Work Text:
Spots danced in front of his eyes. The sound of drip drops resound in the dim room.
Deculein lied on the bed, listening to the clinking of glassware.
Across from him, a man in a chair shuffled some chemistry equipment. Muttering scientific nonsense, the man paid no attention to the child who was losing blood.
The child took his eyes away from the empty ceiling to stare at his bleeding arm.
'It’s really red,' Deculein thought blankly. 'Like the flowers in the garden.'
The blood flowed into an awaiting bucket, as the child fights to stay conscious. A difficult feat to accomplish after being skinned in small sections of his body a few hours earlier. His torso and the back of his thighs still sting. The bandages were soaked, he felt restless covered in blood. It was unhygienic and improper.
He wondered if Yeriel was subjected with the same amount of torture or if she received a lesser form of abuse. Would it be because she was younger and thus more fragile? Or because she was more well liked and has a mother who would worry when too many injuries showed up?
Deculein did not know.
He watched with hate-filled eyes at his father, Decalane.
Quietly, Young Deculein promised to himself, he would kill this man.
Perhaps not directly, for the spell Decalane had carved into him would activate and prevent him from harming his father.
Perhaps not in the near future, for he was still expanding his network and influence.
But one day, he would find a way to get rid of this demon in human skin.
When that day comes, he will celebrate with a smile.