Chapter Text
“Now,” Darkstalker rumbled, piercing the wood under him with his claws. His heart fluttered with a strange, malevolent excitement. “Take your talons, rip open your stomach, and show us all what you’re really like on the inside. Pour out your life onto this stage.”
Blood flowed out of Arctic’s mouth, as blue as a bubbling stream. His eyes, wide with horrified disbelief, were fixed on his severed tongue which now rested on the wood in front of him. With jerky, puppet-like movements, he sat up, exposing his belly to the crowd, and made a long, sharp slice through his abdomen. A shriek rose in his throat, but he didn’t stop.
Somewhere in the crowd, a young NightWing wailed. The dragons closest to the stage had slowly started to back up, terrified but unable to look away. On the outskirts of the crowd, Darkstalker was aware of some dragons fleeing.
A strong, metallic scent wafted through the air, blanketing them under a hazy atmosphere of death and decay. Again and again, the IceWing ex-prince cut into himself; through scales, through skin, through fat and muscle. He rasped out sharp cries of pain through the wetness of his throat, and he gagged as he swallowed the blood that welled up in his mouth.
“Be silent,” Darkstalker ordered sharply, and the noises abruptly cut off. He didn’t want this ordeal to be soiled by the pathetic whining of a traitor. He would gain no pleasure from hearing his father sing his death song. Frankly, he would be happy to never hear Arctic’s voice again, after everything he’s done… getting Foeslayer killed, kidnapping Whiteout, and plotting to betray--
Whiteout.
A cloud of fog seemed to lift from his mind and his head shot up. At the back of the stage, as far away from him as they could get, Clearsight was holding her. His sister had her face buried in Clearsight’s chest, while Clearsight rested her head on Whiteout’s shoulder. They were both crying.
Guilt and indecision wormed its way into his brain, and he forced himself to take a step back. He left Arctic to his work and made his way over to them. As he approached, a sharp pain echoed through his skull. Whiteout’s tortured thoughts howled sharp and high, searing like hot flames on ice-cold scales.
Ow. He tried blocking them, but they shrieked louder and louder. A sharp pang of regret started to press in around him, but he shook it away. I can’t think like this. What was I thinking? She shouldn’t be here.
“Clearsight,” he barked. She jumped, startled, and stared at him with wild eyes. What does she think of me right now? The way she was looking at him… she was clearly scared of him. He didn’t like that at all. He took a deep breath and said as calmly as he could, “please take Whiteout home.”
Something sparked behind her eyes, but he didn’t understand it. She stood up shakily, wiped the tears from her eyes, and heaved Whiteout to her feet. A moment later they were off, taking their chance to escape while they still could.
He turned back to Arctic. Sticky blue blood stained the stage and dripped onto the concrete ground of the Great Diamond below. His father was still at it, carving into himself, seeming incredibly eager to show the tribe what the bowels of an IceWing looked like.
They were white, by the way.
A long time passed. Any other dragon would be dead by now, he realized with a flash of impatience. They would have passed out from pain or blood loss long before this stage. Under the possession of his spell, Arctic’s only priority was to tear himself apart-- dying wasn’t much of an option for him. He caught his father’s eye, and for once, he didn’t see hatred in him. He saw pleading. He’d never seen Arctic beg before. It made Darkstalker feel slightly sick.
A vision crawled through his mind, and he saw himself in his twisted crown, all too familiar by now. He sat on his throne and watched with a bored expression as five of his subjects howled in agony, gouging out their eyes with their own claws. He’d seen this vision long ago, in Clearsight’s mind, before he’d given her the moonstone bracelet. He’d dismissed it back then, thinking it was so unlikely it wasn’t worth worrying about. It wasn’t him, he’d thought.
So why am I having this vision now?
The answer lay before him, self-mutilating and weakening rapidly. He shook himself, trying to remember every cruel remark Arctic had made toward his mother, or every cold glare he had swept over Darkstalker when he was too young to even understand why.
I refuse to feel bad about this.
His crowd wasn’t much of an audience anymore. He could count on two talons the amount of dragons still watching, transfixed with morbid curiosity and a deeper fear that if they ran, he’d hunt them down and kill them next. The rest of the dragons had let their flight response take over and were already gone.
He lashed his tail in frustration. They were supposed to stay and watch. They were supposed to celebrate this victory, as the tribe’s most dangerous traitor fell before him in the ultimate display of submission and repentance. As he glowered over the remaining dragons, each of them caught his eye, and he saw their survival instincts finally kick in. One by one, they scampered away. He was alone.
Beside him, Arctic continued to feebly scratch at himself, still presenting his belly to the empty crowd. It was honestly starting to feel a little creepy. At one point, he slipped on his own blood and banged his chin on the sticky wood. For a moment he didn’t move, and Darkstalker thought that might be it for him, but he slowly got up and mindlessly began clawing at himself again.
He growled to himself and thought, alright. I’ve had enough of this.
“Fall over and die already,” he snapped. Immediately, Arctic’s claws stilled and the IceWing collapsed on the stage with a thud. As he went down, Darkstalker briefly picked up a rush of relief and then silence from his mind.
It was finally over. His whole life had been leading up to this moment. He’d spent countless nights lying in bed, dreaming of his perfect future-- the future without Arctic. The future where he and his friends were safe, where no one would dare hurt them anymore. That future was here. It was now. Not even the queen would try anything against him. She knew she couldn’t kill him, but he could kill her with barely a thought. He felt her mind jittering nervously in her room up in the palace. She’d seen the whole thing.
Why aren’t I happy?
I should kill the queen. Now’s my chance, before Clearsight can talk me out of it.
His mind flicked back to Clearsight huddling with Whiteout on the stage. She had been protecting her-- from him! She doesn’t need to be protected from me, he thought with a flash of outrage. I saved her! I’m the good guy here.
His father’s innards, slippery and wet at his feet, seemed to be telling a different story. Lifeless eyes still glared accusations at him. Even in death, he couldn’t escape Arctic’s judgemental gaze.
He leaped off the stage with a disgusted snort. This was supposed to be one of the better moments in his life, and he was alone. Even worse, his mind kept replaying Whiteout’s mental cries of anguish, over and over and over again.
Arghhh, WHY didn’t I make her leave BEFORE I started this? I should have sent her home straight away.
He felt the guilt creeping back in, and this time he couldn’t stop it. He thought back to when they were very young, when he distracted her from their parents’ non-stop arguing by hiding things around the house for her to find, or taking her flying, or just holding her the way Clearsight had. He used to play the role of protector.
He tried to convince himself that he had just forgotten about her, but the truth was that in the moment he really didn’t care who he traumatized with his vengeance. He’d just wanted other dragons to watch Arctic die. Even Whiteout.
I'll fix that later.
He started his way to the palace, to Vigilance, then hesitated. Why am I having doubts about this? This is the best thing. I know this is the path to the brightest future.
Another flash manifested behind his eyes. The guttural screams of dying NightWings echoed all around him, mocking him and sending another sliver of doubt through his brain. He let out a frustrated growl.
I need to check on Whiteout. I need to talk to Clearsight.
Trails of blue stickiness followed him as he made his decision, turning away from the palace.
I need to wash this blood off my claws.