Elisabeth Writing

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The palace was quiet, and the heels of his boots clipped smartly on the polished floors. Lower Demons scurried out of his way, wide eyed and fearful, and Malacoz reveled in it. He smiled at one of them, a small female with white hair and yellow eyes, and she swallowed hard before backing away into the first open doorway she could. He wondered what she’d seen in his eyes, the fierceness in them, but he didn’t particularly care. There was somewhere he had to be. 

Somewhere he needed to be. 

Malacoz threw his hood over his light hair and winced at the pain in his back. His master, his King, had used him thoroughly last night. He was still sore from teeth, nails, and whip. He had bruises peppered all over his body, bite marks at his neck, and the memory of that pain and pleasure to the point of ecstasy made him feel feral, and frozen. He didn’t know why the King had taken him into his bed once more, why his eyes went red with fury and hate – like he was seeing someone else on his sheets. Like he wanted to kill them while they climaxed. 

Malacoz shivered and stopped in the courtyard choked with weeds and dank water. He plucked one of the black roses climbing up the obsidian pillars; his laughter when the thorns drew blood was edged with madness. This place was all dangerous beauty. Sometimes he wondered how any flowers grew when the sun didn’t shine here. The vegetation was twisted, wrong in some ways, but it fit here, as a true rose would not. He fit in well here. They all did. Until they didn’t. And when you didn’t fit in, you became dust, nothing but the ash that covered this place in thick piles. Or, worse, you went into the Void: a place where you were neither dead or alive, neither dreaming or sleeping, just an endless dark abyss. That’s what they feared most of all, and one way that the King kept them in line. There were exceptions, of course, though traitors were few and far between. He’d seen what the King did to them, those stupid fools, and even he had to turn away at times. His King had a fruitful and disturbing imagination for torture. He’d been put through torture himself to prove his desire to serve, to prove that he wouldn’t be weak in his service. He’d survived. But sometimes, in his rare fits of melancholy, he wondered if he’d lost a piece of himself that day. Other days, he was glad he had.

He walked for miles, it seemed, before the forest loomed before him. No one came here, for there were beasts in these woods that had been here before the world was ever named. The trees were gnarled and crooked, and he’d heard whispers that these trees fed on blood and little else, that their language was the sweep of a lonely wind and the hungry creak of their branches. Dense fog cloaked the forest. Even looking at it made him shiver, and he nearly turned back. 

But he had a mission. 

Checking to make sure that he had his bow, quiver and arrows, Malacoz entered the forest. The silence here seemed to swallow even his footsteps, and he looked this way and that, ever aware. He knew not to let down his guard. Many a foolish Demon had entered these woods and never came out, too full of pride and boasting to believe they’d be bested. Sometimes they found their remains – or what little was left of them. He threw his hood back now, knowing there were clever creatures that might hesitate when they gazed upon his dead eyes, the council Sigil brand, and his twisted horns. They knew the King, and they knew his servants. He felt them watching, these myriad of beings, and snarled softly. The place seemed to hush further, and he fingered the sword at his side. A part of him wanted them to come, wanted to slice something to bloody bits, but none dared. He walked on and on, following instinct, until night began to bleed into the sky. His feet ached and he cursed himself, cursed the King and this Hell, cursed his own goddamn curiosity and the mission that led him here. He could go back and forget this had ever happened. He could go back and assimilate and forget. He could go back and never know the truth. 

But there was a spark inside of him, of the man he’d once been: a philosopher and an alchemist, that wanted to peel back the mysterious curtains of the world and see what lay behind them. He hadn’t thought about that life, his human self, in… centuries. He’d been ever curious, ever questioning. It had nearly cost him everything, at one point. And then, the King had found him. His life had taken a dark and sharp turn, and he’d shut away that life from before; he’d buried it in a deep and silent grave. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to think back to the man he’d been, the life he’d had, the people he’d cared for. 

Brown eyes sparkling, flour dusted hands, stolen kisses.

Dancing under candlelight, pulses matched, bright smiles.

Dull gold circles and a fire in his heart.

“No.” Malacoz roared it and slammed that door – and those memories within it – shut. Something scampered away, tail tucked between its legs, and leaves drifted down into his path from the sound and intensity of his own fury. He stood there, shivering, as he tried to calm himself. When he looked up the mist had parted, and he saw it.

The Lake of Forgetting. 

No one knew where the Lake had come from, or who had named it. Even his King wasn’t sure. It looked nothing like any lake he’d seen before, with water like oil: black, thick and still. Nothing grew in it or near it. He was careful to keep away from it, as he had no desire to forget himself in such a place. He searched until he saw the caves, huddled by the lake like thieves in the night, across the shore. He’d never actually visited the caves before, as he’d never been told to and had no desire to see the shells of once strong Demons. He’d seen what they became when the Lake did its worst, when his master wanted to demonstrate his might: rocking and babbling nonsense, spittle flying, broken eyes and shattered minds. He feared that loss more than any other. 

A part of Malacoz was screaming to turn back, to leave, but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, not knowing what or who he might find in those caves, and unwilling or unable to leave. Cursing himself, he began to carefully pick his way over to the caves, making sure he didn’t touch even a droplet of water on the ground. When he made it there he saw that stairs and a platform had been built, to make sure no one would touch the Lake unless ordered by the King himself. He was grateful for the rough stone as he climbed. There were two guards in front of the caves, higher level Demons but not so high as he. Their skin was radioactive green and tough looking, their eyes wholly black. They were not beautiful and he wondered if that’s why his King had them here, somewhere where he couldn’t see them. Malacoz stopped before them and rose a brow imperiously when they blocked his path. 

“You would stand in my way?”   

The demons looked at one another, unsure. One of them spoke, shark teeth gleaming. “The King said none shall pass.”

“I am his Hand. I am his eyes. Let me through, or I’ll slit you from nose to naval.”

The other demon wavered. “But he said…”

Malacoz drew himself up and growled. “He’s sent me to interrogate the prisoner here. You would dare bar me from entry? You would go against the King?”

They looked at one another and, as one, stepped aside and bowed. “We apologize, and would beg you not to tell the King of our mistake.”

He pretended to consider and nodded. “We shall all remain silent. This is an important mission, and none must know. Are we agreed?”

They nodded. “What can we do?”

Malacoz let a sadistic grin come onto his lips and watched, with no little satisfaction, as they blanched. “Stay out of my way.” Without another word, he strode into the caves.

Unsurprisingly, they weren’t very hospitable, and he saw the goosebumps rise on his arms. It was cold here, and dark; so very dark. It was rare a Demon felt the effects of temperature or mourned the lack of light, but even he paused before he went on. The place felt wrong, somehow, as if it were from another world and he’d stumbled into it by accident. His head gave him a sharp pain and his vision went momentarily white. He staggered under it but pressed on. He swore he could feel something watching him, biding its time, but he kept going. On and on, through twisted and dark tunnels, following an elusive scent that he somehow knew would bring him to the prisoner. It was like lilacs and blackberries, sweet and floral and different. It smelled out of place here, in this endless and dank darkness. He stalked the scent, a mindless hunter, until he found himself at the mouth of a cell. Cell was too grand a word for it, really. It was a hollow in the rock with a cage of bars set in it. The bars, he knew, would nullify any powers and pain any Demon inside, and he recoiled as he drew closer. Angelite stone, it was. He wondered what poor bastard had put these here, and how blistered their hands must have been, how intense their agony. Their blood was on these bars, on the floor; he could sense it. He could hear, if he listened closely, their screams. He squinted in the dim light, his head still pounding, until he saw the figure hunched in the corner, shivering. As if she could sense him, too, she looked up.

“Malacoz.” Her voice was like ancient bones turned to dust.

He inclined his head in greeting. “Lamial.”

“Why are you here? To gloat? To torture me? What is it you want?” She coughed, and the sound was wet and rasping. Without thinking, he conjured fire. It crackled, blue flames, beside the shivering succubus until her shivers eased. He gaped at his own hands, wondering why he’d done that, before he settled his face into a mask. He’d wanted to see her face clearly when he was questioning her, he assured himself. That was all. He waited until her tremors had eased before he leaned against the cool rocks, arms over his chest, and regarded her with mocking disdain. 

“Why do you think I’m here?” 

Lamial crept closer to the fire and held her hands before it. She looked up at him, and he was surprised by how human she appeared. Her face was softer, and her once black eyes were now the color of melted chocolate. And yet, despite that vulnerability, there was a new strength within her. Something primordial and powerful that made him wary. “I don’t know. I’m too tired to guess. Are you here to dunk me in the waters once more? I’ve told them it won’t work. Not with me.”

He should have known they’d already tried. “And why is that?” 

She looked at him and then away. “Because of him.”

“Who, Radnor? That sniveling little fool? What does he have to do with anything?” He wanted to get a rise out of her, wanted to hurt her for making him wonder, for making his mind a curious one once more. 

Lamial was silent, soaking up the light and the warmth and barely even looking at him. “I won’t tell you anything. You forget that I, too, was on the council. I endured his torture, too. I was dead, numb inside, like you. You won’t force answers from me. You never will.”

Questions and accusations wanted to tumble from his mouth but he clenched his jaw and tried to force the fire, the anger, the wretchedness down. He wanted to pluck her eyes out for what they’d seen. He wanted to make her bleed and scream for what she’d felt, what she’d done. He wanted her to rise, to hiss, to cut him down and become who she was. He hated her for what she was now. When he was sure he was under control, he asked the only question he could think of: “Why?” 

She spoke to the fire. “Why what? Why did I betray the King? Why did I invite Radnor to the council? Why did I survive, and remember, when others didn’t?”

“Why did you let yourself become this? Was it worth it, whatever you had? You’ll either die with his name on your pitiful heart, or you’ll be pitched into the Void. Why risk it? Why become this soft and human thing?”

Lamial looked up, searching his face, and then shook her head and turned away. She pulled her cloak closer. “Love isn’t a choice. The rest, yes. But love itself? It’s not a choice. It just is.”

“Demons can’t love.” He scoffed. 

“That’s the lie we are told.” Lamial’s voice was so soft he had to strain to hear her. “It keeps us here, in this place, without hope for more. Radnor was my hope.”

“Pathetic.” His lip curled. “And now your hope will die with you. I hope you’re happy.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Will die? He’s alive?”

He wanted to lie to her, to crush the hope from her warm eyes. “He’s…” Not! He wanted to say it. He wanted that lie to burn her. But he heard himself saying something else. “He’s… alive.”

She covered her face with both her hands and shook silently. He watched in horrified fascination as she wept. When she turned to him, tears streaming down her face, he clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. This was what he wanted: pain. Nothing else. She continued, almost to herself. “I knew it. I knew he was alive. I could feel it.” 

The hate and fury swelled in him until he kicked the bars so hard they shook, little bits of rock falling at his feet and into her silver hair. He roared, kicking and punching until he was gasping for breath. “You ruined it! You ruined it! How dare you? I trusted you. I bedded you. And you betrayed us!”

Lamial was still, and then a small smile graced her face. “You’re jealous.”

His breathing still heavy, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Jealous? Of what? Look at you.”

“Oh, yes. Look at me.” Lightning quick, Lamial grabbed his hand through the bars. She pressed it to the swell of her breast and he tried to turn away, to make it stop, but her grip was stronger because somehow, in this place, she still had magic. He felt the beat of her heart through her clothing, through his skin, as it made its way into his very bones. “Feel.”

He couldn’t stop it if he tried. The swell of love, pride, and heartache funneled from her into him until he sank to the floor and began to scream. It was like being electrocuted, streams of pure energy coursing through him, burning him from the inside out. It was worse than any form of torture he’d had done to him in all the centuries he’d lived here. He could do nothing but endure it. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to remember, to feel, to love. “No more. No more!”

With a quiet laugh, she released him. “So now you know.”

His body shook involuntarily, and he could feel a tiny seedling of a spark sprout within him. He glowered at her. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Her full lips curved. “I’ve awoken you.”

“Take it back. Take it back!”

“Tell me where Radnor is. Release me. And I’ll consider it.” 

“I don’t do deals with traitors.” 

“No?” She cocked her head. “You will. If you want it gone, you will.”

“I’m stronger than you.” He stood, shakily. “I don’t need your help. I’ll persevere without your interference. I’m from the dark, and in the dark I shall remain.” 

“Oh yes?” She shrugged, silver hair sliding over the perfection of her face. “I suppose we’ll see.”

He spit at her feet, waiting to see if she’d rise and decimate him, but she merely laid her head back against the wall and began to hum a tune. He jeered at her and turned away, still unsteady on his feet. The absolute foolishness of the Demon before him, to attack him with feelings. As if he couldn’t manage them, couldn’t overcome them. He wasn’t some weak minded imbecile. He was strong! He was loyal! He was… he was…

“And on the shore my little one lay,

All covered in stars in the sweetest bay,

And the goddess did love the smallest sighs,

And so did bless his greenest eyes…”

“Where did you hear that.” Malacoz could feel the tension in every point of his body, and knew that he might break at the smallest of touches. Something writhed in his chest, and that seedling within him seemed to pulse and shiver. 

Lamial opened her eyes and looked at him. Rather than replying, she began to sing again, her voice siren-like and so achingly lovely that he wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat to choke off the words. To not hear her. To not hear this. 

“The faeries did come to kiss his cheek,

And bless him with the fleetest feet…”

He remembered a woman with pale hair and green eyes singing to him, brushing his hair back from his forehead and laughing down at him. The seedling within him trembled and he fought not to put his hands over his ears to block out the sound. “Stop it.” 

“The muses did give him the most beautiful song,

For when the sun sank and the night was too long.”

The song spun around him and took him back, behind the door he’d closed so firmly when he’d chosen this place, back and back and back to when he was young and innocent. The woman with the pale hair had tried to sing it to him one night, and he recalled what he’d said. ‘I’m too old for lullabies, mother!’ Hurt had crept into her eyes and she’d tried to cover it with a smile and a goodnight kiss. And then, weeks later, she was gone. He remembered the sores on her body and the way she’d slipped away no matter how much he’d begged and pleaded. She’d gone on, and he would never reunite with her. And as a young man he would sing that lullaby to himself in his darkest of moments, when he didn’t want to go on, when he didn’t know how he could go on. His chest seemed to expand as his head pounded. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this memory. Mother…

“Stop this now or die!” Malacoz shouted into her cell, amplifying his own voice with a thread of power. Lamial only lifted her voice above the echoes of his own. 

“Alas my one son, what gifts to you have I?

I’ve no magic, no powers, nothing to stop your cries!

Only my love, sweet one, and that is yours alone,

In you a mother’s love has found her home.

Sleep safe, and loved my son,

Sleep safe and loved my one.

Sleep safe and loved my son.

Sleep safe and loved my only one…”

The weight of the memories would crush him. He was suffocating as they pressed down on him, and he wondered if he’d die here outside this cell, with no one to care what had happened to him. He wouldn’t be reunited with his mother, he knew. A more pure soul there had never been… and he wouldn’t want to see her as he was now anyway. A Demon who had forgotten her name, who had killed for pleasure and sport, who had delighted in others’ torment. She’d despise him, even with her beautiful heart. How could she not? But he remembered her now, so clearly that he could see the golden flecks in her eyes and the exact summer shade of her hair. He remembered the way she’d taught him to grow things, which herbs were for healing and how he might use them. He could hear the dulcet sound of her voice as she sang to her flowers, and the bright tinkle of her laughter when he threw his arms around her. How could he have forgotten her? Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it

“STOP IT!” Malacoz came back to himself, and found that he had Lamial’s hair in his hands, pulling so hard that her face was pressed up against the bars. He couldn’t remember how they’d gotten there, how she’d come to be in his grasp. He expected her to be in pain, to beg for forgiveness or freedom, for her skin to burn from the Angelite stone. Instead, as he met her doe eyes, he saw in them the glitter of triumph. He released her and stumbled back, away from the victory he saw in her gaze. For long moments he breathed in and out, waiting for his stomach to settle, and stared at her with every bit of loathing and malevolence he could summon. It was hard to do so when his stomach was rolling and pitching, and when he could still hear the sweet sound of his mother’s voice in his mind. He knew how to hide the truth. “I hope you and your lover rot.”

Lamial had already turned away, and curled herself around the fire, eyes closed. There was a look of such… peace, on her face. He thought about taking away the fire but he couldn’t make himself, no matter how much he cursed himself inwardly. He needed to get out, to remind himself of who he was now, not of who he had been. He was nearing the hallway when her whispered voice slid into his ears. “What was her name?”  

His knees buckled and he nearly went down as his mother’s face flashed into his mind. The words came out of him before he could stop them. “Mary. Her name was Mary.”

“Pretty,” She hummed, eyes still closed. 

Malacoz looked down at the writhing shadows, and the bright light of her tiny cell. It wasn’t just the fire, but the woman in it who seemed to glow. He wanted to tear her apart and eat her heart. He wanted to fall at her feet and weep. “I’ll never forgive you, you know.”

She just laughed softly. “Good.”

He waited but she said nothing more, and indeed she seemed to slip into slumber, her breathing deep and easy. He wondered what she dreamed of, and if it was pleasant. He pulled his cloak over his head and managed to stumble away, still a bit shaken up. When the guards asked if he was alright he hissed at them, fangs showing, until they lowered their heads and fled into the caves to escape, on the pretext of other prisoners and duties. The forest seemed a safe place to disappear into and he did so without hesitation. As soon as he was in the cover of trees he was violently sick, retching and shivering until there was nothing left inside him. He continued to heave, on his hands and knees, until the feeling faded at last. He wiped his mouth with his hand and looked around him, hating the weakness in himself that Lamial had planted. He would kill it, pull it up from the ground and burn it to nothing before it had a chance to grow. That was the only thing he could do. 

When he saw a pair of eyes watching him, some sort of great beast, he grinned. The burning began now, with fire and blood and battle.

Nothing soft in him would remain.