Warning: Gore

Nicholas

Power surged within Nicholas. Always. A potent chaos forever his promising mayhem, threatening an infinite destruction. He yearned to give in. To give Power everything she wanted. Shatter bones. Burn forests. Dry the oceans. Hide the sun. Break the world. Make every beating heart beg him not to take tomorrow and all the days after. Power could not be holed up forever, but Nicholas had been taught to temper the beast. Let her out in the necessary moments, then tighten the noose and don’t let go or she’d take him, too.

The Dread Peaks sat before him overrun by beasts of another plane. An unholy plane, the humans called it. Nicholas did not believe in such things, in the folly of humans, their foolish morals, and fearful religions. However, he did believe in repaying debts. Calix Fearworn declared war against Faerie decades ago. Nicholas would happily engage.

Lockehold, the Shadowed Disciples’ citadel of horror, held more than the path forward. Tonight, he had a job to do and he couldn’t wait to let go.

The fae and mortal armies stood at his back. They took a shared breath when he held out his hand. The eternal flame burning upon his center spread from his fingertips. Fuchsia flames lurched through the sea of monsters and the battle for Lockehold began.

The siege lasted hours. He long lost track of the bugs he crushed, though always relished in their fall. Prey wailed and begged as his nails sunk into their eye sockets or tore out their hearts. Bodies dropped. Limbs shattered. Gore and death always followed power and he couldn’t get enough. Those were the hardest times to strangle the power for all he wanted was to unleash.

But as he gazed upon the remnants of his mission, a Shadowed Disciple now barely more than blood and ash at his feet, Nicholas drew a long breath. His power diminished, ceasing the turbulent air and rampant flames that charred the ruined room. The very air sparked with life. Flames flickered in and out of existence. They settled atop his skin, then faded. His eyes opened, the fierce glow of power dimming. 

Around him, his kin watched in prepared silence. They clutched daggers and swords, tips pointed at Nicholas for none knew when a Shade would lose themselves entirely. When Power took hold and wouldn’t let go, they had to be ready to strike that power down.

“The Generals will be pleased,” said Nicholas as he dug through the remnants of the Shadowed Disciples’ robes. He cared not for the name of the filth he slaughtered. His mission was about what the disciple carried, a book of weathered pages stitched together by glistening spion silk.

The half dozen fae around him eased the hands from their weapons, now aware that he was himself. Snow filtered in through the collapsed ceiling along the edge of the room. Corpses lay strewn about, crushed by debris or splattered against walls. Their stench carried over the heavy musk of the citadel and warmed Nicholas’ chest. He loved the scent of a good slaughtering and the taste of copper on his tongue. The moments after Power unleashed and he felt light as air.

“Our sources were correct. A General of Fearworn’s Disciples carrying a book of monsters,” Duke said in a trembling breath. The mortal mentor forced upon Nicholas by his father’s orders sieged forward. He hesitated to take the book from Nicholas’ bloodied hands.

“May I, Sir?” he asked, hands held out. Nicholas dropped the book into his grasp, smirking when Duke flipped through the pages and his expression sank. “What language is this?”

“Not one a dense mortal would know.” Nicholas snatched the book. His kin chuckled, often faked in his presence though he basked in the attention, nonetheless. “This is the ancient tongue of High Fae.”

Which Fearworn knew, as a High Fae himself and a Shade, same as Nicholas.

The greedy gazes he received during childhood changed when Calix Fearworn lost himself to Power. When he threatened to recreate the Collision that opened gateways between the realms of Faerie and Terra. Calix yearned for a darker power, to unleash monsters from another world and seek all realms that may be after, even if that meant destroying their realms in the process. Though others wanted the power Nicholas had, they also came to fear it. To expect him to fall to Calix’ corruption. No doubt he hadn’t considered it.

Calix sought knowledge and power, this book proved that. One flip through the pages and he glimpsed decades of Calix’s curiosities for the unknown. Among his ranks, Nicholas would be encouraged to lean into the worst monster that lived within. However, even his desperation for a good time knew better than to risk throwing himself to madness. He would not be himself afterwards and he quite liked himself. He didn’t like taking orders either. He barely accepted suggestions.

“I was taught this language before any other, though be warned it is a complicated tongue. Translating will take time, however, I am eager to determine how fucked Fearworn is now,” Nicholas added with a chuckle.

“The Generals appreciate all the work you’ve put in, Lord Darkmoon,” Duke said. “We would not have won this battle without you.”

“Lord Darkmoon is my father,” Nicholas spat. “And save your piss poor pleasantries for one who gives a shit.”

The mentor bowed in the typical obedient manner. Nicholas’ Father, Lord Laurent Darkmoon, sought to maintain a relatively civil connection with humans. Nicholas wasn’t known for civility, so a mortal mentor followed him to ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble by teaching him mortal ways.

Duke had been a constant annoyance. His father could have at least hired a fuckable annoyance. But Duke had the curse of all humans; age. Wrinkled skin and thin, graying hair that sprouted out of his ears, too. Nicholas always thought about tying the man down and ripping out all that affronted him, although there wouldn’t be much left of Duke afterwards.

“We should hurry back to the Generals,” Duke said. “They have likely sent scouts into the Deadlands by now. The Generals will want to move, too, now that Lockehold has been taken. This book is no doubt going to be of great value to us. This war may be coming to an end at least.”

Nicholas couldn’t say he shared Duke’s excitement. If there was one mortal creation he found marvelous, it was war. And mortals were exceptionally prolific at it.

“Nicholas,” Arden called. The fae stepped out of a shadowed hallway, eyes more brilliant than polished rubies. The fair color of his skin made snow appear gray and the white of his hair drifted over his shoulders as if a constant wind followed. Though, after a long day of bloodshed, the white shade had taken on a soft red color.

Behind him, four of their kin dragged a struggling gitan into the ruined chamber. They released the beast that rooted itself on all fours. The smartest of the summoned monsters, gitan’s had a nasty temper, dark and disgusting matted fur, and wrinkled faces. Nicholas heard the mortals call them grumps because of their naturally unpleasant demeanor. A rather fitting nickname.

The gitan snapped and snarled, its voice coming out harsh as forks scraping against plates, “Touch me again, vermin, and I’ll gnaw the skin from your bones.”

“A gift,” said Arden, uncaring of the threat. “The horns, I thought you would take a liking to them.”

Nicholas’ gaze fell upon said horns. They twisted to a high point, smoother than riverstone though colored vibrant as an evergreen forest. He had never seen a gitan with such color or the dim gray markings embedded with silver snaking around them.

“They are quite striking,” said Nicholas.

The gitan dared to bite at his approaching hand. He snapped his fingers. An invisible pressure shoved the beast to its stomach. It sputtered incoherent curses and threats as Nicholas ran a gentle hand over the horns.

“An excellent choice, Arden. I do desire them,” he said.

Nicholas yanked one of the horns. The gitan wailed, fruitlessly struggling against the power trapping him on the rubbled floor. His struggles cast a shroud of dust from the broken walls.

“Continue to struggle and the horns may break. We wouldn’t want that.” Nicholas raised a hand. The fuchsia light hummed beneath his skin up to his elbow. An indescribable heat emanated from him. With a few quick slices, he dismembered the beast. The gitan yowled, agonized and whimpering, nothing more than a bloody torso on the stone floor.

“There. Now I may remove these without trouble. Had you behaved, I wouldn’t have taken your limbs,” he chided.

“Why not kill the beast and be done with it?” asked Duke, arms crossed in his attempt to seem uncaring. His words carried lies, but his body rarely did. His discomfort shined brighter than Scars.

“Stealing from the living is more fun,” Nicholas replied with a wild yank. The horn ripped from the gitan’s head in a crimson spray. The second did the same. The beast’s agonized scream echoed through the room.

Nicholas approached the collapsed roof to let the last of daylight glisten against the horns.

“Beauties. I do believe they would make for excellent goblets or a brilliant set of candlesticks. I appreciate your marvelous eyes, Arden.” Nicholas passed his kin a smile that promised a reward later, then tossed the horns into Duke’s arms. “Add them to my collection to be sent to Darkmoon.”

Then Nicholas crushed the gitan’s head with his heel and stepped into the shadows of the halls.

His kin traversed the citadel at his back, searching for any potential survivors. If a breath or whimper was caught, the fae lunged and snuffed them out. There was no life left in Lockehold. Even the structure withered, burnt and broken. The Generals would be displeased. They had mentioned wanting to use the stronghold against Calix, but Nicholas wanted to have some fun. He hadn’t thought much of the consequences. Besides, he acquired the book, and that would satiate any potential anger.