Tenebrous

1|The Reign of a Beast

A whip garnished with scraps of silver meet the flesh of a man with no name. The noises gurgling from his throat are unclear due to the deep cut across his neck. He kneels, naked, on an alter built of stone, ancient war chants carved into its sides. Though his pleas are obscured by his damaged neck, the men hovering in the shadows know what he is saying. They have heard it all before; the cries of pain, the begging, the final words, they are always the same: pleas for their life, useless apologies, whispered prayers.

Bleiz, the man carrying the whip, is of considerable size, his enormous form composed of muscle and brawn. The ink etched into his skin, covering his arms and shaven head, displays to his enemies just how dangerous he is. The other soldiers, standing in the shadows of the room, have always been somewhat wary of him. The mountain of a man easily loses control, killing those he is commanded only to injure. A short temper is a trait found often in the beasts.

The men observe the damage a single crack of the whip does, eternally grateful they are not in the injured parties place. The suffering of another no longer fazes anyone in the room. Any sympathy they had was torn to shreds once they joined the royal guard. Compassion has been replaced with indifference; a feeling some would consider harsher than hatred. Bleiz rips the man's flesh as he continues to whip his back, stopping only when a powerful voice fills the room. It is a smooth, deep voice, holding a superiority no other creature can compare to.

"Enough."

The men turn their heads, their years of training together causing a sort of synchronism to form among them. Bleiz bows before stepping off the alter, the whip still in his right hand, leaving a trail of blood behind him. They watch as their king stands from his throne of gold. Bleiz is allowed to torture the men at the altar, injure them until every bone in their body is broken, but the final blow belongs to the king.

He strolls onto the alter, securing the leather gloves around his hands. The blood of such a worthless creature will not touch his skin.

The man with no name squirms like a fish in a net, surrounded by pirates long stranded at sea. The king crouches beside him, a dullness in his eyes, an emptiness found only in corpses.

"You've made quite a mess with this one, Bleiz." He smirks as he reaches for the dagger in his pocket. Its edges are jagged, yet the carbon steel is perfectly polished. The unnamed man is nothing but a pile of blood and guts at the altar of death. The laws of the king's land are simple, and the nameless man disobeyed them.

The man shakes below the king, ready for death, but quivering at the idea of the pain he knows will come with it. It will not be an immediate end.

The king begins with the prisoner's chest, twisting the knife as if he is a sculptor perfecting his masterpiece, moving it in ways that causes even Bleiz to look away as the prisoners screams echo throughout the dungeons.

The tortured man's suffering does not last as long as The King wishes, in minutes his laments turn to bloodied coughs, choking, then, nothing. The room grows silent as the king wipes the blood from his dagger, the high of a kill still pulsing through his veins. He watches closely as the prisoner's chest slows to a perfect stillness, the king entranced by the idea of death coming so quickly. If only he could stop his own heart as easily as he has stopped so many others.

The men watch from the sidelines waiting for their king to speak, for him to make his next order.

"Clean the blood. Feed what's left of him to the hounds."

The king's men follow his orders with no question, it is both a sign of loyalty and fear. No one would ever disobey the king of beasts without lethal consequences. For he is all powerful, the son of Fenrir, God of the wolves, fated to rule over all beasts: all earthbound creatures built from fury and blood.

As he stalks out of the torture chamber and into the shadowy dungeons, the stench of prisoners fills his senses.. Traitors of the crown inhabit the cells, awaiting the day they will be put on the altar of death.

Once the king has mounted the dungeon's underground steps, he is greeted by his second in command, Waylon, a man with skin as dark as his eyes.

"Obin has requested your presence, your majesty."

Werewolves and vampires are not the only inhuman beings who walk the earth, wizards and witches travel through this prolonged mortal coil as well. Obin, a master in the darker crevices of magic, is a wizard. Brilliant and old. Older than the kings great castle itself. The structure of grey stone is not something of fairytales. It is a haunted, eerie building, emanating the bittersweet melancholy of something that was once beautiful. Ornate balls and celebrations were once held, the kin apart of the festivities, yet his reign of a thousand years has caused him to be cursed with discontent and a lack of feeling. He grew numb long ago.

Guards line the castle entryways, yet none are allowed inside. The castle, with its hundreds of rooms and extravagant ornamentation, is allowed only to the king and his closest of colleagues, a number so small it could be counted it on one hand. The king moves quickly through the fortress. He finds Obin in his tower, the highest part of the castle. In his day, the wizard was nefarious for his black magic and immense power. Yet, many years have come and gone, and Obin is growing old, no longer is he a loyal companion of the mysterious and grotesque, but of ancient books and cauldrons of black iron.

His grey hair is shaped around his face like a sort of mask as a velveteen cloak hides his eyes. "You have been busy, my king?" He leans against his staff, a strange substance oozing in the cauldron above the fire.

The king, more impatient than one with his lifespan should be, nods, "have you called me here for a reason?"

Obin finds a seat on a stack of spell books. "You have not forgotten the prophecy I discovered long ago? The foretelling of your fate?"

The king is unfamiliar with the cold sting of fear, so he does not easily recognize its fatal bite. Something close to the feeling rushes over him. "Of course I haven't forgotten."

It was declared long ago: "No sharpened sword nor marching army will kill the King of Beasts; his life will remain immortal to all but one. One who has stripped him of his armor and removed his crown of carnage, one who has found a place in his blackened heart. One whom he has loved."

These revelations have echoed through the space of the king's mind since they were first recited by Obin the old. Humor once reflected in his eyes at the absurd prophecy, not a single thing on this earth had ever meant anything to him. No life but his own had ever mattered.

"You have been more absent than usual; your eyes hold secrets." Obin declares. The great wizard, now sure of his inference, knows the world itself will turn on its axis at the fact.

"What makes you say that, old man?" The king raises a brow, removing his leather gloves.

"You have found her, haven't you?"

A feeling rains over the king, washing away his stern demeanor. Stopping himself from taking the wizard by the throat, he tightens his fists. He should have known Obin would find out one way or another.

The king takes a threatening step forward. "I could rip your heart from your chest if I wanted to, or cut out your tongue, so you never speak again. But you already know this, you already know what I am capable of."

The wizard nods, "My loyalty has always been to you, my king," he clasps his ringed hands together, "however, my prophecies have never been wrong."

The king steps toward the tower window, his fingers laced behind his back as he stares over the woods, envisioning the village beyond it. He imagines her, sitting beneath a tree, a book in her hands, her scent more lovely than the flowers blooming around her, looking as though she was born with the light of the sun in her chest. And for a moment, the king wonders if it would be so bad to die at the hand of ones as gentle as hers.