he felt exposed, stripped bare. Heat rose to his face.
In a hurry to go? What did he have on land? A dead father, resentful neighbors, hostile glares. All he had was... the sea.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Kiran," the Prince purred.
"I told you my name, I can…" the sacrifice began, stuttering to a halt as the Prince pushed off of the arms of the throne and, with a single swish of the tail, crossed the distance between them. The speed, the elegance of his movements… The sacrifice himself felt slow and restricted in the water. He was completely, utterly outmatched.
The Prince floated in front of him, close, so close. He tilted the sacrifice's face up with his long, webbed fingers. His eyes… They were mesmerizing. He was the sea, the sea that the sacrifice loved so much. The sacrifice felt the familiar longing to dive in and lose himself in their depths. A shiver ran through his body.
The Prince's long tail curled around the back of his legs, fin brushing his shoulder. Trapping him. Cradling him. So many times he'd floated on his back in the sea, at peace, completely trusting that it would hold him. Keep him safe.
"What did you say your name was?" the Prince whispered.
The sacrifice opened his mouth to repeat it, but words would not come.
“I told it to you already,” he breathed. The Prince's proximity was making it so very hard to think.
"Ah, but the deal was that you have to remember it. If you only had to tell me once, how would I know you were being truthful?" the Prince asked, tilting his head. Amusement gleamed in his eyes.
"But… that's not fair…”
When the Prince kissed him with lips tasting of salt, the sacrifice knew that he would not be leaving. He was trapped, as surely as a fish on a hook.
"Don't you know? A fish does not come if it knows there's a trap. It needs to be drawn in with a promise."
The hero had been putting this visit off. He’d been busy was the excuse. It was true, but only because he went out of his way to seek out tasks, trying to drown out the itch in his mind. But today, he decided to just get it over with. This was the day he'd finally get closure.
The villain's prison was secure, of course. High walls and individual dungeons, never to be walked out of. It was a prison for normal people, which was what the villain had become after the hero had taken his magic. Normal.
At least, that was what the hero told himself as the front doors thudded closed behind him.
A guard escorted him down, down, down, into the deepest dungeons, until finally, they reached a door.
"Do you want some help in there?" the guard asked.
The hero shook his head. This was something he needed to face alone.
The guard handed him the key, and left, throwing a final glance over his shoulder. Once he was gone, the hero pushed the key into the keyhole and turned it with trembling fingers.
The door unlocked with a soft click. It was almost absurd that it had only one single lock. The hero had imagined chains, padlocks, and bars twisting into an impenetrable metal cocoon. Still, it was completely safe. Each floor had locked entrances, and given how deep they were, the villain would have to get through a lot of doors to escape.
The hero took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
He’d been ready for anything and everything, except for the sight that met his eyes.
The villain lay sprawled on the floor, shivering so hard that the long chains connecting his wrists and ankles to the wall rattled. His filthy clothes hung on him in ragged tatters.
This could not be. He’d walked into the wrong cell. It had to be that because it was simply impossible for this skeletally thin figure that flinched at the sound of the opening door to be the villain. The one he still had nightmares about. The one that haunted his living moments.
But it was him, and the hero was just standing there gaping like an imbecile instead of actually doing anything.
He snapped out of his daze and skidded to his knees beside the villain. One of his arms was twisted at an odd angle, and some of the stains on his clothes were a suspicious shade of red. The villain let out a pained noise as the hero turned him onto his back with shaking hands.
The hero gasped when he saw the villain's face. His filthy gag was crusted with dried blood that had gushed from his clearly broken nose. Behind the bruises, cuts, and injuries, he was almost unrecognizable.
The villain's gray eyes fluttered open. Once, they had been piercing, terrifying, alive. Now, they were dull, like they belonged to a corpse.
The hero undid the gag with frantic, shaky motions.
"Are you here to gloat?" the villain rasped when the hero finished.
The hero shook his head, panicked breath catching in his throat. His fingers fluttered uselessly in the air as he tried to decide where to start. His mind categorized the injuries. Broken ribs, broken wrist, major bruising.
"No, you're really not, are you?"
The villain was interrupted by a coughing fit that wracked his body. Blood trickled down his chin. This was bad.
The hero placed his hands on the villain's chest. The villain hissed in pain as the hero began the healing process. He let out a hoarse scream as something snapped into place beneath his skin. The hero gritted his teeth but continued.
Finally, it was over. The hero sank down to the ground in exhaustion.
The villain slowly sat up and flexed his fingers.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
"You were hurt.”
“But I’m… me.”
The hero hadn’t even thought about it that way, hadn’t taken a single second to consider that perhaps the villain deserved the state he’d been in. The very thought repulsed him, sending a feeling of wrongness through his body.
"You shouldn't have done that,” the villain said emotionlessly.
The hero blinked, taken completely aback.
"Why not?"
"Now, they can just do all that all over again. They stopped when I was hurt badly enough. They didn't want to kill me. Too much paperwork, I suppose."
The villain didn't sound angry, bitter, or even scared. He sounded broken. This was wrong! This wasn’t who the villain was, it wasn't who he was supposed to be.
Someone had done this to him. Some filthy, honorless, cowardly rat had come in here and hurt him while he was chained up and defenseless.
"Who did this?" the hero demanded.
"Why do you care? It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. They tortured you, almost killed you, we don't do that!"
"Why not? Because it would make you like me?" the villain asked with the faintest of sneers, a hint of his former demeanor shining through.
"Because you received your punishment! It's not for them, whoever they are, to decide your sentence! Tell me who did this, I know that you know!"
“Are you sure you want to know?” the villain asked, voice rising.
The hero’s blood ran cold. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Most of it was your precious little sidekick!"
The hero's heart dropped. No.
"Do you want to hear about what he did? About what he said? He thought that my sentence was too light, I deserve to suffer more. Isn't it funny, isn't it ironic? Me, helpless at his mercy. He was so smug, you should have seen it. First, he broke my nose."
"Stop," the hero whispered.
"Then, he stepped on my wrist. He pressed harder, slowly, ever so slowly, taking his time. I assure you, he was enjoying it. It cracked with such a sweet sound. His words, not mine! He was angry that I didn't beg, so he kicked me in the ribs until they broke too."
The villain was breathing harder and harder, words tumbling out in a furious rush.
"Please, stop."
"That's what he wanted me to say. But what are you going to do about it? Nothing. You'll give him a talking-to, a slap on the wrist, perhaps. But even if he stops coming, there are others that won't."
There was a crazed, manic look in the villain's eyes. He had always been calm and collected. The hero had never seen him like this.
"You want to help?! Kill me. End it."
"No!" the hero exclaimed, horrified.
The villain deflated. The chains clanked as he leaned back, tilting his head to rest against the stones. The dull look returned to his eyes as he stared blankly at the opposite wall.
"Do you know what it's like to have your magic stolen?” he asked quietly. “The world was at my fingertips. I was a god. I had everything, but you destroyed it all. I have nothing left to live for. I will rot away in this very cell for the rest of my life, slowly losing my mind. Is that what you think I deserve?"
The hero opened and closed his mouth, trying to find words.
"You are many things, but cruel is not one of them. You were always different from the others, in that sense. Killing me would be a kindness, believe me."
The hero did believe him. The bitter pain in his voice, the slump of his shoulders, the desperation deep in the lines of his face… The villain didn't belong in a cell. He wasn't meant to be an ordinary human. The hero knew without a shadow of a doubt that he truly did prefer death to this. But…
"I… I can't."
"Do you want me to beg? I've never done it before, but I suppose there's a first time for everything."
"No!"
The very thought made the hero want to vomit.
"If you're too soft for that kind of thing, send someone else. I'm sure your sidekick will be more than happy to assist. But I would prefer that it was you."
The hero imagined himself in the villain's place. Stripped of magic, locked away, alone, forever. He shuddered at the thought, cold tearing through him.
"Think about it, will you?"
The hero fled the cell, leaving the villain alone once more.
Two days later, the villain was moved to a dungeon in the hero's own castle.
The castle spires pierced the clouds with sharp, snow-white points. Sunset painted them with streaks of pink, orange, and violet. The prince had actually liked the palace when he'd first seen it.
Probably because back then, he wasn't being dragged there by force.
The giant doors slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud. The prince was led through the halls to the throne room, where he was finally released.
The king sat on the throne, watching the prince with his pale grey, almost white eyes. They seemed almost to glow against his tanned face.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” he smirked.
The prince stayed silent.
“I’m glad your return went well. I'll admit, while you were gone, I was plagued by curiosity. Where were you running to? Surely not your own kingdom, they'd have sent you right back. Your parents agreed to our marriage, everything was done properly. By your laws, you belong to me.”
The prince clenched his fists.
“I would have been helped there! They didn't know what you're really–”
The prince stopped, breathing heavily.
“What I'm really like?” The king arched a mocking brow. “Allow me to tell you a terrible secret, Your Highness. They don't care. Have you ever asked yourself why they gave you to me at all, especially since in your kingdom, men lying together is… let's say, not customary? Were I a many-headed monster that regularly devoured its suitors, they would only have asked what spice best to serve you with.”
The prince shivered. A treacherous thought stirred in the depths of his soul: The king was right. He wasn't the firstborn, only a spare. How could he be disposed of with some use? Easy, just marry him off to the first willing party and be done with it.
“Why did you run? Surely you weren't treated better in your home kingdom. Here, you were given anything you asked for. What don't you like?”
The prince's eyes flashed in fury. Anything he asked for? What about freedom?!
“I don't like you! I'm not for sale, you can't buy me with gifts and riches! Don't you care that I don't love you?!”
For the first time, the smirk vanished from the king's lips. The look that came to replace it was terrible. The prince took an involuntary step back, heartbeat picking up.
The king rose from the throne and began strolling toward him.
The prince forced himself to stop. His body tensed, hands trembling. He didn't know what to expect.
The king stopped in front of him. The prince was tall, but the king was taller still. He loomed over him like a circling raven, a predator preparing to strike.
“You think you're not for sale?” he asked coldly. “That is not the case. You were already sold to me for peace. You're mine.”
The dropping of titles and formalities scared the prince more than anything else. This is it. The masks are coming off.
The king's eyes practically radiated cold.
“But if I, as you say, did not care that you don't love me, we would have been wed on the day of your arrival, ceremonies and all. I could have locked you in the dungeon, even tortured you until you realized who the master is here. And I still can.”
The prince swallowed, paling. Nobody, not one single person, would have defended him. He suddenly became acutely aware of his complete, utter helplessness.
“You say your love cannot be bought? All the worse for you, because you will live here for the rest of your life whether you want to or not. It's in your interests to fall in love with me, this castle, your life here.”
The king suddenly took the prince's hand in icy fingers with a smile. The prince froze, breath catching. It was too sudden a shift.
“You fear me right now. That is wise, but unnecessary. I do not intend to turn your life into a nightmare. I don't need another terrified subject that flinches from me like from the plague. I understand that it's difficult now, but with time…”
The king gave the prince's hand a light squeeze before letting go.
“Our wedding will take place tomorrow. You can go prepare.”
This is a masterlist of my writing posts that will be updated regularly. Newest works on top! (Not including my posts that are not stories, those are tagged "not a story" and there's not many of them so you'll be fine.) Trigger warnings for each individual one are in tags.
Note: I do not title my stories so the list will consist of vague keywords and names. So... if you haven't already read the story, don't judge by the random jumble of words. I promise you, they will not determine your enjoyment level.
У моих историй нет названий так что список будет состоять из разных важных слов и имен. Так что если вы еще не читали историю, не судите по левой куче слов которые тут. Обещаю, они не передают сути.
Key: English, Русский. Translations go in pairs with the original language on top. Переводы парами, оригинальный язык сверху.
The night was silent and still, just like the night before, and the night before. Still, the guard was uneasy. With the sorcerer hunting the prince still on the loose, nobody was safe. The castle’s defenses had been tripled, the rotations had been scheduled more frequently, and every other possible and impossible precaution had been taken. The prince wasn't even sleeping in his own chambers. He’d been moved to one of the many guest rooms instead. Three defenders were stationed outside the door, but the guard was the only one actually inside the room. He was the only one the prince had allowed inside.
The guard tried to relax, but it was difficult to do so when the taste of the prince's lips still lingered on his own. When the memory of the prince's soft hands tracing his own calloused fingers, tangling in his hair, cupping his jaw, were so fresh in his mind. When the prince was sleeping just across the room, so peaceful in his slumber. The sound of his level breathing made the guard’s own breath hitch as something constricted in his chest. When he’d asked how the prince could be so calm, he had only shrugged his elegant shoulders. Why would I be afraid when you're protecting me? he’d replied with his beautiful, teasing smile. Relax. I'm safe here.
Something moved in the corner of the guard’s eye.
His sword was out in an instant, adrenaline hammering through his veins as he whirled. DangerdangerdangerdangerDANGER-
A moth.
It was just a moth, fluttering its pale wings as it flew toward the dim candle without a care in the world.
The prince shifted in his sleep with an unhappy sigh, bothered by the rasp of the unsheathing blade.
The guard ran a hand down his face with a huffed laugh, aftershocks of the panic sending shivers through his body. He did need to relax. He’d wound himself too tight, run himself ragged with worry. He couldn’t help his liege while jumping at shadows.
He sheathed his sword as quietly as possible, making sure he didn’t rouse the prince, and turned away from the bed just in time for a small, purple sphere to shoot under the door and hit him square in the chest.
The guard collapsed without a sound. Pure panic stabbed through his veins as he desperately tried to leap up, shout, warn the prince, but he couldn't move. The carpet was soft against his cheek. He’d landed facing the bed, so he could only listen as a key turned in the lock and the door swung open with a soft creak.
The prince stirred. The guard willed for him to wake up, RUN! Get up, get up, GET UP!
The prince mumbled his name blearily, voice lilting up at the end.
The sorcerer stepped into the room. His shiny boots passed a hair away from the guard's nose as he approached the prince's bed, footsteps muffled by the rug.
Tears of desperation pooled in the corners of the guard’s eyes as he strained against the spell binding him. No, no, no, NO! It couldn’t end like this! He had to get up and FIGHT!
The sorcerer stopped by the prince's bed.
"Good morning," he crooned.
The prince shot up, scrambling for his dagger, but the sorcerer caught his wrist.
"None of that, now," he said, twisting until the blade fell from the prince’s fingers. The small cry of pain that escaped the prince's lips felt like a blow to the stomach.
The sorcerer caught the dagger deftly. He yanked the prince's head back by his hair and pressed the blade to his exposed throat.
The prince gasped the guard’s name, voice hitching. He looked so helpless, small and delicate in the sorcerer’s grip. All it would take was a twitch of the hand and a river of crimson would spill from his soft, white throat.
The guard let out a guttural, silent scream, yanking against the magical bonds as hard as he could. The spell held strong, keeping him bound, keeping him from doing something, anything!
"That's interesting," the sorcerer murmured, looking to the guard’s still form. "If you care about him so much, maybe he can come with us."
"No!"
"No?" the sorcerer asked, cold amusement in his voice.
"Take me, I'll come with you willingly, just leave him alone!"
No, no, no, NO!
The sorcerer looked from the prince to the guard and back, brow arched. The guard tried to shake his head, scream, thrash, but he could only watch.
"You are in no position to make demands, your highness," the sorcerer said. “It’s useful to have a… guarantee of cooperation.”
His voice turned hard and cold.
"You. Guard. I will release you from the spell, but if you make a single misstep, I slit the princeling's throat."
On the Difference Between Yuri and Yaoi Romance: Why Do They Hit Differently?
(Disclaimer: This is not one of my stories, it's more of an essay. Not my usual format)
As many of you may have noticed, yaoi is considered more popular than yuri in the LGBTQ+ shipping community (To clarify, when I say yaoi and yuri I am referring to romance, not just smut). But... why? Is it because of misogyny? Fetishization? Well... I think it's a bit more complex than that.
In our society, gender roles are rather prevalent. Men are meant to be more stoic, strong, the defenders and the fighters. Whether we believe it or not, this is the image that we are socialized with. Women, on the other hand, are the caregivers. They're stereotyped as more loving, more social, lighter and more flighty.
But tsaritsa-zmey, we know this, I hear you say. Why is this relevant?
Please bear with me for one moment more, I am getting to the point.
Women also, in a way, have more societal freedom. Women's suffrage movements have truly accomplished a LOT. Once, a woman wearing pants was as socially unacceptable as a man wearing a skirt. Today, it is commonplace for women to have short hair, wear "masculine" clothing, avoid makeup, work out, and more. I am NOT saying that butch women face no difficulties at all, I'm just saying that in many places they're not an oddity. Conversely, a man in a skirt, in makeup, with long, styled hair, with jewelry, or with nail polish is still very unusual. It's far less socially acceptable.
Sure, but what's your POINT?!
When men hold hands, embrace, kiss, and act romantically toward each other, the feeling behind the action is compounded by the fact that in doing so, they are breaking social norms. It is very rare, almost unheard of, for men to engage in this kind of behavior casually. Women, on the other hand, can walk arm in arm, kiss each other on the cheek, compliment each other, even help each other change, and this is normal and platonic (From whence the eternal lesbian dilemma of "okay, but does she LIKE me???"). Consciously or unconsciously, we all bear the stereotypes that we were socialized into by society. This is why yuri authors have to jump through more hoops in order to drive the romance home. To sum up the paragraph before this one, it's becoming normal for women to be dominant, but it's still rare for men to be submissive. All the above adds to the appeal of yaoi. It makes yaoi juicier.
On a personal note, I prefer both reading and writing yaoi romance to yuri romance, even though the only kind of smut I can really enjoy is yuri (no offense, but penises are scary). For a long time I've kind of been dancing around why. It can't be fetishization in my case, because, to reiterate, penises are scary. This is the conclusion I arrived at. To clarify, this is not true for EVERYONE. It's a generalization formed from my personal observations, however I believe it's pretty widely applicable. Sure, for some people it may be as simple as sexism or kinks, but that isn't the whole story.
To clarify: I am NOT saying that yuri cannot be enjoyable, fun, romantic, or sexy. I've read and written yuri myself, and hopefully eventually will even engage in it myself. I am simply explaining a trend I've seen in society, and why yuri feels different than yaoi.
Aakil was dying. He'd known he was doomed from the moment he'd felt the net dig into his flesh and scales, but he hadn't expected his demise to drag like this. He didn't know how long he'd spent locked in the dark, cramped box of water, slowly suffocating as oxygen ran out, but it felt like tides and tides. His weakly twitching gills no longer did anything to ease the burning ache in his chest, which slowly but steadily intensified with each passing moment. His tail had cramped up and his hands had long since gone numb from being tied behind his back at the wrist and elbow. The gag shoved into his mouth made his jaw ache. Time blurred and dragged into a daze of pain as he slipped in and out of consciousness.
At first, Aakil had been relieved to be alive. Poachers usually just chopped off the tails of merfolk before flinging them back into the sea to die of blood loss. Aakil was no longer sure which fate was worse. At least that would have been over quickly. When darkness finally came for him, Aakil sank into oblivion with relief. It was finally over.
He was brought back by the shock of plunging into freezing water. His eyes shot open. The sea! Sweet, sweet water flooded his gills with every breath, surging through his veins with rejuvenating clarity. He twisted, lashing his tail in an instinctive attempt to dive, but something tugged him to a halt. His hands were still bound.
The ship's hull loomed over Aakil, banishing any hopes he had left. He wasn't free.
Whatever this was, it wasn't good. He had to escape. He struggled with fresh strength, pulling at his bonds, but the ropes held tight.
Something yanked at his waist and hands, dragging him up.
No, no, no, NO, NO!
Aakil was torn from the water and flung down onto the boards of the ship. Fire seared through his wildly flapping gills, he couldn't breathe!
“Told you it was alive,” a sailor sneered, kicking him onto his back.
“You almost let it die,” the captain said coldly. “I told you to change the water. Next time, you'll be the bait.”
Bait?!
The captain leaned down, brushing a strand of Aakil's long hair out of his face. Aakil spasmed, doing his best to hold his breath. Red crawled up his vision as his body screamed for air. Let me go, he pleaded desperately with his gaze.
The captain's thumb ghosted over the sensitive slits in Aakil's neck, sending a new shiver through him.
The captain's fingers jammed into the gills. Aakil screeched in agony as the captain pinned him to the deck, a boot on his chest. His tail thrashed and slapped against the boards, but there was nothing he could do.
“Hook it,” the captain ordered.
Through blurry, too-dry eyes Aakil made out the glint of metal, before pain like he'd never known stabbed through his shoulder.
Aakil let out a raw scream, writhing uncontrollably. The metal tip of the hook pierced through the spot where chest met arm and stuck. Blue blood trickled from the wound. His body convulsed from lack of air, burning on the inside and out. The captain kept him pinned in place, not letting him roll around the deck.
The youngest sailor rushed to the rail and vomited.
“Throw it overboard, now!” the captain ordered.
Together with two other sailors, they heaved Aakil over the edge.
Water, blessed water flooded his gills, but it did nothing to alleviate the agony in his shoulder. A large anchor was bound to the rope stretching from the hook, and it dragged Aakil down, down, down… By the wound.
An eternity later, the anchor hit the seafloor. Aakil sagged, shudders wracking his body as he tried his best not to move. Every shift of the current tore a scream from his throat as the hook tugged on his flesh.
He was bait. But for what?!
Between high, whimpering breaths, Aakil became aware of his surroundings. Too deep. The water here seemed thicker, darker. Aakil was in violation of the treaty with the depthdwellers. His people lived in shallower waters, and his ears were already beginning to ring from the pressure.
Aakil sent a desperate glance up, and saw the distant outline of underwater cliffs. Only after that did he finally realize where he was.
The Lair.
Pure terror swept Aakil up, drowning out even the pain. Why?! How?! Were the humans truly trying to feed him to one of the Beasts?!
He had to get away!
Aakil yanked at his ropes but screamed as the hook shifted, barb digging in from the other side. The spike of pain left him a shaking, whimpering mess.
He had to think, but his mind refused to work. There wasn't a single jagged piece of anything anywhere near him that he could use to saw through the rope. The stones around him were too big, too smooth. All he could do was wait for the beasts to come, drawn by the blood and sound.
Aakil squeezed his eyes shut, shaking head to fin as his heart raced faster and faster.
He was going to die, he was going to die, he was going to die, HE WAS GOING TO DIE!
He could feel it coming in the brush of water against his skin. Every wave made him bite his tongue to keep from shrieking. Not that it made a difference, it could smell his blood anyway.
Help, help me, please… Somebody… I don't want to die, please…
A dark streak shot overhead, directly at the Beast. Then another… another…
Aakil froze, not daring to look. He could tell from the sounds and the shifts in the water that some kind of struggle was occurring, but what? What did it mean for him?
The seafloor shook with a thud that could only have been the Beast's corpse. The next moment, something touched down in front of Aakil.
He opened his eyes and his blood turned to ice. A depthdweller, sitting astride one of their mounts: a giant, squid-like creature.
The depthdweller studied Aakil with large, pale, cold eyes.
“Tresspasser,” he hissed in that cold, slithering voice of theirs.
Behind him, more depthdwellers were disposing of the dead Beast, using the tentacles they had instead of tails to propel themselves in sharp bursts.
They’d just… They’d just killed a Beast.
The one in front of Aakil seemed to be their leader. He was still young, around Aakil's own age, but strands of bone jewelry wound up his arms and around his neck. This one had won many victories.
Aakil did not like the way the depthdweller was looking at him. There was a predatory gleam to his eyes as they swept Aakil up and down. He took his time, soaking in every detail. Looking at his smile, Aakil believed every story he'd ever been told about how depthdwellers ate merfolk tails.
The depthdweller trailed a tentacle down Aakil's chest with a lazy grin.
“What a pretty catch. Young, and quick too, I'd wager. You must not be very bright though, or the landfolk wouldn't have gotten you.”
The part of Aakil's brain that could still think through the haze of agony protested with indignation. They'd gotten lucky! Yes, Aakil had been arrogant, perhaps foolish. But ultimately, fortune had decided things.
The depthdweller unsheathed a sword. Aakil's eyes flared wide open, fear coursing through him. He squeezed his eyes shut with a muffled cry as the depthdweller swung…
With one slash, he sliced through the thick rope attached to the hook. The gag was next to be cut off, though he didn't free Aakil's hands.
“Pretty decoration,” he smirked, aiming his sword at the hook. “A gift from the landfolk?”
“Please…”
“Please what? Untie you? Kill you? Take it out? Help you? I don't think so, fish boy.”
A tentacle grasped Aakil firmly by the chin, tilting his lolling head up.
“You violated the treaty.”
“I– I didn't…”
“Didn't mean to? The cruel, nasty humans sent you to the bottom?” the depthdweller mocked. “That doesn't matter.”
Two of his tentacles coiled around Aakil's middle, a third slithered around his tail. The suction cups attached firmly to his skin, trapping him.
