Chapter Text
Rhys is making his way through the castle, the click and clack of his studded boots echoing in the empty corridors. It’s looking like quite a busy day for him today, dragons to train, people to scare and apprentices to torment. A delighted giggle, escaping his curled lips with a puff of breath misting in the cool air, dies out as quickly as it has appeared, the feeling of being watched raising the fine hairs at nape of his neck. A vile, unfamiliar power creeps around him, slinking along the dark shadows curling about in the corners.
An intruder? A fellow Sorcerer trying to challenge the currently ruling one? The witch hunters? None sounds even remotely likely, little to no one left in this world to pose any real threat to the Handsome Sorcerer and in his musing, Rhys absent-mindedly thrums his fingers along the smooth shapes curling above his head. The situation calls for some countermeasures, a whispered call of his powers sparkling down to the weapon strapped to his thigh, the magic rod amplifying his demand before it darts to one of the multiple pockets of his coat. A sliver of bright light seeps through the seams, growing in intensity when a palm-sized crystal ball rests a few inches above his curled fingers.
Peeking inside reveals a familiar looking face, the view stirring some long forgotten longing for what once was his but isn’t anymore. There, a scar arches over one quirked eyebrow, the one good eye wide blown and surprised, wildly sweeping between the dark pools and the swimming silver rings within them, his forehead, and the metal clasp at his chin holding his face in place. Last thing he catches before the view on the other side turns upside down, is the downturned curl of full lips, the mirror reflection fracturing into a million pieces and a sudden pull hooking deep into his guts, draws him into the growing vortex.
It tears his body into shreds, reforming and forming him anew from scratch and the next thing Rhys registers is the hard stone floor littered with shards of glass underneath his hands and knees. A wave of heat comes like a punch, traces of quickly melting sleet are left in the wake of his touch, and the sound of someone quickly approaching, echoes of metal rimmed boots bouncing against the sturdy walls, have him readying his weapons. The touch of deathly cold flames snake along his open palm, knees bent as Rhys drops into a more defensive stance, all senses attuned towards the oncoming enemy, heralded by a string of curses.
“What the hell did I tell you about carelessly playing with the artifacts you no-good sugary dumbass!?”
Still stunned after the mind blowing ride he has just served himself, Rhys shakes his head, bleary vision slowly swimming into something more concrete. The chill makes goosebumps break all over exposed skin but his worry is quickly eased once he notices the crystal ball he though has shattered when it slipped from his surprised grip, lying just a few feet away from him.
It's probably just his master’s menacing aura that has sucked all the warmth out of the place, thankfully, the man has nothing to be angry about, the smooth texture of polished crystal quickly warming as Rhys snatches it and he can just about make out the contour of the master of the castle curiously peeking from around the corner. Before the Sorcerer breaks into another litany of chastisement, it’s best to let him know all is fine, the apprentice scrambles to his feet and makes a mad dash towards the figure looming in the distance.
Skidding to a halt just before the man, he fixes his intent gaze on the tips of his boots, letting all the apologetic words spill from his lips without a second thought.
“I’m so so, sooo sorry master, but look, it isn’t damaged -at all-,” to reinforce his statement, the crystal ball is carelessly shoved into Jack’s face, a disgruntled grunt of affirmation the only sound he makes in response, “you’re not mad at me master, are you? I won’t touch it again I promise, please please please don’t punish me.” If all fails, his last resort are eyes filled to the brim with barely contained tears and a full body contact so without hesitation, Rhys goes just for that, an over the top sniffle brushing to the Sorcerer’s ear as the boy drapes himself all over him.
A tug to the back of his robes is enough to put some distance between the two of them and finally, Rhys finds the courage to look his master straight in the eyes, his own instantly growing wide at the sight he’s greeted with.
Brilliant blue and green stares back at him, sharp eyebrows angled in mild confusion slash annoyance and golden clasp nor edges of the mask anywhere in sight “pretty...” the word slips with a sigh and Rhys can’t peel his eyes from the view, fingertips itching to inspect the texture of Jack’s skin and the soft tuft just beneath his lower lip. Thumb brushing over one high cheekbone, he marvels at the unusual pattern of thin crow’s feet webbed into the skin. He has to wonder how different it would feel under his lips, tongue subconsciously darting to swipe over his half open mouth and Rhys is already leaning closer, driven by his innate curiosity and penchant for acting without thinking, his advances stopped when Jack scowls at him, sharp tips digging into his wrist when an unyielding grip wraps around it.
“The hell you’re doing?” This time it’s him who’s gripped by the chin, head turned left and right as the man inspects his face through squinted eyes, “that what you’ve been hiding under that stupid mask? Damn, no wonders, that’s a nasty scar you have here…” it’s nearly murmured, an offhanded comment not aimed at anyone in particular.
“Jack…?” Rhys goes nearly cross-eyed, trying to get a better look at the hand holding him in place, skin covered in a thick layer of blackened scales he knows by heart, tapered spikes lined in a row down Jack’s forearm and over to his shoulder. “What’s wrong? Why do you look like that? Master?”
“Eh? Like what? Handsome?” The word sounds nearly alien on Jack’s lips, as if the man was tasting it for the first time, turning it over and over across his tongue and deciding whether he likes it or not, “just a regular Thursday, nothing to worry about, yeah?” As if that was any explanation, although, given that it’s the Sorcerer, it’s as good of an explanation as Rhys will ever get. And as always, he simply accepts it as gospel truth.
The man turns on his heel, heading deeper into the castle, quickly followed by the apprentice trotting right after him.
“Punishment you say… hmm?” Curse Jack and his love for speaking in riddles, his words settling in a hard twist in the pit of Rhys’ guts.
The door to a spacious study room is kicked open, one curious glance shot over Jack’s shoulder as he makes his way in, fingers tracing the carved wood of an expensive looking chair sitting behind a massive desk. After a few moments of consideration, the man carelessly plops down onto the chair, tossing the crystal ball between his mismatched hands as if tempting the fate.
“On your knees!” The cruel lilt of his voice doesn’t exactly go well with what Rhys is accustomed to in situations like that but, a ‘punishment’ such as this? He never had any complains about how things turned out right after that, a nearly shy glance shot from under lowered lashes when he saunters closer to obediently drop down just next to the chair. “Oh. Wow, you really did that.” As if he had ever disobeyed his master, “incredible, alright, keep up the good work, on your hands too!”
The legs of the chair scrape against the dirty floors when Jack drags it away from the desk to fully face him, and it has Rhys in a pinch because he has just sweeped the castle top to bottom yesterday, how did his silly master always manage to get the floors dusty in such a short span of time? Regardless, he follows the command, head hanging low as he patiently waits to see what Jack has in store for him.
Jack kicks his legs over the kneeling boy’s back, heavy and uncomfortably digging into his spine, even more when he starts shifting his weight around, trying to find the most comfortable position.
"Jack?" So uh, what's he supposed to do now?
"Hush, let me have it..." the toe of one of Jack's boots presses to the side of Rhys' face before it's trailed lower and to his lips, "now, my shoes could really use some polishing, master."
Something's not right...
Something isn't quite right, an alien chill spreading through his castle and tickling Jack's senses in that irritating way which sends him nearly flying through the corridors in search of its source. As always, it turns out to be his dumb apprentice messing with things he's not supposed to touch, broken shards of crystal and the misty power spilled all over the floor the first thing he notices after rounding a corner.
"Oh?" Rhys' voice sounds strangely cold and calculated, sending a shiver of anticipation down Jack's spine, "didn't I tell you doll not to play dress up with my clothes?"
Eyes sweeping over the figure standing proudly before him, Jack takes in the luscious clothes he certainly did not bestow upon his apprentice, the grafted slivers of silver on his face, eyes, a mirror reflection of his own and the two horns, undamaged and curling at a different angle than his own. The conclusion is simple, that's not Rhys, a mimic perhaps, and quite a lousy one given that the man before him looks more like a poor mash up between the master and the apprentice.
"What the fuck did you do Rhys, creature?" Mimics are said to be an endangered species these days, and while Jack isn't exactly big on preserving anything but his own hide, it would make such a wonderful addition to his collection, the spell he lazily flings at the creature more of a dispelling kind, a near gentle lick of cleansing flames.
"That all you've got?" the flicker is caught into an armored palm, a curl of clawed fingers easily extinguishing it, "I recall your last, failed need I remind you, attempt at my life a little bit more impressive, my apprentice ." The Rhys-like creature grins around his sharp teeth, hands thrusting forward to send a rapidly raising wave of ice, sharp edges melting into harmless water just inches away from Jack's face, swallowed by the scorching heat of flame aura now surrounding the Sorcerer.
"Oh sugar, you've got it alllll backwards," he has a matching, near maniacal smirk dancing on his narrow lips, his weapon called forth, pages of a centuries old book lazily turning over, offering him a multitude of devastating spells to pick from. Whatever he's facing against, sings and hums that unmistakable siren's tune, reverberating along his spine and tickling the edges of his consciousness, a malicious being dormant in the sleek shape of his adversary's horns, calling and challenging the one lying within Jack's core. Letting all of his powers flow freely through him, a manifestation of the Sorcerer's vile will curls between his uneven horns in a bursting flame, a reply coming in the shape of a similar, icy blue one sparkling atop this Rhys-not-Rhys' head.
Jack can almost taste the cloying pollens when vines begin crawling from between crumbling stones around his enemy, the snapping maws of azure buds, darting towards him, tangle into the undead clawing their way into the living world through the cracks in the floor. The Sorcerer's army is coming to aid their master, shambling corpses flooding around the man, instantly ripped into pieces by the thorny stalks and fangs of the flytrap-like flowers, their sheer bulk stopping the advances of the enemy creations.
"What the fuck are you?!" Through crackling fire and the hiss of ice grinding against the stone his voice comes booming and demanding.
"Rhys, but you, doll, can call me..." clearly showing of, his adversary takes one step after another, up the coiled vines, thick leaves sprouting around his feet, until he's towering over Jack, staring down the length of his nose, the flaps of his coat tugged by the rolling powers of the warring men, "the Handsome Sorcerer!"
Never the one to be bested on the showing off grounds, Jack calls forth a rapidly raising pile of assorted limbs and heads of his undead minions, flames thrashing around his whole body in a barely restrained anger, the pile bringing him high enough that they are at an eye level, "there can only be one Handsome Sorcerer, sugar!" the slits of bright golden rings meet silver drowned in black pits, both swirling with animosity.
Below them, the army of corpses clashes once again with the vile flora, rotting tissue torn apart and stitching itself together, thinner vines slithering into any open orifices, through decaying eyes, ears clogged with puss, and mouth filled with crawling maggots, seeping away the minerals and water, strengthening the beating core of the creeper. Gauntleted fingers reach for exposed throats, clawing at the edges of masks, two opposing powers extinguishing one another when fire tangles with ice.
Jack stares down at his master, still pleasantly shocked that this idiot has followed his command. The Sorcerer prancing about the castle with this or another addition to his physique isn't exactly something unusual as the man usually loved to experiment, his research backfiring more than once. Except this time he has turned out looking younger, less menacing, and apparently stripped of his powers, a skewed reflection of Jack's parasite nestled in the man's arm. He has caught a whiff of it nearly instantly, the thrum of sleeping powers reverberating between his ribs when he has been touched. A voice, quiet but surprisingly spiteful breaks him out of his idle musing.
"You are not supposed to be in this chair, are you?" Rhys positively glowers at him. Ah, so much for his fun, looks like his master is regaining his senses once again. Just to be mean and because he can, Jack stands up, pushing the foot he still has on the kneeling man's back to force him to the ground.
That isn't all that well received, clawed fingers wrapping around his ankle and a good yank sends him down onto the floor, Jack kicking his legs about to at the very least catch his assaulter in the face and a scuttle promptly breaks out. They both are mostly using their infected arms, claws leaving shallow gashes in their wake and while Jack was expecting something more akin to a bar brawl, Rhys is doing a lot of useless and aimless waving and flopping, which catches him off guard more often than not.
"You are not my master!"
"And neither are you mine!"
The tumble sends them rolling around and bumping into the sturdy desk, the sudden shock when Jack's head smacks into the hard wood giving his adversary a momentary upper hand. The man sits atop him, tongue running over split lip, and leans closer, completely surprising Jack when he starts sniffling along the crook of his neck. He has noticed that this... man, acted in that strange, near beast-like fashion, head jerking around whenever a stray sound caught his attention, a wild animal constantly kept on its toes, currently busy huffing warm breaths against his skin. That's certainly unlike anything he has ever experienced from Rhys before, the Sorcerer scorching cold to the touch and keeping physical proximity to the minimum unless he deemed it either necessary or unwelcome. Still, Jack has always craved it, just as much as he craved his position at the top of the food chain, yearning after immeasurable powers and coming crawling on his knees to beg for even the tiniest scraps of it.
"You stink of stables," that's not much of a surprise, considering that prior to finding his master sprawled on the floor, he has been tending to the flock winged manticores the man held such a shine to.
"And? What of it?" he sneers and struggles against the grip pinning him down, discreetly trying to put some space between the two of them because the rising heat is slowly becoming a little bit too much for the unfortunate apprentice.
"I saw you before!" thankfully, his not-master crawls away from him, chasing after the discarded ball, "in here! I found it in your... uh, Jack's pile of trashy artifacts and it showed my mmm...well, you, I guess, brushing some creature's mane and then it showed me myself , except you know, different ," the scant explanation is enough to pick Jack's curiosity, and rolling into a sitting position, he scuttles closer to peer into the crystal.
"Well kitten, I happen to be Jack too, except I don't keep a pile of trash," perhaps the situation could be exploited and used in his favour, the master of the castle nowhere in sight so he can snoop around his belongings in the meantime.
"Rhys..." Rhys mewls with discomfort when a strong arm hooks around his neck to drag him closer.
"Alright, show me what you saw in this ball ." A sleeve carelessly rubbing over the shiny surface also clears out the fog churning in its depths and the view, made up of shattered slivers, is quite the dreadful one, raging flames colliding with a mass of pointy icicles he knows so well.
"Uh-huh, that doesn't look good, does it?"