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Solus always thought that Zenos enjoyed their little jaunts to the theatre. It wasn't as if anything else had captured the boy's interest – all the youths introduced to him by their social climbing parents were ignored, and if any hobby was not abandoned as quickly as those companions, it was only because they were forced upon him by his dear lord father. He certainly did not keep up with games of megalith for the joy of it. His tutors were met with the same detached air, but Zenos could not throw them aside so easily, even if their praise was met with naught more than dull acknowledgement. The one exception had been that provincial blademaster that Varis had brought to the palace in chains, the only instructor unwilling and unable to praise him, and the first in Zenos’ cosseted life that forced him to exert actual effort. Alas, that came to an end the day the man was found slain in the training room. Varis had been slow in finding another. Solus was reminded of nothing so much as a parent refusing to replace a doll which had been ripped to shreds by a spoilt toddler – not that Varis had ever done such a thing. The art of conquest left enterprising legati with little time for little children, even among those who had actual fondness for their spawn.
Ah, but the theatre, now that was different. His father didn’t approve, of course, but could do little about it when the emperor himself whisked his son away. Solus wondered if perhaps that held some appeal to Zenos, but mere youthful rebellion couldn’t explain the way his eyes lit up when the curtains rose. His eyes darted around the stage as the actors and actresses paraded about in all their finery, and while Zenos watched the opera, Solus watched his aura. It was a thin, gossamer thing, the iridescent strings glistening in colors beyond the ken of even the most talented alchemists and thaumaturges, and swelled with Zenos’ breath every time something caught his interest. It tugged at something ancient and familiar in Solus’ memory, but before he could place it the performance would always come to an end, leaving Zenos breathless and Solus with yet another frustration to add to the pile. Ah, well, at least the boy had enjoyed himself – and enjoyed the company of his dear great-grandfather, as well.
The knife now at Solus’ throat told a different story.
Zenos straddled his lap, his dress uniform in disarray, though this time Solus was not to blame. It had all started as a favor to the boy, truth be told. He’d noticed the way Zenos’ breath hitched during the second act, when the soprano wiped the blood from her sweet tenor’s brow; he’d also noticed how the boy still shunned the company of others, even whilst his neglected peers dragged each other to the darkest corners of the palace. Hidden away in the emperor’s private box, the hand placed familiarly on Zenos’ knee traveled upward along his thigh and, finding no resistance, traveled upward still. Solus stroked him idly through his dress trousers, with no reaction save for quickened breaths and nails dug into his wrist. Zenos’ eyes remained fixed upon the stage instead of his grandsire, and his lips parted as the firing squad lifted their guns; then, with no warning save for a choked gasp, he came, making a mess of his trousers before the hero’s body even hit the ground. Solus ignored the dampness under his hand and simply stared at the boy – or stared at his aether, rather. For a brief moment he thought he had seen a spark, that familiar, cursed light that haunted his memory, but it faded as soon as it had appeared.
Zenos regarded him afterward with the same cool detachment he always did after the end of a grand performance, but Solus could not put that spark out of his mind. He tried his experiments again in the coming weeks, once more in the opera box and again in his own private chambers, but after Zenos did naught more than lie there like a doll – his aether as inert as ever – he’d given up entirely.
Zenos dug the knife further into his neck, just enough to draw a small drop of blood, just enough to draw a gasp from Solus’ lips. Well, if Zenos was that upset, he could have said something earlier.
“You don’t know what you are doing,” he wheezed out, wondering if Zenos used their past liaisons as an excuse to gain entrance, or if he now had a dead guard outside his room in need of replacement. “Even if you kill me, the rest of the guard shall certainly kill you as well. There are better ways to commit suicide.”
In the low light of his chambers Solus could see Zenos’ grin sharpen, and in that moment, he realized that his warning had done naught but excite him further. Perhaps there was no better way to commit suicide, if suicide was his intent; the boy had tasted enough of battle to know how dull it was, and that few mortals, if any, could best him and his blades. And what did that leave him with? Solus pressed his lips together as he recalled a mournful duet from the last opera Zenos had attended, the swansong of two doomed lovers who knew not what fate awaited them – the tragic heroine prepared to die for the sake of her honor, and the hotblooded hero who would sacrifice himself for vengeance. This damned fool meant to take on both roles, it seemed, but Solus could not let this come to pass; he had much work to do before he could even think of rest, as much as he longed for it. With no more than a sigh, Solus pressed his bare finger against the blade, and pushed. Dark aether swirled around his hand, shielding it as Zenos tried to press it against his flesh, his eyes growing wild as Solus swatted it away as if it was naught more than one of his old toys.
Now was his chance. While Zenos sat atop him, dumbfounded, Solus placed a hand against his clothed chest. Violet shadows, visible to none in the palace save for Solus himself, reached up behind Zenos’ back, forming into a hand to yank him back by his collar. He fell to the floor with a heavy thud and a surprised yell, but if the guard were to disturb them, Solus could easily send them away – and if they did not, well, then he perhaps he had an answer to his previous question. Zenos reached for his fallen knife before anything else, but the wispy shadows surrounding him condensed themselves into thick, heavy masses of ropes, crawling across the floor to wrap around his ankles and his wrists. While Zenos struggled against his bonds, Solus sneered down at him, still thinking on whether or not this was worth leaving the comfort of his bed.
“Pitiful,” he muttered, finally rising to his feet. It didn’t take long to find the knife Zenos brought with him, some jeweled dagger pilfered from a foreign throne room; it felt sharp enough to get the job done when Zenos had it at his throat, but he suspected that it was brought for the sake of theatrics more than anything. Dangling it from the pommel, he glared down at Zenos, and asked, “Is this what you wanted?”
Deciding he didn’t want to hear the answer after all, he had a rope of shadow wrap around Zenos’ neck, choking him just enough to keep his mouth shut. Solus paced about him, his eyes on the dagger instead of his would-be assassin, and said, “I should have you killed for this little stunt. A public execution, staged the day before the princely prodigy was to take his first command – is that enough pageantry for you, Zenos yae Galvus?”
He practically spat the words out, and continued on, “No, you’ve done naught to earn it. I should just slaughter you myself, like the beast you are.”
Zenos gasped as he fought against his bonds, and if Solus thought that he could not get more pathetic than this, then Zenos sought to prove him wrong – his aura, weak thing that it was, pulsed vibrantly against the darkness. It moved in rhythm with his heartbeat, fluttering faster and faster, and Solus stopped in his tracks, equal parts disgusted and fascinated by the sight.
“You would like that,” he sneered, “wouldn’t you.”
The shadow around Zenos’ neck loosened its hold, just enough for Zenos to gasp for air, just enough to shove itself into Zenos mouth and down his throat. Hues of rainbow and ultraviolet struck against the threads of his aether, and gripped by a childish curiosity, Solus wondered what other colors he could wring out of this whelp. The ropes around Zenos’ ankles writhed up, curling around his legs, unencumbered by his trousers as they climbed up his thighs. Without warning or ceremony, the shadows pried his legs apart and penetrated him, pressing through the cloth as if it was no more a barrier than a cloud of smog. Zenos screamed around the shadow shoved into his mouth, that barely congealed mass taking shape as it gagged him, and strands of spittle dripped down the crevices and woody veins of a thick, viny tentacle. When Zenos bit down it was not blood or sap that came out, but puffs of darkened smoke, wafting over his face and forcing his eyes shut.
He watched a moment longer as Zenos’ writhed against his shadowy bonds, and the tentacles wrapped around his thighs thrust deeper, doing no harm to his clothes or his flesh. The only evidence of their presence were the wet noises they made as they went about their work, and for a brief moment Solus swore that he saw Zenos’ stomach bulge out from the force of their penetration. Solus recoiled at the sight, and unwilling to look more upon this malformed thing, this broken parody of perfection and its limitless potential, he paid Zenos’ physical form no more mind as he forced his attention upon his aether. It was a miracle how something so beautiful could have arisen from that disgusting mound of flesh. Zenos’ aether was lit up with impossible hues, sparkling and crackling in ways Solus had never seen before. Galaxies now swirled within thin strands of invisible light, giving way to fractal infinity as their frail little stars exploded and collapsed under their own weight; strange, how their lives were even more brief than the mortal that spawned them, yet more glorious than he could ever hope to be. Was this what was missing from Solus’ previous experiments? Was death the only thing that could set this doll’s soul aflame?
Just as Solus thought Zenos’ very soul might explode, it dimmed before his eyes, and he was left with nothing to watch save for yet another disgusting display of physicality. His dress uniform now drenched in sweat, Zenos writhed and jerked against his restraints before he collapsed onto the floor; a muffled cry and a familiar wet spot on the front of his trousers told Solus all he needed to know. Disappointment washed over Solus, numbing him to every sensation available to him save for disgust. Narrowing his eyes at the worthless boy at his feet, he flicked his wrist, and the shadows released their hold on him. Zenos arched his back as the tentacles buried deep within their bowels slid out, followed by the vine that gagged him. For all the wet, grotesque noises they made, they left no evidence of their presence when they withdrew – no evidence, unless one counted the drool drying on Zenos’ chin or the stains left behind from his own seed. They slithered against the floor as they made their escape, hastened by their master’s distaste for mortal flesh, thinning themselves out with each ilm they traveled. They stretched up, reaching out for Solus’ outstretched hand – one shadowy cord for each digit – and dissipated into smoke as he absorbed them back into his being.
Meanwhile Zenos gasped for air, not unlike a fish or some other, lesser beast. His eyes were wild – with fear or hunger, Solus did not know, nor did he care to find out – and he cried out, “What was that?”
Solus simply continued to stare down at him, not bothering to hide his disdain, and said, “An ancient technique. Now leave – leave before I have the guard cut you down like the vermin you are.”
Zenos stared back, a fire in his eyes he had not seen in years; had not seen since he was a boy, not seen since both the blademaster and his family yet lived. Perhaps this will inspire him, Solus thought, but he took no joy in what this might mean for his plans. He watched silently as Zenos quit this place, tail between his legs, before crawling back into bed to dream once again of a brighter world.