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Hunter failed his mission.
Hunter failed his mission.
He keeps his head high and his shoulders back as he stands beneath the Emperor's judgement, hands—shaking, despite his best effort, but obediently at his sides—empty. They are supposed to hold a prisoner; a wild witch, or one with wild witch sympathies, a blasphemer who has been stirring hatred against the Emperor and the Titan himself. A threat to the Isles, and one which Hunter has allowed to slip away.
The Emperor watches him with a cold disappointment all too familiar, though it has never lost its sting, its power to carve straight into his heart and hook its claws in. Hunter keeps his own eyes on the floor, head bowed.
"As my right hand, I need you to exercise a level of dignity and proficiency befitting both your title and mine," the Emperor says at last. "Your actions reflect back on me, Hunter. Your victories, and your defeats."
A hand drops to Hunter's shoulder, and in that moment, the man before him is not Belos, his uncle; he is solely, wholly The Emperor, leader and savior of the Boiling Isles. And The Emperor, though boundlessly wise and powerful, is not a merciful man. His grasp clenches, nails digging into Hunter's skin.
"You understand, then, that defeat is not something I can allow lightly. Weakness, in the face of such responsibility as we hold, could kill us all."
"I understand."
Hunter does. And he holds himself still, barely allowing a flinch, as he takes his punishment.
There's a lot of indignity in the act of dragging himself back to his room, hunched and tottering like an old man, depending on the walls for support. That's probably all part of the lesson, to really drive in just how shameful his failure is. For an audience of him (and, of course, their great emperor), it is humiliation enough; anyone else not only multiplies the embarrassment tenfold, but presents an active threat.
So Hunter, running on scant hours of sleep with a pain-muddled mind, can perhaps be a little forgiven for all but throwing himself against the wall in an admittedly pathetic attempt to blend in when he sees none other than the abomination coven head turn into the same hall only a yard or two ahead of him.
Naturally, Darius's stare still locks on him at once. It puckers into a reflexive sneer before widening in shock as he freezes and his eyes flick up and down over Hunter's disheveled form. Cheeks burning as hot as the fresh wound in his side, Hunter straightens, almost throwing himself back away from the wall before stumbling and steadying himself against it.
It is... very fortunate he can hide behind his mask. Hunter doesn't feel inclined to ever take it back off. Maybe can't; his face is flaming so hot it must surely have melded to his skin.
"Little Prince?" Darius says, and under any other circumstances the sheer bafflement in his voice might be almost amusing. His tone actually rises a pitch.
"Darius," Hunter returns, keeping his own voice smooth and slightly cocky. It's all a game of appearances, here, and while Hunter's might not currently be at it's best, he doesn't have to lean into that. Many a time, brushing off unwanted scrutiny and disdain is as simple as refusing to acknowledge it. He might look like he's been beat into the ground and dragged back out again; so what? If it's no concern of his, it's certainly none of anyone else's.
So he tips Darius a dismissive nod and does his best to stride forward, leaning a little more on his staff, a little less on the wall, his gaze seemingly forward though watching Darius carefully.
Darius does not match his energy. He moves only enough to step into Hunter's way.
"Little Prince," he says again, his tone now controlled but with something else under it that stands the hairs up on the back of Hunter's neck, "you're bleeding."
So it showed through his shirt. Shit. Hunter shifts, drawing his arms closer so his cloak will envelope him, though it does a fat load of good with Darius having already seen. "Missions," he says, clipped, a little too flat and forced. "You know how it is."
"I saw you come in. You didn't look well, certainly, but you didn't look like—this."
It's a question, even if not phrased as one. A challenge, almost. Hunter raises his chin and glares. "That's none of your concern, Deamonne. Let me past."
"Does the Emperor know?" Darius presses. Hunter doesn't deign that with a response, and Darius doesn't really wait for one. He scoffs, seeming to recognize the stupidity in at least that part of his behavior. "Well, certainly. Titan. You need help."
Help. Hunter stifles a shiver at the word, only imagining how Darius might see fit to 'help' him. The abomination coven head has never presented as active a threat as some others, but neither did he ever put much effort in hiding his disdain towards Hunter and willingness to be rid of him, and here Darius has him at a severe disadvantage. The intensity of his attention seems to relish in it.
Hunter pushes himself a step forward, even if he's nearly grazing against Darius, now, and holds himself tall. "Move out of the way."
Darius pointedly does not. He merely scoffs. "You're not brushing this off. Look at yourself."
"Move out of the way," Hunter repeats, words low and dangerous, but he doesn't wait for them to be obeyed. He tries to side step Darius; the man blocks his path. Again, to the other side, with the same result. Fine. If the man wants to play games—Hunter feints to the right, Darius moves to block, and he very, very nearly gets past on the left. He would have, had Darius not the presence of mind to throw an arm out, and in his weakened state it sends Hunter stumbling back as he hits it.
"Enough," Darius snaps, and it's a sharp bark, promising pain. Hunter flinches back despite himself. The move stretches the skin at his side further, wound straining, but he swallows his hiss. He stands very, very still. To draw attention here, to broadcast his weakness, would not be wise.
Darius watches him, something cold and inscrutable flickering through narrowed eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes in deep. "Enough, Little Prince," he says, and the words are more soft, and all the more dangerous for it. It is a cool, calculating anger in his scrutiny. The kind that has already catalogued Hunter's injury, his vulnerability, and found him wanting and disposable. I can bury you alive, it says, in the deepest, darkest pit, and no one would care to question after you. "That's quite enough. I'm taking you home."
"...Home?" The word falls out on its own, as half-delirious as the thought itself. At first, it's nonsensical; he is home. Headed to his room right now, and it's not terribly far off, and Darius is actively blocking him from it. Panic follows: Darius does not mean Hunter's home. Darius intends to drag Hunter to his own home like so much spillover work, to be broken down wholly and cleanly. Hunter has severely misjudged him; Darius is not just a malicious threat, but one apparently seeking to drag his pain out with a slow death.
A hideous host of options flash before his eyes. How will Darius kill him? By abomination? Purple mud oozing into his nose, his mouth, stifling and suffocating until he drops? Crushing his bones, his organs, killing him from the inside out?
Hunter's stomach heaves at the idea, suddenly and violently and it burns. He's hunching forwards before he realizes it, folding, and it hurts, a jolt shuddering through his body as his legs give out beneath him and he drops hard to his knees. His chest squeezes, and then he's dry heaving, and every lurch of his stomach presses on bruised ribs and pulls at the slice in his side.
Hands grip his shoulders. He flinches back—he doesn't want to die, not here, not like this, it'd be pathetic–but they hold on, their nails dig in, leaving him face-to-face with the coven master he is at the mercy of. And even now, the flat, glaring disappointment and disgust in the man's eyes cuts him as deeply as any weapon.
"Can you not be still for a moment, child?"
No, Hunter wants to shoot back, petulant—and it's stupid. It's a stupid, suicidal move, but his mouth moves before he can bite it back, declaring it aloud as he jerks away. Like every other, the move hurts, but it's just one more flare of pain fading into insignificance in the face of much more concerning matters.
Darius's lips thin. "I'm trying to help."
A traitorous part of Hunter, something small and weak in the back of his mind, believes that. Cries out to cling to it. The intelligent part, the one which has kept him alive all these years among the cutthroat coven heads, scoffs at him to get a grip. He holds his expression as firmly neutral as possible. "Then leave me alone."
"Believe me, I'm really tempted to. But you are not well, Little Prince, and in no fit state to be left to your own devices. So, you will be coming with me, and it'd do you well to be cooperative if not grateful."
Hunter snarls, about to shoot back what he thinks of that (he is not foolish, he will not thank Darius for aiming to kill him), fingers flexing to shift his staff to really shoot back what he thinks, but—his staff. It's not in his hand anymore. He must have dropped it when he fell, and now—
He glances wildly around and his heart nearly stops when sees it: far, far out of reach, in the hands of an abomination hanging from the ceiling. In the hands of Darius's abomination, purposefully kept away.
Hunter's lungs squeeze. His heart hammers so painfully Darius might not have to lift a finger to kill him, it might do the job itself. His side burns.
"Breathe, child," Darius orders. Hunter doesn't listen. Can't, with his heart so loud and his head spinning relentlessly. A second critical failure, all in the same day. He rather deserves to die at this point, doesn't he? The emperor's right hand cannot make mistakes, cannot be so weak. Darius will end him slowly and painfully and not even Belos will mourn him.
"Come now, get a hold of yourself. In, hold, out. Breathe."
Shuddering, pushed more by ingrained obedience than anything else, Hunter sucks in a breath. He pulls himself together with it, swells his chest, curls his hands into fists, and swings. His wrist is caught easily, his second hit blocked. Darius holds him back, pins him against the wall, and his fight drains out with his exhale.
He's spent. Fully spent. It's all he can do to lift his head and glare into Darius's impassive face, just inches from his own.
Darius watches him back without glee, without malice, just a blank, clouded frown impossible to get a read on. Hunter never saw him as the sadistic type, but his mind games, his willingness to drag this out, paint an ugly picture of what's underneath his own mask.
Finally, he raises his hand. Hunter flinches; but the touch against his head is a feather-light press, and it just sits there. Not burning, cutting, maiming. Nothing.
"Titan, Little Prince, you are a piece of work. Don't pass out. Come on, I'm getting you some help."
It's a cruel mockery to pretend at kindness. Uncouth as it might be, Hunter would like to spit at the man, show what he thinks of this offer. The most rebellion he can manage is to try to throw his deadweight down, and even then, Darius merely sighs, and then the sick slide of mud coats around him and Hunter sucks in breath after desperate breath.
He's not ready to die. He doesn't want to, not like this, but there's nothing he can do. Even the fresh burst of adrenaline the attack sparks fuels just a weak thrash the abomination easily subdues. Mud snakes over his mouth, not yet pushing in, but silencing even the idea of a scream for help.
(No one would come anyway. Not to aide him.)
Darius doesn't give him the decency of dropping the act. "Be still, child, breathe through your nose. You will be all right. I'm only taking you to get help. I can't let you hurt yourself further."
Oh, no, that would be too much of a shame. It's always less personal, less fun, if Hunter hurts himself, isn't it? The bitter thought slides under rising panic. Hunter tries to cling to anger, to keep awareness, but his heart pounds so loudly it rattles his skull. It almost completely drowns out Darius's voice. His vision spots.
"Do not pass out—Titan," bubbled words snap. Whether they are Darius's, or Hunter's demand to himself, doesn't matter: they do nothing to tether him as the spots and his pounding heart overwhelm him, and he blacks out. His last flicker of consciousness is a fear he won't wake again.
(He does, of course. Aching, confused, and in an entirely unfamiliar environment, but very much alive.
And very much a headache for the rebels, who aren't eager to let him scurry back to the Emperor.)