<font color=#c3c3c3 face=times size=1>have you got room for one more troubled soul? <i>part two</i></font>

have you got room for one more troubled soul? part two
IP: 82.19.140.112
Posted on January 23, 2014 at 06:39:36 AM by flynn

Warning: this post contains scenes of violence which some people may find upsetting.

The guards didn�t stop him, why would they? He had every business to be on the castle�s lower floors and those on duty offered him a smile and a nod unaware of where he had been, or who he had spoken to. Lorraine was right; he did have every tool he needed to take what he thought he wanted, but that had never been the problem. The problem was he didn�t know if it was what he wanted. His heart burned with his need for revenge, but he was not short sighted enough to think it was as simple as that. What about the aftermath? A prisoner dead at his hand in the king�s dungeon would not go unpunished. It was more than that though; when the deed was done, and some of the rage was gone...what would he be left with? Flynn was a creature of remorse and self-reflection, with a poet�s soul exposed to often to the harsher realities of a corporeal world. Guilt would set into his mind like infection into an open wound, and then who would he become? The line he walked felt so fine already, the smallest push and he could fall into the darkness and never find his way back.

They set of keys at his waist admitted him to the dungeons and he descended the steps slowly, the sound of his footfalls echoing off the walls. The torch at the top of the staircase had been lit, and he carried it with him lighting the others as he went. Stepping free of the last step he reached for the keys again, setting the great iron thing in the lock and turning it with a creak of protest. The Manekhtite prisoners received few visitors, only the warden whose duty it was to keep them clean and supplied with food. A couple, who had tried to escape on more than one occasion, had been chained in their cells. A quiet fury still came over the king when they were mentioned, and so he had argued little when Flynn had made the suggestion. Flynn kept the torch held high as he prowled along the front of the cells, his eyes scanning each face in turn. They glowered up at him, each of them, some defiantly and others with their fight quite gone, suppressed by boredom they had left their minds to decay. He found the one he had wanted at the very end of the row. The key slipped into the lock and Flynn stepped inside, pulling the bars back into position behind him.

�Well, well,� the Manekhtite sneered, spitting on the floor at Flynn�s feet, �a visitor.� Flynn had heard the guards whispering, the ones who guarded the dungeons and spoke most often with the warden. He had heard them talk about the prisoner who bragged out his guns, who poured scorn upon the Shaman-born soldiers with their swords and spears. Stepping around the mess on the floor Flynn took a step closer to the man and met his eyes; they were not, he could tell almost instantly, the eyes of someone sane.
�You killed my father,� Flynn said, the world bundling out of his mouth on an impulse before he could stop them. He regretted is almost instantly as the prisoner began to laugh, throwing his head back so that his scalp rubbed against the stonework,
�Me?� he hissed back through yellowing teeth, his hair hanging around his face in tangled rat�s tails, �are you sure? I wasn�t the only one there you know.�

He wasn�t sure what made him snap. It could have been the smugness or the unconcealed amusement, or the sudden realisation of something that should have been obvious. He would never find which manekhtite was responsible, because they wouldn�t know what victim from the other. They had shot randomly into that little crowd on the beach with no regard for who they might hit. Castiel had just been another nameless face, worth nothing, and forgotten in a moment. Flynn felt the handle of his dagger in his hand, but he did not remember drawing it. One moment he was standing there in front of the chained man and the next he had him pinned to the wall with a blade at his throat. Ignoring the stench of the cultist�s breath against his face, Flynn allowed the knife to bite into skin, twisting the handle as he did so, �I could kill you right now, all of you� he growled through clenched teeth. The manekhtite scoffed, his mad eyes dancing with unconcealed delight,
�You could, but you won�t; not unless your heretic King has finally grown a backbone. You wouldn�t dare.� The muscles in Flynn�s forearm clenched as he tightened his grip on the dagger handle, and blood began to drip from the other man�s neck. It gave him some satisfaction to hear the cultist hiss.

Flynn moved the tip of the blade, dragging it over the surface of the skin, over the line of the man�s jaw and up and over the curve of his cheek. He stopped at the corner of the man�s eyes. The wildness reflected in the gleam of the blade as Flynn leaned forwards, �maybe I can�t kill you,� he whispered through his rage, �but maybe I can make you pay all the same. The problem with being a fugitive with a tendency towards escape is that one day you might just get bitten in the attempt.�

The dagger flashed, and blood ran.

_{photography by LexnGer and jcurtis4082 at flickr.com

ooc: part three will be posted in the pantheon.}
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