IP: 86.31.96.14
Posted on January 6, 2018 at 04:22:44 AM by Merlin
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“Dad! Mum!” Flynn shouted, wrapping his arms tightly around his husky puppy as the pair cowered beneath the safety of their duvet. “Go to him,” he heard Castiel urge Candil on the other side of the door. There was a pause, “No,” came the reply, “I can’t.” “Dad!” Flynn called again, holding Denahi all the tighter, and the next moment the door swung open and Castiel stood in the doorway. He crossed the bedroom in no more than three strides, set his candle down on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of Flynn’s bed. “I’m here,” he soothed, his voice coaxing his young son out from under the covers, “what’s wrong, champ?” Flynn threw himself into his father’s arms, drawing comfort from the warmth of his body and his familiar scent, “A monster!” he explained, suppressing a terrified shudder, “I saw it! So did Den!” Castiel hugged his son, making soothing noises as he looked around the room for the monster in question. Noticing that he was looking in the wrong place, Flynn pointed at the window, “it was over there!” he explained, “it tapped on the glass with big long fingers!” Castiel stood up and crossed the room again, pulling back the curtains and peering out into the darkness. Flynn had no idea what he had seen, but his father had seemed satisfied and had settled himself back on the bed again. “It’s okay,” he promised, helping Flynn back into bed, “it won’t hurt you.” Flynn had believed him, because he had trusted his father. He always knew what to do. If his Dad wasn’t scared of the monster, then he wasn’t going to be either. He hadn’t needed a potion then. He just needed a good man to tell him that the world was not as scary a place as he had believed it to be. Castiel had been a good man, kind and brave. Who did Danny and Dylan have to comfort them in the night? They had Flynn, and he did not think himself to be good or kind. He had been once, when he had been young and kept safe from the monsters; now he was something different. He always tried to act justly...but that was not the same as being good, and he tried to always be fair, but that was not the same as being kind. Everyone who had known Castiel had always told Flynn that he looked so much like his father; but he was the tarnished version, a shadow of the original. He had never thought of himself as a coward though. Flynn’s blue eyes settled on the liquid in the vial and he frowned. It wasn’t courage that he needed; he wasn’t scared of the Manekhtites in the dungeons, if he was scared of anything it was himself and what he was capable of. Who was he to defy the king? Who was he to take justice into his own hands and upon his own conscience? If it had been someone else’s father the cultist’s had killed would he have been so tempted to march down into the cells to get payback with cold hard steel? More importantly, what would Castiel have said if he knew what thoughts kept his son’s mind preoccupied? What would he think of the man who had grown from the boy he had protected from imaginary monsters? It was not courage Flynn needed...it was conviction, and conviction was as close to courage as fairness was to kindness. He knew one thing, if he was ever going to find any peace, then he was going to have to face the subject of his brooding and one way or another, he would learn what sort of man he was. Flynn climbed to his feet. The tide had drifted inwards towards the shore as the Quaestor had sat in the sand wrestling with the demons that dogged his steps, and the waves had begun to lap at his boots. He looked down at the vial in his hand thoughtfully. Then in a single decisive movement, he swung his arm, and the little glass container flew through the air to be eaten by the roaring waves. He had no need of it. ---PART MISSING OOPSIE--- Flynn threw the bloodied dagger down onto the white marble of the pantheon floor where the sound of its clatter echoed off alabaster walls. Pools of crimson leaked dark through the fabric of his shirt and his blue eyes peered out from under bruises. A trickle of blood ran from the split in his lip. The Quaestor attended to it with the battered knuckle of his left hand. 'It’s done.' --- He choked on a howl of pain as he plunged the dagger into his shoulder. Flynn had been stabbed before; it was an occupational hazard when you spent your days chasing pirates. He had remembered that it hurt, but had forgotten quite how much. 'Shit,' he swore as the Manekhtite gaped at him in astonishment. Which of them looked insane now? Flynn mused, laughing through clenched teeth as he took hold of the dagger handle again. He made sure to keep the blade straight in order to avoid the further damage that a twist would inflict. Ruby droplets peppered the floor as Flynn grunted and the Manekhtite found his voice at last. 'You mad bastard' he cackled, 'you mad, mad bastard.' Clink The manacle that encircled the prisoner's right wrist opened, clink, the left came free too, both cuffs and the chain falling back against the stone wall with a clatter. The look on the Manekhtite's face was priceless, and Flynn caught a glimpse of it as he turned to unlock the cell door, leaving the convict to massage his bruised wrists. When the Quaestor turned back to face his quarry he was met, not with a face of confusion, but a hard fist. The cultist's fist collided with Flynn's face with enough force to make him see stars and he reeled backwards, clutching at the bars for the support he needed to keep standing. His opponent was quick for someone who had spent months squatting in a cell, and before his head had chance to clear itself, Flynn felt the convict’s bony fingers digging cruelly into the flesh of his upper arms. Flynn had little choice; he snapped his head back sharply, and felt the back of his skull impact with the Manekhtite’s nose with a sickening crunch. Flynn kept a desperately sharp grip on his dagger. Pushing himself away from the bars with one hand, the fingers of Flynn’s remaining hand pressed themselves against the wound in his shoulder. His heart was racing, and his head throbbed. He was still disorientated enough that he stumbled forwards, and was forced to use both his hands to prevent his face from smashing into the floor. The Manekhtite’s grip closed tight around his ankle, pulling his weight out from under him, Flynn kicked out with his other foot. He heard the other man gag as Flynn’s boot had connected with his throat, and took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. His short felt warm and sticky as it rubbed against his skin, and he could hear the furious breathing of the cultist at his back, snorting like some wild beast. A large brass bell hung in the small arch built into the wall opposite the cells, intended for use by the warden in case of a break-out. Flynn could see it, the flickering light of the torches reflecting off its polished surface. All he had to do was reach it. He had risked everything on his ability to reach that bell. Reaching out, his fingers strained to reach the length of rope that hung from the bell’s centre, but the Manekhtite barrelled into his back, pushing him face-first into the stone work. As soon as he impacted with the hardness of the wall, Flynn spun to his right, leaving an empty stretch of stone for the Manektite to collide with in his stead. Finally, Flynn reached the rope, and pulled, again and again and again. The sound was loud and carrying, echoing throughout the cells and seeping through to the floor below where the guard stood vigil. Flynn turned back to his opponent with a triumphant smile, spitting the blood out of his mouth onto the floor; some lingered behind, staining his teeth. The sound of charging footfalls pounding reverberated around them as the guards charged down the steps. Snarling, the Manekhtite charged again, grabbing for the wrist of Flynn’s hand that still clutched at his dagger. It took everything he had, (and with the blood loss and pain in his head, he was running out of reserves) to keep hold of it. The cultist pushed his finger brutally against Flynn’s tendon, as the Captain’s key scuffled at the lock on the other side of the door. Three...two...Flynn closed his eyes with the effort...one. Changing tact suddenly, at the very moment the door slammed open, Flynn let the Manekhtite take the dagger and threw himself backwards into the wall, where he slid down the wall onto the floor, clutching at his shoulder. The guards swarmed in, their pikes directed at the armed prisoner, glancing from him to their bleeding Quaestor on the floor. “He stabbed me!” Flynn wheezed, pointing an accusatory finger at the cultist. The dagger fell to the floor with a clatter; too late...the fate of the man who had held it was sealed. --- There was a defiance in his look that had not been there on his last visit, the look of a man who had doubted his ability to achieve what he wanted, and had been proved wrong. He allowed himself that little victory, at least. Flynn took a step further into the room, taking care to drop his gaze reverently under the goddess’ gaze; he had come too far now to risk it all with the foolishness of pride. Doubt wormed at the back of his mind. It was likely, he believed, that she would not approve of his method. “He dies on the gallows at sunrise, by order of the King.” |
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