A Heavy Burden (of Fangs) Ch. 2
Chapter 2: The Fangs
tag list: @starl1ght-child
chapter 1
A warm palm cups Rezyl’s cheek.
It’s a familiar touch, maybe of a love long lost. It soothes him, and for a moment he is alright. This is the touch of home. Another hand brushes his hair in long, slow strokes, brushing silver curls out of his face. He sighs contentedly. It doesn’t feel like a dream, but it is, isn’t it? He hasn’t felt this kind of comfort in a long time, especially in the past few months.
He had felt the same way when he emerged from the Hellmouth; the light on his face, however artificial, and his gratitude for being out of the dark at long last. He enjoys it as much as possible, because he knows what comes next.
Both hands cup his face now. Rezyl notices not that the palms are not smooth-- they’re gnarled and knotted like rotting bark. The texture makes his cheeks itchy and in frustration he longs to scratch. He keeps his eyes closed. Rezyl doesn’t know what he’ll see if he opens them.
“You said you were ready to listen,” a voice says, feminine and cool, but just as rough as her hands. “Here I am.”
“To whom do I owe the honour?” he replies. The voice comes from his left, like the person/creature/voice is sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You kill my consort, take his chitin,” she tuts, fingernails--claws---digging into his temple. He grunts. “and yet, you do not know his lady’s name. I thought Guardians were honourable.”
He remembered the consort. A tough battle, but one he had no trouble winning. “We have...good intentions, to say the least.” A hand once again brushes through his hair, and he sighs unconsciously. “What are you doing?”
“Observing my trophy,” she laughs. It’s surprisingly gentle, if not patronising. “You’re very beautiful, Rezyl Azzir. You’re strong. Your hair tells of your age--years spent defending the Traveler, I’m sure.”
It would’ve indeed been a sign of his age, had his hair not turned silver the night after Twilight Gap. He could’ve explained it away with the stress of the battle, but he had had a feeling it hadn’t been that, because if that had been the case he would’ve been grey after Six Fronts, or even Burning Lake.
“Open your eyes for me.”
He does, without hesitation. Two--three--green eyes in pyramid formation, glowing so harshly he instinctively shuts his eyes. He opens them again, squinting to brace himself. The eyes are, in a way, hauntingly beautiful. They are the green his had once been.
“How grey they’ve become--how grey you have become. Your hair, your eyes, the pallor of your skin...You’re sick, Rezyl Azzir. But I can help you. We are the only cleansing you will ever need.”
He sits up, and the hand stays on his cheek. Against his better judgment, he leans into it, relishing the warm touch, however inhuman it is. It is the kindest touch he’s felt from another being all these months. He hasn’t realized just how starved of physical contact he is until this very moment. He’s become so utterly weak.
“Yes, you have,” the voice hums, “Why, you’re not even sure any of this is real, are you? No matter. I know of your quest for peace in this damned world. I know of the barricades that stop that reality from coming to fruition--it’s your own weakness, your own lack. It’s not your fault that you lack, as every Guardian lacks any real power, but you came to me. You destroyed my consort and took his place.”
Rezyl leans away, shaking his head. “I’m...that wasn’t my mission.” He’s quite sleepy, head heavy, as if every hour of sleep he should’ve gotten is coming back to him all at once. His mouth feels like putty.
“No,” she laughs again, “Guardians mean well, as you said, and good intentions rarely lead you anywhere. You’re not as good as you think you are. You can be so much more than ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ You can be beautiful. Because even demons were from some sort of heaven, once.”
“My tattoos,” Rezyl shakes his head again, as if it’ll scatter the powder of sleep from his eyes. “Is that...why you did it? Why you filled them in?”
“I never got your name.” Something sharp pokes at his gum. He opens his mouth, thumbing his teeth--and reels in surprise when a tooth stabs the pad of his thumb. He tastes a drop of copper. He goes the other way and finds another fang and two more on his upper teeth. His incisors have lengthened. He has fangs.
“Among...other things. But aren’t they wonderful now?” She takes his arm and rolls up his sleeve. His tattoos emerge, plain on his skin. They are fully black, when a mere hours ago they had just been half-filled. “You are whole now, Rezyl Azzir. You are my champion. This title I do not grant lightly. You are a hero...no, that’s not the right word. You are a peacekeeper worthy of my attention. Will you do as I ask of you?”
“Xyor, the Blessed,” Xyor says, her voice a little raspier like the Hive.
“Yor?” He tips his head. “That is your name?”
“No. It is yours. It has always been yours, since the day you stepped into the Hellmouth alone. Will you, who was once Rezyl Azzir, hero of the Last City, who is now Yor, my champion, and the thorns of a rose, take your place as my consort?”
“To keep the peace,” Rezyl Azzir vows, “and to change this wretched world.”
Lightning flashes. For a moment he can see the horrible, knotted, and gnarled chitin of a Witch standing tall above him, green eyes pure and unwavering, long, tattered robes flowing. Her hands are claws, black and rotten. The sight erases any idea of comfort she may have brought him. It turns his stomach over. The small taste of copper in his mouth is sharper now, spreading across his tongue. He tries not to gag.
The room goes dark. Thunder claps. When the next flash of lightning comes, Xyor is gone.
--
Rezyl Azzir wakes up.
It’s morning now. The sunlight streams in from the window, striking his eyes. He looks away. Aster is asleep in his nest of cloths. Rezyl stands and stretches. He groans as a few bones pop into place. The Guardian packs clothes, ammunition--he packs lightly. Once he comes back, he’ll take Aster and they’ll leave the City for good. The only peace to be made is out there in the wilds.
He puts his bag at the foot of his bed. He gets dressed in the same armor he had worn on Luna--fur collar, chitin along his arm--and that’s exactly where he goes.
When he’s in the Hellmouth, every creature, big or small, seems to move aside for him, as if they know who he is and who he belongs to. Good. They already fear him. He reaches Xyor’s chamber. The Witch floats above him and Thralls bow down to her. She turns and looks at him with what he can say is satisfaction, not surprise.
“What did you call me, last night?” He asks, looking up at her. “A thorn?”
“You are the thorns of the roses you once planted. Deceitful, painful, but beautiful nonetheless.”
“A thorn,” Yor repeats. He takes the Rose out of his holster, examining it under the eerie green light. Little green eyes fester in the holes in its chamber. “I like that.”
He kneels to her, mimicking her Thralls. Xyor laughs, a sound that echoes through the chamber and around his skull.
Years from now, Yor won’t be able to tell you how it had happened. How he had received a power he was worthy of, how he had learned to keep the peace--all he will know is that in the Hellmouth, a Witch can come with a heavy burden, fangs and ambitions bared, and if she comes to you?
Take the fangs and make them your own.
i might write a follow up one day...who knows :)















