Imprint - 22. Ch. 4 Part V, VI

V

(familiar....is this familiar....?)

(heard it before...)

(….seen it before?)

Boot steps echo through the marble halls; the air smells of smoke, of blood, but the latter is just you. Its sticking to your skin, hot at first but cooling, a delightful sensation. You had sustained a few deep cuts, pulling slightly as you move, stinging just a bit in the breeze. Hardly anything at all, this didn't even qualify as a workout.

If you were not looking forward to the after show, it would've been a waste of time...

(...is this...was I...?)

It was a ring of trees, short evergreens where there are no others, far enough apart from each other that it wasn't so noticeable, masked well enough that the energy signature was barely felt even standing next to it. Clever bastards, you wouldn't have known it.

Strife touches his hand to one and the illusion opens around it, seamlessly...

(a dream...a fantasy...?)

“So, what are you going to do?”

You check his eyes for any hint of doubt or reservation prompting the question. There is nothing but a quiet sort of excitement that this is really, finally happening.

You look around the streets which are empty, silent; guard towers had long been turned into mere decoration, ornate rather than functional. Worse than you'd thought; this city had been impressive once, it was barely recognizable now.

“I don't collect prisoners, unless I need prisoners. And I don't here,” slide the halberd off your back, unfolded and the pole locked in place, “Not going to chase anyone into the hills, but if they come close they're going down.” Glance over, “That okay with you?”

“I said I didn't care,” and he doesn't, if anything he seems pleased, “And my list?”

“I have people in place to grab them up as soon as the party starts,” flash him a grin, “Sit back and enjoy the show. You've earned it.”

(...a memory? Do I seriously think I remember...)

a ring, a clear oblong stone set in a platinum band; clear, but pass a finger over the surface and a red mist appears, spiraling out from the center, sparkling like the mid year light show.

A waste of aether, your first thought, but pretty. It looked like it would fit over a gloved finger....

“He would like it.”

Jacender had been trailing along behind for a few blocks, quiet and unimposing, with some question in the air he was just waiting to ask. The old warrior looked none the worse for wear either, the splashes of blood on his torso the only sign of the fight now past, the man hadn't even broken a sweat.

Canaan nodded slightly, pocketing the ring for later. He stood upright, indicating for the man to speak already.

“You sending Agnarian back with lock down orders, is there some concern?”

Canaan's lip ticked slightly up in a motion that passed for a smile, that Jacender knew well enough to recognize as such; he was usually the one on guard detail, a position he'd gradually taken over and seemed to enjoy, and Canaan left him to it except on rare occasions like this one. He promptly answered the expected question in the same guttural language Jacender spoke natively; he remembered Strife's surprise that he spoke it at all, but with his former employer's close ties to the Dahakr'l it had been one of the first he learned fluently. “Lynk will not be happy with me for this.”

A dismissive snort, “Is he ever?”

True enough, his very existence was an offense to the Watcher, “Still, he would not do something underhanded. He'll wait for me to return home and yell at me proper like.” He glanced over, “Its precautionary. If I were concerned, you would be there, too.” Priorities remain the same, after all.

The answer seemed to satisfy; they continued to walk down the empty road. “So, what the fuck was this all about, anyway?”

Canaan huffed a brief laugh, thinking of golden eyes reflecting firelight; he'd seen his elf once or twice in the ensuing mayhem, strolling casually through the burning citadel, reveling in the chaos he created; pity they couldn't have done that together. “I should find out soon.”

“That where you're going now?”

He nodded, and waved Jacender off when they came to the fork he needed to turn off on. “Don't know how long we'll be, but get what you want while you can. We're burning this place on the way out.” He couldn't have kept it even if he'd wanted to, so might as well make the Watcher extra angry while he could.

It wasn't far to Strife's chosen meeting place, and the building itself had been impossible to miss. Strolling through the marble halls of what he had to guess was a courthouse of some sort; passed through what almost looked like an arena, where an panel of judges would sit on high, towering over the accused in their appointed box while everyone watched from the sidelines. Canaan could only image the sort of circus that was conducted here.

Interesting to note though that this was not where he'd been told to go; Strife had picked a more private room in the back.

Quint and Riven had been part of the retrieval team, and they were the ones who had stayed behind to guard the prisoners; Canaan found them standing by the door when he entered and turned to face them directly, for the moment ignoring the movement he could sense at the corner of his eye. “You can go. I'll take over here.”

No arguments of course, Quint left immediately and Riven paused only long enough to answer the question he hadn't asked aloud, “No word yet.”

“Thank you,” he replied under his breath as she followed the other man out the door. It was not a surprise, his elf was probably lingering in the shadows somewhere waiting for him to show before starting the main event, too much of a show-off to go it alone. Not that he was complaining, mind.

Canaan took two steps into the quiet room, still turned away from where the people were gathered in the corner, taking in his surroundings and trying to guess at why. This had been someone's office, the size and set up suggesting one where much time was spent and company entertained. The too elaborate white and gold desk had been pulled into the center of the room, everything that had once been on it thrown in the corner. There were three boxes next to the desk, one on top of the other, old looking and covered in dirt.

So, Strife had been here, and left again before anyone arrived. The presence of those boxes suggested he was never that far away. How long had it been, Canaan wondered, that they went in the ground? Where had they been? One place, or did they move over the years, closer and closer as his plans came to fruition? Outside, or had he actually slipped past the border, risking capture to bury them right in their own backyard, to get some thrill out of the transgression? The forethought it represented alone brought a half smile to his face. He is impressive, isn't he? Probably best to never piss him off. The chair that matched the desk was placed a short distance away, turned at a deliberate angle where it would have a full view of the room.

“Ahem,” he heard a very timid throat clearing, one that almost didn't want to be heard, “Um, excuse me?”

That was the signal he had been waiting for; Canaan turned with a mask of calm indifference and finally surveyed the gathered crowd.

There was one woman, tall and likely elegant under other circumstances; one that was just old enough to be considered a man, based on what he knew of elven lifespan and aging Canaan guessed him to have been ten when Strife had last been here. Two older men, well up into middle age and bearing a certain familial resemblance; one had his arm around the woman and his other hand on the boy's shoulder, it was the second who addressed Canaan. The other four might have been eighteen then, hovering in the background, obviously unconnected with the larger family or with each other, visibly uncertain what they were doing here.

Canaan tried to withhold his interest, but he didn't think he was doing as good a job as usual. It was hard this time; here they were, the people that Strife had been willing to kill, to risk death, just to have. Here they were, pulled out of bed in the middle of the night, barely given opportunity to grab robes to throw over bed clothes, still sleep mussed and drowsy; they had been grabbed ahead of time, blindfolded initially and brought to a building Strife had said would be empty, they probably knew little of what had occurred in the citadel and their confusion was evident. He tried, but right now it was hard to see why.

“Excuse me,” the older elf struggled with one of the more common languages favored by traders, his accent pronounced; that he knew it at all suggested a position of some importance, “but what, precisely, are – are we-”

Canaan held up a hand, stopping the man in his tracks, “This is not my show,” he said simply, “You will have to wait.”

The appointed spokesman of the group faltered slightly at that, as did his...brother? Who was now staring oddly at Canaan. “Are you not the one in charge of this...this-”

“In this case,” interrupting the useless grasping for some polite term, “I am but a hired hand.”

Leaving them to chew on that a while, he continued his slow circuit of the room. A portrait he found on the far wall near the covered window revealed the family man to be the owner of the office, the man whose eyes were still burning holes in his back. Oh they were all looking, keeping half an eye on him, his calculated disinterest putting them on edge as planned, but there was a certain probing intensity from that set, not watching but searching. He wouldn't have to wonder at it for long, side stepping away from the portrait to peruse the book shelves that lined the back wall.

He's a fucking archivist. Or whatever they were calling it now. A man charged with recording history as it happens, keeping records of the past, and in a culture where what you know counts that would make him an important and wealthy man indeed.

He recalled which hand it was he had held up in silence.

Slowly, Canaan turned his head to look over his shoulder. Without a word, he pulled those eyes off their study of his branded arms and forced them to meet his own. He saw the moment half formed suspicion solidified into fact, into horrified acceptance at the answer plainly etched across his features.

He knows...

Canaan turned back, chuckling quietly to himself. What were the odds, running into someone, one of a dwindling minority by now, that could recognize the marks on his arm and piece together what it all meant? Well, here in this place, where the knowledge pool was deep and the memory long, probably higher than normal. Still, he hadn't been expecting it, it was nice to be surprised every now and then.

I do hope he keeps his mouth shut about it. I want to tell Strife myself.

Canaan had decided, after that first honest conversation, to wait until Strife's business had played itself out before making up his mind. He was sticking with that resolution, though in truth his mind was made up already, and faster than usual, too. The elf was unusual though, and he'd more than earned the right.

The look on his face, it should be priceless. I'll not be robbed of that either. Kill that man myself, if I have to.

Suddenly foot steps sounded down the hall, so loud, like the person wanted the world to know they were coming. Canaan had to restrain the smile that wanted to come as the doors were thrown open with a flourish.

(what is it with me and dramatic men?)

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” was the first thing Strife said, calm and conversational, his eyes focused only on Canaan, “thought I should get changed for the occasion. What do you think?” a quick twirl, “Can I still pull it off?”

Strife was wearing a robe, similar in cut and style to the Khar'talan fashion, except painfully plain rather then embroidered, constructed of cheaper fabric and black instead of white or green or gold.

“I like your other clothes better,” he answered honestly, shifting his attention subtly to the crowd, trying to gauge their reaction. No confusion, they knew him and they knew why they were there; judging from the fear you could all but taste in the air, they knew they were in for it, too.

Strife snorted a good natured laugh, “Yeah, well, it does nothing for my figure, but the easy access is a plus.”

The words came automatically, picking up on the man's rhythm and what he wanted here, “I've never had issue getting in your pants.”

A laugh, and Strife was coming closer. He touched a hand to Canaan's face, gently, an intimate gesture; not something he'd ever done before, with the confidence of one who'd done it a thousand times. “Oh, love, you were amazing. Better than I could've hoped for.”

Love? He didn't get a chance to comment before Strife's mouth was on his, slow and deep and nothing at all like they usually kissed, but again it would've been hard to tell. Catching on to the performance, Canaan settled his hands on the man's lower back, fingers tilted slightly downward; just familiar enough without turning into an obvious erotic act.

Strife pulled back, slow, lingering, his eyes bright with anticipation; it was oddly endearing, and Canaan didn't know what to think of that. A deep breath, and he turned at last to face his audience.

“You all look surprised to see me,” he observed, tilting his head quizzically, “Not sure why that is. I said I'd be back. And if there's one thing you all never accused me of, it'd be lying.”

Strife ambled closer, hands behind his back; Canaan regretted no longer being able to see his face but didn't want to formally admit to it by moving. He settled for watching their reactions, the way they all crowded together at his approach, the tight grip of fingers and widening of eyes.

He stopped walking a foot and a half away, tilting his head again. His attention seemed to be focused on the archivist. “What's the matter? Nothing to say?” pause, “You were always such a self righteous loudmouth, too. What is it? Now that I'm big enough to actually look you in the eye, you're suddenly tongue tied? You know what, not surprised.” His head turned down, toward the woman cowering under the archivist's arm who seemed to wither under his gaze. “Nothing from you either, huh? No words of welcome for the prodigal son? Holy shit, you're still alive! A fucking miracle, by the Watcher's eye! You should be fucking proud! Don't you think? Mother?”

It wasn't much of a surprise, this sort of anger, it had to be something personal. The picture in his head rapidly reformed, blank spots filling in. “I'd like to stay,” Canaan spoke into the quiet that followed, “if you don't mind.”

Strife spoke without turning around, “What do you think the chair's for?”

He smiled in spite of himself, wordlessly accepting the invitation.

“I haven't made introductions, have I? Oh, how rude of me,” Strife stepped to the side, indicating him with a dramatic sweep of his arm; he was still speaking in the trader's tongue everyone in the room seemed to know, presumably to keep Canaan in the conversation. “This is the Black Wolf. You know, the dreaded demon that's been terrorizing the countryside? Of course, I get to call him Canaan. In public anyway, private's another matter.”

Strife flashed him a grin, now sweeping his arm in the opposite direction, starting with the woman, “Canaan, love, I'd like you to meet my mother.” The man holding her, “Her husband, an archivist, this is his office if you haven't guessed already.” The boy, “Their worthless spawn.” The other older man, “Step dad's brother, a judge. And in case you're curious, mom's family are ambassadors. I'm practically a fucking blue blood, bet you didn't see that coming.” And the four men in back, “They were court guards, at least then. The ones who escorted me out of Khar'tal, actually. Only met them the once, but it was...memorable.”

And the picture of the past expanded a little further, shifting from speculation into fact; Canaan understood now, and he would enjoy this better for that understanding.

“What have you done?” the archivist, finally speaking as Strife seemed to think he would; the man didn't bother with the trader's tongue, his bright blue eyes darting back and forth between the two intruders, accusingly, “What the fuck have you done?”

“I won,” Strife answered.

“What did you do?” his wild gaze settled on the room's single window, covered by a heavy curtain; he stared like he hoped to burn holes through the fabric.

Strife marched over, gleefully ripping the curtain down right off the wall; the haze of smoke was thick outside, the flickering light of burning buildings just visible through it. “There is nothing out there,” he announced with pride, with a big smile on his face and laughter in his eyes, “They're all dead, and the ones who managed to run away, they'll be dead soon enough. Because its hard for a sheltered elf to survive out there in the real world, ask me how I know. My lover and his people are going to pick this shit hole clean and burn it to the ground before we all fuck off into my happily ever after. If its any consolation, I promise you won't live long enough to see it.”

“...you vile little monster,” and there Canaan heard the word he realized now must be where Strife got his name. His mind translated it as monster as he was first taught, but he had heard many other terms used in substitute; strife was probably more literal, even if the word didn't carry quite the same insulting weight outside of this uptight culture.

The archivist seemed to be recovering his original personality in a hurry, fear being replaced by disgust and anger, if an impotent version thereof. Strife's taunting was getting the desired affect, and the man rose to the occasion to not be cowed by a one time victim. “How could you? I can not believe you would do something as-”

“Really? I seem to remember being dragged out of this room, screaming that I would.”

The man's features twisted with scorn, “I am not surprised you would resort to murder, we both know you have no honor. About the only thing you don't lack is unwarranted pride. So I am surprised you would trade your body to inferior beings just to get what you wanted.”

“Maybe I got that from mom's side?” Strife was stonefaced, but that was a vicious barb to judge from the reactions of his former family; the woman was shaking so hard she could barely stand up, the men around her equal parts outraged and uncomfortable. Strife just smirked, “Oh, I see. We're still in denial about that. How cute.”

“And you parade it around shamelessly, your rutting with this...unnatural creature.”

Canaan snorted quietly, such dramatics but nothing new. The archivist caught the sound, and his attention zeroed in. “Thought you could understand us,” it was a bold decision to address him directly, Canaan didn't pretend to miss the signs of fear as he said, “I know what you are.”

With a wry smirk, Canaan answered in Elvish, “I'm not hiding it.”

The admission was met with a sort of grim satisfaction, the man shook his head, “Those stories, the way people talk about you. Should've guessed what was behind it.”

He shrugged a shoulder, “In retrospect, it does seem rather obvious.”

The archivist's eyes moved back to Strife in a heated glare that was entirely missed, “And you bring that man here? To this place? To your bed? Of all people? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Strife stared at Canaan, he clearly had no idea what any of this was about but he was going to play along, both for control and for the free evil points he was getting. Canaan could read his thoughts clearly (that is a lot more than just enough to get by, you lying bastard. This is not over, either) before he turned away and back to his step father with a careless shrug, “I remember you saying you wouldn't mate me to a dog. So you think you'd be thrilled, that I found another...unnatural creature, to play with.

“And besides, you misunderstand the situation. I didn't pay for this with my body, it was a straight up bargain. I gave him Khar'tal, he gave me you. Simple as that.” Yellow eyes glanced back quickly, with a note of fondness, “Any sex here was purely recreational. Based on intense mutual attraction. Turns out, I like power and the balls to use it. Who knew, right?”

He took a step closer, challenging; the man took an automatic step back, his eye widening in surprise, like he hadn't meant to do that. Strife gloated silently for just a moment, before stepping away and turning his back. “Which is not to say that I never whored myself to get here, because of course I have,” he walked to the desk, picking up the first of his boxes, putting it on the table, slowly working it open. “If I could've rode in here on a wave of hate and taken care of you all myself, I would have. If I had wanted to settle for just hiring a group of killers, it would've been easier, kick back in a warm room somewhere and wait for your heads to be delivered. But I'm not you, I'd rather do my own dirty work. And that, of course, required me to know just how do it at all.”

Open now, Strife started unpacking, with slow deliberation, laying items out in a neat line. A collection of knives, varying in length and sharpness, one was even rusty and Canaan doubted that was accidental. “Thankfully for me, you dumped me near Kandha'l-har, so a lot of what I needed to know was right there and available to me.” A pair of clippers, a hammer, “The basics anyway, quick and brutal survival. But you know me, I'm a showman. Why settle for the bare minimum when I can impress instead?” A coiled bit of razor wire fastened to a handle, like a whip, probably skin anyone hit with it, “For that, I needed to travel further afield, engage a more...discerning audience. But that was okay, turns out fucking is something I'm good at. And manipulating, guess you called that one, huh?”

He paused with a thin metal rod in hand, a little longer than a finger and thin as a reed; sharp at one end, could be jammed under a nail. “Gifts from former lovers,” he explained, “They almost always gave me something to remember them by. This was from someone in Jiiroka, collected debts, very good at his job.”

Strife pulled up the next box, teasing it open with an excited grin, “And then there's the months I spent in Rock Haven, or the surrounding mountains anyway. They were bandit hunting, I was along for the ride. Pack of foreign idiots, not that I was surprised, anyone local I knew would go out of their way to avoid Rock Haven because they were afraid of the Inquisitor. Yet I got myself in his bed.” He paused, waiting, searching for a reaction that wasn't there, his captives watching blankly. Strife was indignant, “Come on, really? I thought you people were supposed to care about invention, and you've never heard of Alarich? What, are you all so far up your asses now you can't see anything outside of it?”

Wanting to be helpful, Canaan cleared his throat, “I do know Alarich.”

Strife looked at him and smiled, “I know and I'm real glad now, my speech can continue.” He dug into the open box, “So then, if you know Alarich well enough, you should recognize this.”

Canaan felt his mouth drop open, unable to help it even as he knew he'd never live it down; what Strife was holding in his hands, about the last thing he would've expected. “He taught you how to use that?”

“By the end, I was teaching him,” he was beaming with pride, “Alarich is good at what he does, but it is just a job. He doesn't have my rage, passion aids creativity.” He ran fingers over the cloudy stones affixed to both hand pieces, to where it would attach at skull and mid spine, “The aether stone combo is my own invention. Alarich stuck with electric shocks until I showed him some new tricks. This one here gradually sucks the oxygen out of your body, slow suffocation. It reverses, too, so you can force recovery and do it over again, however many times you want.” He put the device down on the table, “This is his original prototype, what he was willing to part with. Doesn't work as good as his final model, but for my purposes here its fine.”

Canaan was still staring, “Is that all he taught you?”

Strife nodded, “Only had time to learn the one, unfortunately. Might've tried my luck a little longer, but I had obligations to Hellena I had to attend to.”

“I don't know who that is.”

“Its okay, I didn't think you did,” Strife's head turned back to the watching crowd, “But they do.”

That they did, and whoever it was was as much a boogeyman to them as Canaan himself was to the rest of the world. It had been a while, since he had seen horror like that.

“Yeah, that's right,” Strife spoke to them, building on the reaction, “I went right to her, and she took me right in when she heard what I wanted to do. I'm not sure she thought of me as anything but amusing at first, but I quickly became her best student.” He pushed aside the second box in favor of the third, tearing into angrily, “You assholes have no idea what you gave up when you barred me from training. But you know now, don't you? You felt it, when I got close. I am that powerful, I could've been her successor if I was willing to stay there and teach.” He pulled a blade out of the box, thick, heavy and very sharp, designed for dismemberment; turned and brandished it at them, “And now you know what's coming to you, when I'm done here. You know exactly how you're going to end up. And I hope to the fucking gods your little fairy tales about soul fragmentation are true, I hope I tear you apart in the process, bind pieces of you in a ward that will never end, and you come back broken if you come back at all.”

Canaan couldn't quite follow all that (aether manipulation had never been his specialty, he had someone else for that) but the gist of it, what he was saying, what had been saying all along, came through loud and clear.

“You weren't entirely wrong, you know, when you had me pegged as a whore.”

“-never for anything as simple as coin.”

“Needed a lot of help, from a lot of people...what I wanted, I had to be really good.”

Not about survival; not about charming protection or favors, he was too good for that. No, Strife peddled himself to the most dangerous men he could find, promising them anything, in exchange for...

“Whatever I would've needed, I learned to do elsewhere.”

“I was determined. To come back, and have my moment.”

He turned himself into a weapon...

Canaan looked at Strife with a new appreciation, or rather a better understanding of where the appeal came from

(“And what are they going to do to stop me? Us? My darling knight, you were made to be the best.”)

He saw it, from the first, buried deep in those hornet's nests eyes, the threat, the promise. Saw it, responded on instinct.

No wonder I liked him so much. We have a lot in common.

“What is any of this supposed to prove?” the archivist had found his voice again, forced it past the knot of fear in his throat, determined for some last word, some final insult that would linger longer than he would, “Barging in here, with your tainted aura and your demon lover, bragging about consorting with heretics. Good men and women died tonight, all so you could settle some petty score. And now you're...” His eyes traveled to the knife still in Strife's hand, but couldn't bring himself to directly confront this moment, “What was this supposed to prove? That we were wrong? Should've let you stay, should've welcomed you with open arms? Should I apologize on bended knee?” he scoffed, “If anything, you are far worse than we could have foreseen. You are an abomination. Your grandfather made a mistake, allowing you to be born, you should've been drowned before you took your first breath. If it had been up to me, you would not be here now, I am only sorry that it wasn't so.”

Canaan's eyes were still on Strife, watching him watching them with a tight expression on his face, fiddling with that knife before placing it carefully on the table. “You think I want an apology?” he spoke with a forced calm, “You think that's why... Let me tell you something, I wouldn't accept an apology from you if you crawled on broken glass and delivered it with heartfelt sobbing and my dick in your throat. This is not about you!” a brief glimpse of that gold fire rage, barely contained, just waiting to burst free, and Canaan had to adjust his position.

“This is about me! This is about me getting what I am owed. For every slight, every humiliation, every door you closed against me, every piece of petty bullshit you ever threw at me. Whatever I am now, you helped make me and you are going to take responsibility for that if I have to cram it down your throat. Only fair, since I've already taken more than I deserved.

“But that's all its about,” he stepped away from the desk, strolled lazily closer to them, “My treatment here. Not the exile. I'm not even angry about that. Oh I was, once, at first, but I got over it a long time ago.”

He stopped in front of his step father, close enough to bother the man, looking in his eyes with a casual smile, “You don't believe me? Well, why wouldn't I? Take a look around, ask yourself, where would I be now if I'd stayed here? Hmm?” he shook his head, “Maybe if I was real lucky, I could've risen as high as your personal foot stool, huh? Living out in the yard on whatever scraps I can find, waiting for one of you to call me inside to wipe your asses for you? And I'm sure when I came of age you would've had me neutered at the first opportunity, in practice if not literally, though I wouldn't have put that past you. What a fucking wonderful life that would've been.

“And look at me now!” a smile, dazzling, manic, “Well traveled, educated, skilled. Maybe not in a way you'd approve, but whatever. Everything you tried to keep from me I got anyway, and unlike the lot of you I had to actually earn it, I got nothing handed to me. The respect of powerful men,” a quick over the shoulder glance in his direction, “Sharing his bed, and he moves his private army around just because I asked him to. How many people can say that?

“I have everything I could've wanted, all because of you. An apology? I should be thanking you. You set me free...

“...But that wasn't your intention,” and the smile slipped from his face, “You intended for me to die.” Eyes hardened, calm tone starting to strain, “Alone. Helpless. Violently, at someone else's hand. You had me hobbled and thrown outside an outlaw haven, your intentions could not have been more clear.”

Planned for years, this moment, and it showed. Strife came alive here, all the potential sensed in that first glance realized, shining bright and beautiful. It was hard to even notice anyone else in the room, they paled into insignificance.

“Your intentions are why you're going to die today. Would that I could sentence you to the same end you wanted for me, but I'd much rather do the job myself. I'll leave you to decide if that's a blessing or not.”

The archivist opened his mouth to speak, but Strife's hand shot forward first, “No.” Squeezing the man's lips together with bruising force, “I'm done listening to you. The only thing I want to hear out of you from this point forward is ow, ow, for the love of all things holy, please stop hurting me. And I'll tell you, I'm not in a very merciful mood.”

It wasn't very often that his body responded without his express permission to do so; contrary to the assumptions he knew Strife had, this was the most time he'd spent in bed in years, and he hadn't missed it much before. Pity need couldn't interrupt the proceedings, right there on the desk with Strife's grisly collection as a framework; if each was a gift they must have a story, and he would want to hear them all.

(its not just you he's like, is he?...)

“You were right about one thing, step father dearest. You should've just killed me. Try to imprint it for the next life, huh?”

(strutting around like this, taunting everyone in the room with his big dramatic show...also kind of reminds you of-)

-and no. Stopped that thought right where it was. That was a level of complication he didn't need.

“So, love, help me out here,” Strife was perched on the arm of his chair, leaning in closer with a hand braced on Canaan's thigh. The cocky smile on his face said he knew just what was going through Canaan's mind, he was very flattered and was definitely not going to let it go any time soon.

Outwardly, he maintained his blank facade, mildly perturbed that Strife could possibly see through it, but not as much as he maybe should've been. “With?”

“Someone's got to go first. Your choice. Anyone but them,” pointed two fingers at the archivist and his wife, “Mommy and daddy go last.”

Canaan turned back to the crowd, considering. “The boy,” he said finally, “He's spineless. You don't do him first, he's likely to die of fright.”

Satisfied at that, Strife lurched off the arm rest like a predator; the boy, as though in an attempt to prove the assessment, overcome with panic did what no one so far had tried, and bolted toward the door.

Unconcerned, Strife reached into a pocket and pulled out a metal dart. He flicked its tip close to his mouth, hard to see why, what was done, a breath, a word, a tongue run over, before the dart went flying out of his hand and embedded in his half brother's leg. The boy went down howling in pain Canaan might've thought an exaggeration, except for the look on Strife's face.

“I don't know if I mentioned, but I also spent three months giving blow jobs to a botanist. I learned three toxins in exchange. Just three, but they're vicious things, and my aetheric arts make them very fast acting. One of the benefits of working with organic matter, I guess.”

The boy was trying to roll over, trying to pull the dart out but it appeared to be stuck. The blood stain on his white robe was spreading rapidly.

The haughty superiority melted off the archivist's face, and he made a desperate, half hearted move to save his son. Strife reached back in his pocket and threw something at the crowd; Canaan heard something break, saw a cloud of red powder erupt from the floor and everyone freeze in place, wide eyed and queasy.

“Got more where that came from,” Strife glared in triumph, “Not that it matters really, there's nowhere for you to go. Even if you get out of this room, his people have orders not to kill you, you'll only be brought right back. Then I'll be annoyed. I could drag your death out for days.”

Too much to hope it would work out that way, these people were not near brave enough to try. Canaan found himself sitting forward on his chair just slightly, anticipation building.

He watched Strife drop down on the boy's chest, pinning him in place. “Well, hello there, brother dear. It has been a long time, hasn't it? You're all grown up, I barely recognized you.” Pried his jaw open, fingers reaching in, “Oh, look at that! Now that's familiar. Same old lying tongue,” pinched between his fingers, yanked upward, “You fuck anyone else with this thing, or am I still special?” and there was a small knife in his other hand, “Either way, I do believe this is mine, now.”

Amazing how loud a man could scream when he didn't have a tongue.

It took two and a half days before he was done.

By the end of the first day, the crowd was whittled down to just the two. The initial deaths were brutal, bloody but also quick and to the point. If bleeding out from emasculation could be considered quick, or being torn apart with a whip.

It was the step father he spent the most time with; most of a day, barring brief breaks to eat and nap in the corner. The man's mask of superiority broke at the end; he begged.

Finally, all that was left was the woman, kneeling alone in the corner, dirty and disheveled; even after much time spent in observation the family resemblance was hard to spot, worse as the son flourished while the mother degraded. On the last day she was just sitting there, staring blankly at the ripped open, mutilated bodies of what used to be her kin. She didn't look up or flinch when Strife came closer, when he almost gently pushed a metal dart into her neck; she just slid forward from her sitting position, a few seconds and it was done.

“That was rather anticlimactic,” Canaan had gotten up and stood beside him.

Strife shrugged, “All she ever did was watch. Just sat back and let them do whatever they wanted. Her fucking husband, his family, her parents, and oh do I regret those assholes died before I could get them here. Just watched everything and never said anything.” He smiled tightly, “I thought it was fitting.”

“When you put it that way,” he was staring again, couldn't help it. Strife had lost the black robes at the end of the first day, now stood in just a pair of pants caked in almost seven bodies' worth of blood. There was a layer of gore painted over his bare torso, smeared along his cheeks and forehead, matted in his hair.

“What?” tired, satisfied yellow eyes turned up to him, a half dyed blond brow raised quizzically.

“Nothing,” Canaan said, then, “You look good in red. Suits you.”

Strife's mouth split into a sudden grin, “Yeah?”

“An attractive quality in a man. So I think.”

“Is that why you've been hard for three days?”

“In part,” a pause, a smile, “Up for a celebration?”

Strife reached over to the now thoroughly ruined desk, his hand landing on one of his cadaver knives, the one for dismemberment rather than evisceration. “Give me ten minutes. Just got to do one thing first, to keep a promise.”

VI

The next morning found them in bed in one of the mostly intact homes near the courthouse, still basking in the afterglow of a night of food, sex and much needed sleep. A perfect ending, even before Canaan heard those unexpected words.

“Thanks,” Strife was sitting up now, long legs folded up under him; his gaze was steady, the words themselves more uncertain, “I know its not usual, you dreaming about something for years and having it go exactly as good as you imagined. There's almost always some let down, right? But this was everything I wanted. And I know that was a lot to do with you. And yeah, I technically paid you, but we both know you didn't care about having this city or anything in it. So...for whatever its worth, thanks. For everything.”

Canaan laid back, staring up at the man's face; all golden beauty again, he'd washed it clean himself in the adjoining bathroom last night, where the after party started. “I was well compensated. Thanks are not necessary.”

“Yeah, well I don't give them out very often. So just accept and be grateful.”

“Didn't say I wasn't,” he allowed a few moments of easy silence to pass before asking, “So, what will you do now?”

“I don't know,” Strife answered, “I was always pretty focused on this, never gave a lot of thought to what came after.” he shrugged, “Well, with all the training I did, I'm sure I could sell my services to someone. Non bedroom services that is. I'm sure some gangster or warlord out there would just love to have me.”

Canaan nodded agreement, another pause and, “If you have no immediate plans, why not stay?”

“In Khar'tal?”

“With us.”

“With you?”

He waved a casual hand, “We are all going in the same direction, and you already know everyone's name. Seems convenient.”

Strife was not going to make this easy, “Are you asking me to stay, Canaan?”

He thought of how to respond, and chose honesty, “You were not wrong about me. There are...certain things, I'm trying to do here. I could use someone like you in my employ.”

A slow smile spread across his face, “The sex is pretty good, too, huh?”

“Well, there is that.”

The smile widened further, the elf actually looked happy for once; it was gratifying. “Sure, why not? This has been far from boring after all. And besides, I don't think I can move on without knowing what's going on with you. You've been such a cock tease about it.”

“I need some hook to lure the talent.”

“So you don't use your cock for that?”

“Hardly.”

“I feel so privileged.” he laughed a little, “All right, I'm in. So tell me, who are we after?”

Again, Canaan considered how to answer. “In part, Drake.”

Strife rocked back, eyes turning up in thought, “Hmm, Drake? Drake? Do I know Drake?”

“...yes.”

“From Kandha'l-har?”

“...no.”

Is he that guy who-”

“No.”

“So then who-” but of course Strife already knew the answer, it was the first thought he had and dismissed out of hand, because how could it be? Canaan watched his face as his mind came back to it again, still impossible, but what else could it mean? And if that was true... The look of shock was beautiful on features that so rarely expressed it, and it was only beginning.

“You're kidding me, right?” but Strife knew he wasn't.

“As I've told you before, there's a lot you don't know about me.”

“There were rumors...should I not have dismissed them?”

“Not all of them. Entirely.”

“So then you're-”

Canaan cut him off with a gesture, sitting up himself now, “No,” he reached for the half empty wine bottle on the floor by the bed, the single glass with it, “Business can wait until tomorrow. Today is about you,” passing the glass over, now half full, “Celebrating.”

Strife glowered at him but there was no heat behind it, “This is the last time you get to do this, you know?”

“All the more reason.”

Laughing, Strife held his wine glass aloft in an offered toast, “To our partnership. Maybe it always be so...entertaining.”

Canaan raised the bottle in return, “Hear, hear.”