Page 161 of A Song of Air
For years, Weylyn had dragged himself on his knees behind the king. For years, he had become the king’s fuckingdog,if only for this single moment in time to occur.
For the king to trust him enough for them to be alone together.
“Two more Elementals,” the king said. “Two more and we will have an advantage over the emperor. Two more and we will be free.”
Weylyn nodded, though remained silent.
“What is this Elemental capable of?” the king asked. “Is she as worthless as the rest of them?”
Weylyn gritted his teeth. “No.”
He’d have his tongue for that comment. This he vowed.
“Good. We need stronger Fae to help us win this fight. The slaves here are building up their strength, but they still make a pathetic display.” He walked his way towards the throne he had claimed as his own and sat down. Tall. Regal. Arrogant. “Now tell me what happened. Spare no detail.” He leaned back and waited impatiently for Weylyn to recount the events.
“Would you prefer I show you, Your Majesty?” he asked, stepping closer.
The king’s brows rose. “Yes.”
“A brief pinch of pain, Your Majesty.” Weylyn lifted his finger as he approached. “And you will see the truth as I have.” And then Weylyn pressed his finger to the king’s forehead.
The Seelie King seized as his mind was assaulted with memory after memory. They invaded every part of him, a consuming force, and Weylyn did not relent. He let the past invade. Every single painful recollection. Slashes of swords. Cruel laughter. The flow of blood.
Death.
Weylyn pulled away and the king slumped on the throne. He looked up almost weakly, staring at Weylyn no longer with confidence, but with fear and anger, as if he were seeing him for the first time.
“Y-you—”
Weylyn smiled. “Yes,” he whispered. “Me.”
And finally, he lunged for the Seelie King.
All the anger and pain he’d harbored for years pushed him faster. The king had no time to blink. To react. To lash out that mysterious magic of his. He opened his mouth in a silent scream right before Weylyn’s nails dug into his thick neck.
He fought back, ancient years of strength evident in the blows he dealt Weylyn’s body. Those years of life and experience were nothing compared to the anguish Weylyn had swallowed whole and let consume him. But when the king’s mysterious magic lashed out, crashing against him, he was unprepared for how much it would hurt. The impact made his teeth chatter together and his vision blur. The metallic taste of blood coated the inside of his cheeks and he grunted, digging his nails in deeper and refusing to let go.
“Treacherous bastard,” the king managed to spit out. “I will end you.”
His magic fractured something inside of Weylyn. His bones, his vital organs. Weylyn was not so sure, but the pain was a crippling force that brought him slamming down to his knees. His fingers slipped from the king’s neck a fraction and what little advantage he had seemed to have slipped through his fingers...
No! This could not be it. This could not be the end. He vowed over and over he would avenge his sister.
And so he would.
With a growl of savage rage, Weylyn lifted on his knees, lunging with both hands for the Seelie King. They wrapped around his thickly corded throat and the rapid pulse that beat there. He fought through the hold of that dark magic, something akin to death itself, and held on tightly.
Weylyn let loose his own magic just then. His mind reached out, tearing through the barriers of the king’s, and injected him with images far more potent than any venom or violence could ever be. His weapon of choice had always been secrets. His greatest strength was watching from the shadows and collecting images into the darkest pockets of his mind for a time he’d need them most.
That time had come.
A shroud swept over the king’s vision and he screamed, thrashing like a wild man as the same scene took flight over and over again within his cruel mind. He’d been unsure it would truly work on the king. But even the bravest trembled when their nightmares were given form. Even the bravest trembled when they were forced to watch themselves die time and time again.
The vision he’d implanted gripped the king like a vice until he succumbed to his tears. That bit of weakness seemed to make him thrash harder, stronger. Strong enough that Weylyn’s hold on the cretin slipped. Magic blast him backwards and he landed hard against his back, the blood of the king dripping from his fingertips.
The king fought against the images of death. He was strong, and tore through it momentarily. A crazed look pushed past the usually perfect picture of composure he made. He snarled, his lip peeled back, canines flashing like a threat. And he lunged–
But froze as a gust of wind held him in a tight and deadly grip.
