two; god of death
With one large inhale, Rhys awakened. His eyes were wide in surprise. Though, the immortality that mundanely allowed his breath to slither its way back into his lungs once again did not garner such a reaction. His skin was wet with water so cold it stung. He was reminded of the times he would travel to the stream in their village and collect a bucket of water only to pour it on his sleeping siblings for nothing more than to cure his boredom.
In the delirium of his resuscitation, he imagined one of them was getting their payback. It must have been Kol as he was the only one to hold on to such trivial things centuries later, but once he reached up and attempted to wipe the water off his face, he started to think otherwise.
There was an unnecessary weight on his wrists and a rattling sound that followed his movements. He glanced down, scrunching his eyebrows at the metal cuffs that dug into his skin. "What..?" He mumbled in confusion. Then, it all came back to him.
They were attacked, by witches it seemed like from the mystical cause of their deaths. He thought back to the man who had given them directions and his odd behavior. He must have known what they were from the start which meant that he was not a human like Elijah suspected. The workers inside the train station too.
Rhys raised his head in hopes of figuring out what was going on, yet his gaze was instantly captured by a man. He stood above him, tall and muscular, as he sat on the cold ground of what seemed to be a cellar. His unwavering eyes were a soft color of brown infused with green and something sinister. The dim light above them illuminated his tanned skin that was soiled by specks of blood the original nearly mistook for freckles.
"Stand up," he ordered. His voice was low and rough like a child raised on violence and ruthlessness.
"Who are you?" Rhys questioned, ignoring him. "What have you done to the rest of my family?"
The man did not answer him. His head titled slightly and his nostrils flared outward, a sign of annoyance the original supposed. "Stand up," he repeated.
For a moment, Rhys had forgotten who he was. He did not take orders no more than he allowed himself to be someone's prisoner. Slowly, he stood to his feet. There was rage in his actions when he attempted to utilize the speed his vampirism granted him, but he did not take into account how blinding rage could be.
Maybe then he would have realized that the blood on the man's skin did not have his gums itching as it usually did. That he could not hear anything outside the room they were in. That his hands were emptied of the power everyone ate off his palms. Maybe then he would not have showed his hand and made himself look foolish.
Rhys stared down at his feet in shock. They had not moved an inch.
A low chuckle left the man's mouth, drawing his attention back to him. There was a smile on his face, full of mockery. "You vampires are so predictable," he sneered, "It's pathetic." His next actions were just as swift as the smile falling from his face. Rhys could feel his annoyance when he raised his leg and connected his leather-clad foot with his chest.
There was a moment when the pressure at his chest forced his breath to abandon him. It was brief, yet it was the one thing he noticed as he flew across the room. Then, pain spread through his body as he collided with the wall, painting the bricks red with his blood.
