Aiasthlyn

˚

Blood pounds in my ears. Viscious, unrelenting, loud.

It beats against my skull, strains the vessels it passes through until it aches, and promises only to worsen. It has kept faithful to that promise from the moment he opened his mouth and said her name.

“Aias—”

“No, no, no,” I hiss, slicing through his latest barrage where it stems. “You answer the single question. Just the one. Nothing more.”

His eyes swim with fright and confusion, appearing almost innocent as they dart between my own, but I ignore the act. He was good. A serpent in the grass who promised that he was only there to water it, and my foolish self had started to believe him.

I thought it was true, from how he celebrated every instance I allowed his company, to the way his eyes ignited with glee every time I replied to him, as if each word that slipped from my lips was a gift.

The evidence was all there, mounted and large— he was a terrible vampire, who bought slaves— and yet, I had started to believe him because what? He has a pretty smile and a heart that seemed to bleed even while frozen.

He did not have a heart.

He was not innocent.

He was a vampire, and not only was he as cunning as the rest of them. He was better.

He looks at me now, just barely allowing himself to take breaths that he does not truly need. This, too, is an act, to the whole persona.

“How do you know that name? I will not ask again.”

His throat strains beneath my fingers, and I squeeze it just enough so he knows that I am done with these charades. I will tear flesh if I have to, and carve through bone too, because any threat to my realm is one I was designed to demolish, and that is precisely what Malcolm is, a threat.

“A vision,” he blurts, shoving the word from his lips between his erratic breaths. “I-I have visions. I-I had one just now.”

“Visions?” The word comes from me in a sneer.

He blinks quickly, tries to swallow, but finds that my fist does not accommodate. “It is my ability. One! One of mine,” he explains while the fright deepens. “We have abilities. The first of us— the ones they made. I have two. It is one of mine.”

Everything about him tells me that this is the truth, from his crackled puffs for air to the silent plea in his blown eyes. He even smells it. His scent gone from sweet, flourishing spring leaves, to the ashen odour of bushels aflame.

But I can not let myself believe what I see in him, because I am weak to him.

My magic bristles at the mere suggestion that I might entertain weakness in its presence, but I could no longer deny the truth of it.

This man made parts of me weak.

I knew it was so from the moment I laid eyes on him— first through brushstrokes, and then in the flesh. I only thought I had a handle on it, that I was separating the two— what I wanted versus what I was here for— enough to ignore the desire.

Evidence declares that I, too, know how to play the fool.

“They?” I pluck the single word from his spiel.

“The witches,” he answers speedily. “We were made by witches, and the ones they first crafted— we have abilities. I have visions, and I can change my form.”

Our accounts recounted the witches and their brief yet explosive bout of power to make the species, but they never once made any mention of abilities. But here he is, claiming it is such.

Here he is, still staring at me as if I am the one betraying him.

I shift my stance, drawing myself closer so he is forced to see me in my rage, and relinquish any remaining will to lie before my withered patience dies out entirely.

Malcolm shifts further up the tree in response.

“What was in the vision?”

“You!” He exclaims, and then there is a flash of something— fleeting want, paired with curiosity. “You were in it. You said the name. You said it.”

I feel myself still, but that is the only reaction that slips my tight grasp. The rest of my remains as I was, threatening, watchful and suspicious. In my mind, questions reel.

From all accounts, none in this realm was to know the finer details of my own. They could not, for their interactions with us were numbered, and the information shared, finite for a reason.

Should the beings of this realm try to trouble us, come now or sometime in the generations to come, when they realise we are only universes apart, the information they were to have was to be finite.

And yet he uttered the name— Ythene’s name.

If he were telling the truth, then how he fit into all of this— my Charge, just became an issue of note for me.

If he were lying, then our accounts were grossly misinformed, in places that exceeded secrets of abilities kept quiet.

My eyes narrow and my heart pounds, loudly.

His is silent, still … seemingly bleeding.

The shock is wearing now, giving way to hurt and something harder, but I’m not done with him. Not yet.

“Show me,” I demand, keeping my voice harsh while I ease my fingers. “Change some part of yourself.”

His lips part, but for the first time, he does not bother with words. He simply does.

He stands before me, the man I know, the man I can not keep my eyes from, no matter how I try, and with no outward force, his ears stretch. They pull upwards, thinning at their plump curves as if some invisible hand is pinching them, moulding them until they are a mirror of my own.

I gasp, a small sound, but as close as we are, it exhibits my surprise, and it is not only for the sight I see, but because I felt it.

The inward force that surged within him, a silent expulsion of power— of energy, that leaves my fingertips with a tingle. One that feels far too familiar.

I dart my gaze up, back to him.

“The vision—”

My hand is shoved away, before I too am pushed back.

I lose my step and then another, and Malcolm claims them both as he fills my space, invading it for the first time I realise. For all his begging and trailing, he has never invaded my personal space, not like this.

I also come to realise, how Malcolm appears when he is angry. Not upset, but angry.

“The single question, just the one,” he hisses, voice tight, eyes like steel. “I answered it, and I answered more. All truthful. All I have been is truthful, but you still—”

He stops speaking, and there is another one of those moments, where emotions seem to display themselves across his irises. This one is bristling hurt.

I frown.

Firstly, because there is no reason he should be hurt by me. I have never been kind to him, never gave him the right to believe that I feel anything but loathing towards him, no matter how pretentious.

And secondly, because … seeing it fractures some part of me, leaving a terrible ache in its wake. One that passes through me like a disturbed wind, leaving my spirit ruffled.

“You have your qualms with me, and I understand why,” he states, clipped, but his short words are no longer spoken from fright. “I bought you, and despite my reasonings, I still bought you. Gods only knew what awful things they did to you in those cells, and I can never do a thing to make up for it, but Aias—”

He takes another step forward, one that brings us far too close. A chill wafts from him, sending a shiver down my spine. “—I am not trying to make up for it, because I did not do anything to you. You forget that. What I try to do, with you and all others, is to be better than they are. I try to be kind.”

A breath huffs from him as his brows crumple, as if the concept of a vampire of his stature trying to be kind is a convoluted concept to him, but not one he can free himself from.

“Stop punishing me for their sins,” he whispers tiredly, his eyes barely catching mine, “and if you can not do that, at the very least, do so without laying hands on me.”

His hands move, and my gaze darts to them, expecting them to be fisted, but they are open and loose at his side. Aimless. When they lift to his again, I find muddled pools of grey carrying enough disappointment to sharpen the pinch in my chest.

“Do not touch me if you intend to hurt me.”

The words barely part from Malcolm’s lips before he vanishes, leaving me stranded with the lingering weight of his upset and nothing more.

˚

He becomes quiet.

From the very day I returned to his manor on my own, to the present, Malcolm names himself mute. Not entirely. He still speaks from time to time, but the difference is drastic enough to confound.

He prepares my meals and continues to make himself present for them, but his chatter does not fill them. He does not ask me how I slept in the mornings, and he does not try to get me to tell him some foolish detail about myself, like what season I prefer in this realm.

He becomes quiet, and it is … annoying.

It should not be. It should be a good thing, and it is. It is! But … I do not like punishments. No sensible creature does, but I truly detest the feeling of having to suffer for a wrongdoing, particularly one that was not my fault.

He was the one who was so perplexing that his very presence made me feel the idiot.

His smiles contradicted his life, his light his actions, and if I was meant to be a Protector, how could I be blamed for trying to protect my realm? If it were I alone, perhaps I would let myself fall victim to the risk that came with the fluttered hope in those damning eyes, but it was not I alone.

Yet, here I am, being punished.

I am sure an apology will fix the whole ordeal, but even considering such vexes me.

I am fine with admitting my wrongdoing, but apologising to Malcolm would give the unspoken meaning, and that I most certainly would not do. It was terrible enough that I even wanted to— want to, for as time drags on with no changes, the urge deepens itself.

I tell myself, You are the Protector of Ythene’s Realm. The King of the Annael Faction.

And, You do not need to apologise to a vampire for squeezing his neck a little, but it does nothing to help.

I did not even hurt him, not enough to be real pain, but the action itself hadn’t been what had really hurt Malcolm. It was the mistrust, as if he’d even earned it!

I knew him for a handful of feens, and I did not even know him. He was my host, nothing more. Still, his misery sullies the air, lingering like a storm cloud with winds that chill the air and twist the scent of all around it.

I can barely stand to breathe it in, but I do, day in and day out, until the day the doorbell rings.

By the time I reach the entrance, Malcolm is already waving off a stampede of galloping centaurs that rouse dust in their wake and leave behind a rather large number of stacked boxes of all sizes and shapes.

A smile lingers on his lips, soft and warm, until he turns and spots me. Then the smile vanishes as if my presence shooed it away, and he looks away, hand wrapping around his bent neck.

I scowl, wanting to tear the hand away and force his cheeks to plump again by force.

“Sinan’s delivery,” he says in way of explanation. “The items I requested.” I nod, and he gestures at them. “I will deal with it.”

A dismissal. He dismisses me.

I feel my frown deepen, turning vicious as I stare at him, not offended as my brood might be for stations, though there is a measure of that, but appalled that this being that has only ever wanted more of my company would think to do so.

I strut forward, ignoring his startled jerk as I bypass him and grab the nearest stack of boxes. I lift them all, balancing them with ease, and while Malcolm gawks at me, I glide back inside, moving quickly despite the lack of a destination in my mind.

“You don’t have to do that!” He shouts for me, rushed steps soon bringing him to my side. “I can do it, Aias.”

“I know what I have to do,” I reply curtly, walking faster. “Now get the rest.”

Malcolm’s steps immediately stop, as if the order placed a lock on them. He frets behind me, audibly, before he finally complies and rushes back for the others with a “just be careful!”

I ignore the warning as I do the strain at my cheeks.

Between the two of us, it only takes three rounds each to have all the items hauled inside. They find themselves stacked within the largest sitting room and Malcolm once again tries to dismiss me before I pull the first one apart to have a look inside.

It is the item the humans use to keep their foods preserved, and so it belongs in the kitchen. Malcolm does not seem to know this, however, as he stares puzzingly at the contraption.

“You are confused?” I hazard, confused myself at how that might be possible.

“I have been awake for less than three weeks,” he retorts, though his skin heats beneath its outer layers.

I stare at the invisible bloom of heat, unable to look away.

Most in my realm did not allow such obvious displays of embarrassment. With pale, telling skin, we lived behind the shield of our glamours, especially those of high rank. Malcolm’s dark skin was its own sort of glamour, but my vision sensed heat signatures.

Malcolm’s seemed to be written with a faithful quill.

“I believe it is called a refrigerator. It is for your food.”

“Ohh,” he exclaims with a light chuckle. “I am familiar, they just did not look like this before.” Grinning, he picks up the contraption with ease and walks it to his kitchens.

I stare after him and that smile until it is out of sight.

The moment it is, I rub a hand over my chest before opening the following box.

We continue like this, with me explaining the devices of Malcolm’s realm to him, and while some are familiar, others leave him completely bewildered. Some simpler material requires construction, and I take no part in that, but that causes no strife, for my exerting myself seems to trouble him.

For either case, Malcolm carries a treasury of reactions.

There is his joyful excitement when he finds something he deigns useful, like an account of major historical events he missed, organised by region and species, and then his flagrant disgust for these he decides are made from wayward magic.

He carries the surprise of a childing when a device he does not suspect will do much proves him wrong by lighting up from its internal engine or unwinding to be larger than it first appeared.

And most notably, he shares these reactions with me.

Not for me to simply witness what he is experiencing, but in an attempt to share the experience with me. He shows me the music speaker that does not need to be attached to a power source, and looks between me and the device every time he adjusts the volume.

When the television is opened and revealed to be a thin device, it is as if he has been shoved into a new universe.

I have to bite the inside of my mouth to contain myself. I have no hopes however of containing my thoughts that wander without permission.

They conjure up impossible realities where I show Malcolm the items of my realm, just to gain further access to his reactions. I envision the way his brain might stall to pass through a portal made of science and magic, or what he would say if he were to see the notes I wrote in this one that needed no device, simply an acquainted quill and nature.

I envision so very many things, even while I try to stop myself, because they are nonsensical, but my mind refuses to quit.

I should be thinking of my mission and my Charge.

I should be spending time trying to unravel the mysteries Ythene has laced around them, and seeking other discrepancies in the accounts I studied before my arrival, before they reveal themselves with a less forgiving soul.

Instead, I remain where I am, watching Malcolm rediscover his universe.

“It is not magic,” I dismiss as he stares angrily at a searching device like a three-horned bull.

“It is, and it ruined them before,” he says, still glaring. My lips twitch.

“It is not magic,” I say once more. “I would sense it.”

He looks at me then, and instantly, the glare fades, replaced instead by the softer side of him that unfurls as he blinks for me. “And who is to say that you are able to distinguish between the magic you have and the magic of this realm?”

I part my lips, an argument ready on my lips of all the ways I am, in fact, able to tell them apart, but it sticks. It simply stops as if a pin has been stuck in my tongue, and it feels as if it has, as a piercing upset wafts through me.

I could not tell him. To do so would be to share details of my realm, and I could not do so.

The upset worsens, becoming foul, as Malcolm realises that my pause is not from lack of an argument, but lack of a will to share it. His smile slips then, taking the softness with it, along with his warmth as he seems to remember himself.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking away and causing my fingers to clench at my sides while my mind and spirit internally try to catch the moment as it slips away. “I got too excited. I forgot—” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “— I’m sorry.”

Stepping away from the television, Malcolm takes a belated look around before stepping away from the mess of open boxes we have made. He looks shocked and then scared as he backs away, aiming for the door.

“Stop.”

The word slips from my lips— a command, a plea, I am not sure, but it stops him nevertheless. Malcolm stops moving every part of himself, and does not shift, not even for those pretend breaths of his. He just stops.

Prickled pleasure scrapes through me, opening pieces of me that I quickly amend.

“Stop apologising,” I amend as I swallow. Malcolm turns, freed, and looks at me with his confusion. “You do it too often. You are irresponsible with your apologies.”

“I—“ he drawls, before his dark brows tug in so tightly the tips of his lashes almost touch his furrowed skin.

“Stop apologising,” I state again, harsher this time, and his frown disappears as he forces a nod. “Good.” The heat again, that damming heat. It flushes beneath his chest, blooming. “I… apologise.”

He falters. “You—” The frown quickly returns. “Oh, no. You have nothing to—”

“I have been sentencing you for others’ crimes, and in doing so, I was wrongfully violent. I apologise,” I say, speaking over him as my chin lifts. “You see, this is an example of an apology used correctly.”

I had to teach him something new, same as I was teaching him what these items were.

I was not apologising because I wanted to, and that meant that things between us were nothing greater than they seemed.

Malcolm stares at me, the engine that is his mind seeming to finally catch up and then, he smiles.

It is not his usual smile, which is always so fresh and hopeful. No, this one is different.

It still carries its usual warmth, still stuffed with so much glee my chest tightens and my heart hammers, but it comes paired with something else. A glimmer in his eyes, the slight dip to the left corner, a wrinkle to his brow.

It comes with cheekiness.

“Thank you for the example,” he replies with a nod. “I will not forget it.”

I nod, looking to the scattered items in an effort to reacquaint myself, but only a moment passes before my eyes seek his again. He’s already waiting. Still smiling.

“Let us get back to it, vampire,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I am growing bored quickly.”

“Of course,” Malcolm answers quickly, reclaiming the space away he so greedily took until he’s at my side once more.

Our hands move idly, picking at things and I do not know what he is doing, but I know that I am doing nothing with him standing at my side. His scent returned to its proper form.

“Vampire now, is it?”

“We can return to slaver.”

“No, no. Vampire does well.”

“Good. Now, shush, vampire.”

Malcolm laughs and I hide my smile behind my glamour.

—————————–

I’m so obsessed with them it physically hurts. Like I am in pain. 

Thoughts??????

Thoughts on Malcolm standing up for himself???? On Aias apologising???? 

I stand behind Aias’ rights and wrongs at this stage of the book, but I do appreciate that he said sorry to Malcolm, but I don’t think he knows what door he opened with Malcolm. Like Malcolm is going to see this as such a win, I can’t wait for his next POV loool

Also, can we talk about Aias reaction to Malcolm stopping when he said so rkjbgfarjkgtnbtqrelogt

I’m so in love with them and I can’t wait for the next update! Thanks for being patient with me, but it’s here. The next one I’m not sure when so I won’t promise a date, but I won’t make yall wait too long!

Until next time,

Byeeeeeeeeee Humansssssssssss