#magic suppression

When the prisoner awoke, it was with a mangled scream. Oisin jolted to attention, hand going to his sword immediately. But the scream cut off as soon as it had started, dissolving into a fit of coughing as the woman curled into herself, trying to catch her breath. Her arms came up around her knees, and her sleeves slipped down, revealing a mess of symbols inked across her skin, swooping patterns and shapes Oisin recognised as some language but couldn’t understand. The skin around her shackles was red and raw; clearly, she’d put up a fight on the way here.

She looked up, and her eyes met his. He looked away immediately, returning to position, eyes forward, shoulders back, at attention, but not before her eyes could burn their way into his memory. They shone like molten gold, like the very tip of a flame, with no black center to hold them back. Part of him begged for a second glance, just to be sure he hadn’t fabricated them entirely, but he knew he hadn’t. He could never have dreamed them up, not in his wildest fantasies.

“Where am I?” She asked, raspy voice echoing in the silent dungeon. Oisin didn’t respond. Making eye contact was bad enough. Though she might not look like a threat, perhaps that was what made her dangerous. He couldn’t trust the quiver in her voice or her slight figure. It wasn’t his place to, anyway. He was here to guard her, not to cast judgement.

He kept his gaze forward, keeping her only in his peripheral vision as she got to her feet. The chains clinked against each other before going taut, stopping her just before she reached the bars. Silence fell once more.

“To whom does this place belong?” she tried, louder this time. There was an authority to her tone now, one commonly reserved for ladies of the court, and Oisin felt the words rattle down his spine. He resisted the command. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes from wandering.

After a moment, he heard her sigh. The chains rattled once more, and she left the boundaries of his vision. A shuffle, a clank, and a small thump indicated she had sat back down. Then, nothing.

This was far more agonizing now that she was awake. Each second took years, until he was no longer sure how long they had been there. He began counting the straw in the cell next to hers to offer up some meek distraction. It wasn’t enough. He took note of her every breath, finding that every fifth inhale or so seemed sharper. Every little move she made sent straw rustling, or iron tinkling. Every little move brought her back to the forefront of his mind, those burning eyes staring at him, through him, winnowing their way into his soul.

Finally, her breathing began to even out. She stopped shuffling around. He saw no flickers of movement at the edge of his sight. He waited for what felt like ages, listening for her to start up again, but nothing came. Tentatively, he cast a quick glance into her cell.

Those burning eyes stared back.

He looked away, feeling heat rising to his cheeks as she began to laugh, a hoarse, hysterical sound that bounced oddly off the cold stone walls. She was playing with him. Laughing at him.

And now he was fighting not only the urge to look, but the urge to smile as well. She was making his job quite difficult indeed.

Her laughter subsided eventually, and she moved back into his line of sight, leaning against the near side of the cell. “May I at least know your name, sir?” Far from commanding, she now sounded almost conversational.

When he didn’t respond, she let out a huff. “Please? My life may be ending in the morning. Would you deny a condemned woman the dignity of knowing her keeper?”

Oisin could feel the weight of her stare, the earnest plea in her voice. He’d rarely had a prisoner address him, and never with such humanity. On duty, he was no more than a tool, an object to dissuade dissent. Even guarding the palace gates, he was lucky to receive even a glance from passers by. It was an odd feeling, then, in the loneliest corner of the castle, to be so thoroughly watched. Watched by someone who wished to know of him, if only to know something.

He saw her smile slip as she turned away from him with a final, resigned sigh.

God, he would regret this.

“Oisin,” he answered, hardly above a whisper.

Her head jerked back in his direction. “What?” He could see the grin creeping back up to her face. There was no one here to see them.

Slowly, he met her gaze. “My name is Oisin.”

In full focus, she seemed much less impish than he’d first thought. Though her smile had a playful tilt, her eyes were weighted down with exhaustion. Her cheek was bruised, her hair matted and dirty. Still, she lit up under his gaze, looking for all the world like she was having the best night of her life. “Oisin,” she repeated, and the name was honey on her tongue. “What a lovely name. I’m Liadan.”

It suited her well. He gave her a nod, forcing his expression to remain neutral. At least he could maintain that.

“Are you always this chatty, Oisin?” She seemed to revel in the eye contact, almost daring him to look away.

“I’m not meant to engage with prisoners.”

That brought a shadow over her face, even as her smile remained frozen. “I see.” She lowered her voice then, some of the bravado peeling away. “Thank you for making an exception.”

It occurred to him, then, that he may have brought about an end to their short little conversation. He would end his shift at dawn, she would be seen by the court and dealt punishment, and they would never see each other again. And remarkably, he found he couldn’t stand the thought. He wanted her to keep talking, to ask him questions and poke holes in his facade. He wanted to ask her even more, about the strange markings and why she was here and why she would be so desperate for the name of a prison guard.

None of this he could say. “Thank you for asking,” he said instead, hoping his tone might convey what his words could not.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, smile fading, and she was back to the frightened girl she had been when she’d first awoken. She gave him a nod. When he didn’t look away, something strange began to collect behind her eyes. She didn’t meet his gaze as she said, “Might I ask one more thing of you, Oisin?”

A part of him warned that this was what she’d been getting at all along, making him pity her for the sake of stupidly made promises. The rest of him had already forgotten his training entirely.

“If I am able, I will answer you,” he offered, a feeble compromise. There were few things he wouldn’t tell her in this moment.

She took a while to compose her question. “Your king,” she began. “At least, I assume you serve a king.” Oisin nodded. “Do you know what he should want from… from someone like me?”

His heart twisted. “You don’t know why you’re here?” Perhaps it was naive of him, but the lack of a collar had led him to believe she might have done something, anything, to end up down here.

She simply shook her head. “I’m not certain I know where I am. Not Arboran, surely.”

“Ilia.” There could be no harm in telling her. She’d learn come her audience with the court in the morning.

She inhaled sharply, though her face showed no surprise. “Ilia,” she repeated. “Well, I regret to say I don’t know much about your fair kingdom.”

“There aren’t many of your kind here.” She winced, and he paused to soften his voice before continuing. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure of the punishment for witchcraft. It’s been years since anyone was charged.”

It was quite some time before she responded. He watched her jaw work against itself, her breaths coming sharper, if evenly.

Finally, she turned back to him, and though there were tears in those fiery eyes, she smiled. “I do apologize,” she said, her voice on the verge of breaking. “I know I’ve asked quite a lot of you already, but I have one more favor to request.”

He inclined his head.

“Would you tell me a story?” Her hands were trembling in her lap. “Anything will do. Tell me how a little boy named Oisin grew up to be a palace guard. Let me forget myself until the morning.”

He considered it for longer than he would’ve cared to admit. It was more than just a few responses she was asking for; there was a high chance he’d be caught, especially when he was entirely unsure how long they had until dawn. It would mean punishment for him, of course, and a harder sentence for her.

But the chances of her seeing the next sunset were slim even without his aid. If this was what she chose with which to occupy her last few hours, he couldn’t deny that to her to save himself a few lashes.

So he told her the story of a baby left out by the river, wrapped in an ornate woven blanket. He told her about the sweet woman on the kitchen staff who brought him home and decided to raise him as her own. He recounted his first time seeing the prince, barely a year older than him, and how he’d longed to be the boy who could steal from the kitchen preparations without a beating. How he entered training as soon as he was old enough, itching to fight and protect. How he learned that the greatest feeling in life was in swordfighting, when your mind at last surrendered itself to instinct, and the worst was the silence of friends turned soldiers in a line. When he at last came to accept that he could not have one without the other.

She hung onto his every word. Eventually, her gaze became distant, and he could almost feel her next to him in the memories, holding his hand in the palace halls. Company, even in the loneliest nights. He wondered if this was the magic of witches. He wished he had more than stories to offer her, when she was giving him such a gift, even on her deathbed.

The sun paid no heed to his story’s conclusion, and golden rays began to glimmer through the narrow window above just as he’d begun to tell her about his first love, an errand boy from the city proper. The words died on his tongue. He straightened once more, realizing for the first time how far he’d drifted from his position against the opposite wall. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, no longer daring to speak any louder. “We’re out of time.”

She gave him a smile, genuine and mournful and terrified all at once. In the breaking dawn, silhouetted by the first specks of sunlight, she looked like a specter, an angel from above.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, quieter, almost as if to herself, “Oisin.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and just this once, he allowed himself to return her smile. “No, Liadan. Thank you.”

Their argument was what had gotten them captured in the first place.  It only contributed to Catalina’s rising fury.

“Aw, are the heroes a little bit uncomfortable?” a man strode in with a wide grin.  Clearly the leader of the operation.  Muddy boots, a whiff of sea salt, and a yellow poncho that had a green logo in the corner.

Catalina despaired. Brian would never ever let her live this down.

“N-now that y-you mention it,” Adrian said through chattering teeth, “I-it’s a b-bit drafty in h-here.”

The man stopped smiling. He gestured angrily and one of guards marched forward to bury his fist in Adrian’s stomach.

Adrian wheezed, his face red, but he didn’t make a sound.

“A bit drafty, Your Highness?” Yellow Poncho snarled, “Shall we light a fire?”

“Please do,” Adrian hissed, a grin stretching across his face, “Then we can see how long it takes idiots to burn.”

Yellow Poncho rumbled forward to punch Adrian across the face, so hard his head snapped to one side. “Shut up!” he screamed, “You’re not allowed to talk!”

Lovely.  Stupid and unhinged.  Wasn’t this just her lucky day.

Adrian spat out a mouthful of blood.  “You were the one asking questions,” he said with a wide-eyed look that only made them angrier.

By the time Yellow Poncho had calmed down, Adrian’s face was a mask of blood and bruises and the firestarter was groaning.

“You’re an idiot,” Catalina said coldly, after Yellow Poncho and his guards had stormed out.

“Better than being a coward,” Adrian laughed, his head tilting back in a futile attempt to stop his nosebleed.

“You’re a hot-tempered, self-serving jackass,” Catalina seethed.

“Oh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty,” Adrian made a harsh, wheezing sound.

“You know what?  Go ahead and get your face pounded into a pulp. It’ll certainly improve your looks.”

“Ouch,” Adrian snickered, “What’s the matter, darling?  The smeared lipstick or the runny mascara?  I have to say, you’re doing a great job on the raccoon impression.”

“You’re such a child,” Catalina sighed, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, “Instead of doing something useful, you’d rather bicker with me and insult the guards.”

“I haven’t seen you do anything useful either,” Adrian pointed out.

Catalina scowled.

~#~

Somewhere around the time the grimy window began to darken into pale blue-gray, Adrian started shivering again.

Catalina curled further in her shackles and listened to the waves.

~#~

“I hope you’ve reconsidered your rudeness,” Yellow Poncho said, like he was scolding schoolchildren. “I’d like to have a civilized conversation.”

Catalina glared at him. Adrian smiled, like he had several retorts at the tip of his tongue but had also miraculously remembered that his hair was stiff with blood.

“A deal,” Yellow Poncho said, “Between two interested parties.  You give me information, and I’ll let you go.”

Truly incompetent.  A six-year-old wouldn’t have believed him, even if his guards hadn’t been standing behind him and smirking.  One of them was wearing a particularly disturbing grin as he watched Adrian.

“Counteroffer,” Adrian groaned, “I’ll pay you five dollars to get out that fashion disaster out of my sight.”

Yellow Poncho frowned.

One of the guards stepped forward, baton in hand, and snapped it across Adrian’s ribs.

Five more hits, and Adrian was wheezing, curled up as far as he could in his bonds.  Yellow Poncho turned to her, “You seem like you’re more reasonable.”

That was more of an insult than a compliment.

“Tell us what we want to know, or we’ll hurt your friend some more.”

Catalina laughed and Adrian managed a rusty chuckle.  “He’s not my friend,” she said, smiling wide, “Go right ahead.  Maybe you can manage to beat some sense into him.”

Yellow Poncho glared at her. The guard, the one that looking at Adrian with interest, pressed a button on the baton.

It crackled with electricity.

Adrian didn’t scream, but the strangled whine was almost worse.

“How about I give you some time to think it over,” Yellow Poncho said, before motioning for everyone to leave.

He stopped on the threshold and looked at her.  “We won’t be coming back with an electric baton,” he promised softly.

Adrian was still slumped over, groaning.

~#~

“Brian said –”

“I know.”

“I can’t tell –”

“I know.”

“They’ll come for us.”

Silence.

~#~

“Have you made the right decision?” Yellow Poncho asked, “I’m a reasonable man.  I just want some information.  Give me the information, and I’ll let you go.”

“Anyone who wears that shade of yellow is not a reasonable man,” Adrian choked out.

They pushed his head back underwater.

Catalina watched, unmoving.

~#~

“Brian’s coming for us,” Catalina said into empty air.

There was no response.

~#~

“Just tell me what I want to know,” Yellow Poncho said, wide eyes and innocence.

Adrian was screaming. Every time he stopped, they threw salt water on his wounds.

Catalina stared back at him, her face pinched.

“That’s all you have to do,” he said, leaning forward, “Just tell me what I want to know, and all of this will stop.”

“Cat,” Adrian groaned, “Cat – please –”

Catalina stared back, her lips pressed into a thin line.

~#~

“Adrian?”

…

“Adrian?”

…

“Adrian.”

…

~#~

“Tell me,” Yellow Poncho snarled.  He had a fistful of Adrian’s hair as the man sagged in his bonds, limp.  His face was a mask of blood, red and black, and his shirt was soaked through.  He was trembling, even half-conscious, flinching every time the shudders jostled his broken ribs.

“Tell me,” Yellow Poncho said, and the guard, the one that set her nerves on edge, moved forward and curled his hands over Adrian’s shoulders.  “Or you won’t like what happens next.”

Catalina stared at her teammate, her wrists red and raw from straining against her shackles.  No amount of struggling had freed her, and she knew exactly where they were but that meant nothing if they couldn’t leave.

Their mission was supposed to be secret.  Brian was coming for them.

But there was no time left.

The guard’s fingers drifted to close around Adrian’s throat.

“No,” Catalina breathed out, despite herself.

Yellow Poncho began to smile.

“You don’t want me to hurt him, my dear,” he said softly, “Just tell me where the shipment is going.”

Catalina looked at Adrian again.  The guard’s hands began to squeeze.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, quiet and defeated, “Don’t hurt him, please, I’ll tell you.”

“Where is it?” Yellow Poncho scrambled forward, his eyes wide with hunger and greed.

“I – I don’t – I can show you on a map –”

Catalina breathed out slowly as Yellow Poncho sent out the guard to get a map, his eyes alight.  The look of a man about to get everything he wanted, and certain that it was his right.

The guard returned with a map.  “There – that corner –” Catalina pointed futilely with shackled fingers, “No – not that – no, past that road – up, right, not that much right, no, down –” She cringed back as Yellow Poncho stepped forward, impatient, and undid one of her shackles.

“Just point to it,” he snarled.

Greed made them so blind.

“Here,” Catalina said, leaning forward, letting the tremulous expression die to something more wide-eyed.  She pointed somewhere on the map, her expression trained on her captor, “You’ll let us go.”

“Yes,” Yellow Poncho said, not even registering that it wasn’t a question.  The guard began to scowl.

“Let us go,” Catalina said again, staring at the guard.  She still had one shackle on, but it was easy to manipulate someone who thought they got what they wanted.

“In a moment,” Yellow Poncho muttered, staring at the map.

“Let me go,” Catalina said, silk over steel, “Now.”

The guard stepped forward and undid her other cuff.

“Hey, wait a minute –”

“Take your gun and kill the man in the yellow poncho.”  Catalina tilted her head, smiled, and straightened out of her chair.

“What –”

“Good job,” she said warmly. The guard stared at her with glazed eyes.  “Now go and kill everyone else involved in this little operation.  And then set yourself on fire.”

“Yes, of course,” the guard whispered happily, and went to do exactly as she told.

Catalina’s smile slipped off her face as she stumbled across the room to release Adrian from his shackles.

“Adrian?” she called out quietly as the sound of gunfire started.  He nearly toppled off the chair once she’d removed the bounds, unconscious and warming up far too fast.

“Adrian?” she tried again, trying her powers, but he didn’t twitch.  He was still, covered in blood and bruises.

“Oh, Adrian, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, pulling him off the chair and into her lap.  The sound of gunfire ended as abruptly as it had started.  She needed to get to a phone.  She needed to find a car.  She needed to –

She exhaled harshly and stayed where she was, protecting her injured teammate.

~

The demons come from nowhere, descending upon their training session

Shevaya puts their arm out, holding their trainee behind them. “Find a place to hide!” They bark behind them, and he scampers to obey.

A hand pushes between their shoulder blades, sharp and cold and forceful.

Child’s play. They reach for their broadsword, ready to regain their footing and attack their assailant, but they stumble forward, and-

Coldness skitters over them. A portal? 

Darkness. They’re awake. The world is dark. Have they been blinded? No, there’s movement behind them, a sudden, sharp pain in their head, and the darkness becomes darker.

~

When Shevaya wakes up, the world is dark. Are their eyes closed? They blink several times. Their eyes are moving, they must be awake. But they’ve never known such darkness. Not even the glow of their aura permeates the unyielding dark. Could they be dreaming? A nightmare, perhaps? The back of their head is throbbing. A concussion, a hallucination? 

They go to pinch themself, but quickly realize they can’t move their hands, either of them. Something cold and smooth encases their wrists. Experimental tugs and a sickening clanking confirms their thoughts. Chains. Around their wrists, their ankles, the bases of their wings. 

They’re cold. 

But that’s not what’s causing that feeling of wrongness deep within their soul, the perverse feeling of invasion and dread. Could their halo be cracked? They shudder at the thought, but the demons who attacked them certainly had that sort of power. 

A moment later, they freeze, their breath catching in their throat. Their halo isn’t cracked. Their halo is gone. 

No. No.

Strong, powerful muscles flex and strain, and metal screeches angrily as it bends to their will. They didn’t rise up to Principality for nothing. It only takes a few moments for the chains to bend and break, freeing their wrists. Another few moments, and the chains around their legs clatter to the stone, followed by the bands around the base of their wings. They stand, stretch, and rub their eyes as if that will allow them to see. The darkness is just as infinite and impenetrable as before. 

They take a deep breath, then summon their broadsword. Or try to. For the first time in their life, the familiar weight doesn’t appear in their hands.

Oh. 

Heavens above, they hope their trainee is okay.

~

They had a name, once. Why can’t they remember it? They haven’t seen a soul since they were condemned to what must be an eternity in this unholy pit.

Wilted feathers shuffle as they try to adjust their position to something resembling comfortable. As always, their attempt is fruitless. The chains have done nothing but grow tighter and tighter as days, months, years, have passed. They’ve run out of space on the stone around them to keep track of what they think are days passing by.

What is their name? They stare into the nothingness, then close their eyes as if that will help.

Shevaya, their name is Shevaya and they were attacked, attacked by demons, and their halo was stolen, and they’re stuck. If nothing else, they will remember who they are.

~

Those demons think Shevaya can be held in place by a few measly chains? They had better think again. This place must be warded, they can feel their prayers bouncing back to them. No matter. If those demons want them in chains, they’ll have to come back into their prison to chain them back again, and that will reveal the exit to them. At the very least, it will weaken the wards, maybe enough for their prayers to penetrate them. They’ll be out of here soon, they know it.

They begin to prowl around their prison, tracing the walls with one hand and counting their steps until they reach the opposite wall. The entire time they walk, they’re carefully feeling for imperfections, a hidden door, some sort of an escape. So far, they’ve found nothing.

They’ve reached the opposite corner from where they were chained when a sudden sound makes them freeze. They heard something, something scraping across the stone. Is there another captive, perhaps? Or perhaps the demons have returned.

“Who’s there?” Shevaya demands, taking a defensive stance. Even without their sword, they can still fight. 

The sound stops, and they scarcely breathe while they listen for it again.

Without warning, the chain latches around their ankle, cold and unyielding and impossible. This can’t be possible, it’s not, but another chain ensnares their other ankle, and no matter how much they strain against it, they’re pulled to the ground. In shock, all they can do is submit as the chains drag them back to the wall and secure them in exactly the same way as when they awakened.

The demons haven’t returned to chain them up. The wards remain as impassible as ever.

~

The passage of time is difficult to track. Without their sword, without their halo, without light, they have nothing. Nothing but an emptiness in their soul, a withering husk of a body, and their ever-fading hope. 

They know the signs of light starvation. They can feel their strength being sapped by the darkness and cold. They should have Faded by now. Why haven’t they Faded?

Their halo. Wherever it is, it must be receiving the light that they so dearly need. So they don't Fade, their eyes don't dull and their hair doesn't gray. This is a fate worse than Fading.

No matter how many times they break through their chains, shatter them into millions of pieces, crush them into unusability, they return, tighter than before. They can barely even move their wings now, much less reach them to groom them. Their feathers are grimy and unkempt and ruffled and they can’t do anything about it. Their hair is past their shoulders now, tangled and dirty. They can’t do anything about that, either. Nothing but pray uselessly and feel their only hopes bounce back to them.

No one is coming for them. Those wards haven’t weakened or wavered once in the days they’ve been imprisoned. They’re meant to be permanent. 

They’re meant to rot down here.

As days, weeks, months pass without light, even their voice fades, and their hoarse, cracking prayers disappear.

Without food, without water, without light, all they can do is hang their head and cry.

~

With a grin, Valafar chants the final spell to close the portal and complete the wards, sealing the Principality away forever. He claps his hands when he’s done, spreading his arms as he turns to his brethren. “And that’s how it’s done.”

“Valafar!” Shalbiri cackles. “You actually did it, you got ‘em!”

“Spread some chaos for us, Val,” Ozefal tells him with a jovial punch to the shoulder. 

“You’re sure this is enough?”

With a snap of his fingers, Valafar covers himself with blood and bruises, enough to make even Shalbiri gasp. “Absolutely. After they promote me for being brave enough to fight off some some vicious demons.” That prompts a wave of laughter to arise from his brethren, and he joins them in their mirth. “Poor, brave Shevaya didn’t survive.”

“Damn, Valafar, you thought this through!”