In his mind, he saw the curse and the death of his father yet again. It was like a song on repeat. It was always the worst tunes that got stuck in his head. This was no exception.
He had been hitting the ground in front of his enemies, throwing up cage-like outcrops of stone that wouldn’t harm them, just keep them from hurting anyone else. They were of marble, so he knew very few of them would be able to break through. He only killed his fellow fae if he absolutely had to. He hated the idea of leaving so much blood and death at his hands. There were a few of them that had moved at just the wrong time and they were skewered with the sharp, hard stone before it was fully formed. He cringed when he saw those.
Then he saw an old fae witch lying on the ground. She was blind. He could tell by the cloudy look to her eyes. He reached out to help her and she spoke in the arcane language of the elders. He understood only a few of the words she’d spoken, but enough to understand that she was cursing him.
“Woman, stop. Cease this curse. I am not the one who put you in this state. I am merely trying to help.”
It was obvious that she hadn’t believed him. Her face was contorted in agony and pain. She wouldn’t have listened if it had been her own family that was trying to help her. He knew that now. He knelt beside her regardless, and held her hand and whispered comforts to her as her breath left her body.
He could feel the magic working over him, and he wondered what sort of curse she’d left him with. He slid his fingers over her eyes to close them before standing and poofing to his father.
The older man paid Oren no attention. He was slaying those he fought without a second thought. He was engrossed in battle. When there was a pause in the combatants, Oren put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Father, I have to talk to you.”
His father spun around and glared at him. In that moment, Oren felt his anger well up inside of him. The look on his father’s face made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him. He never really seemed to have wanted a child. That was why he was never home when Oren was growing up.
When his father turned back around to search for more enemies to engage, Oren lost his temper in a way that even scared him. He never got as angry at anyone or anything as he did at the man at that moment.
He let lose a fireball on the earth beneath his father and watched with a morbid fascination as the ground became molten. His father’s agonizing screams echoed in his mind as he walked away. He left his dying father there. A grin spread across his face as he knew the ground was burning him alive as it swallowed him whole.
He had been hitting the ground in front of his enemies, throwing up cage-like outcrops of stone that wouldn’t harm them, just keep them from hurting anyone else. They were of marble, so he knew very few of them would be able to break through. He only killed his fellow fae if he absolutely had to. He hated the idea of leaving so much blood and death at his hands. There were a few of them that had moved at just the wrong time and they were skewered with the sharp, hard stone before it was fully formed. He cringed when he saw those.
Then he saw an old fae witch lying on the ground. She was blind. He could tell by the cloudy look to her eyes. He reached out to help her and she spoke in the arcane language of the elders. He understood only a few of the words she’d spoken, but enough to understand that she was cursing him.
“Woman, stop. Cease this curse. I am not the one who put you in this state. I am merely trying to help.”
It was obvious that she hadn’t believed him. Her face was contorted in agony and pain. She wouldn’t have listened if it had been her own family that was trying to help her. He knew that now. He knelt beside her regardless, and held her hand and whispered comforts to her as her breath left her body.
He could feel the magic working over him, and he wondered what sort of curse she’d left him with. He slid his fingers over her eyes to close them before standing and poofing to his father.
The older man paid Oren no attention. He was slaying those he fought without a second thought. He was engrossed in battle. When there was a pause in the combatants, Oren put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Father, I have to talk to you.”
His father spun around and glared at him. In that moment, Oren felt his anger well up inside of him. The look on his father’s face made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him. He never really seemed to have wanted a child. That was why he was never home when Oren was growing up.
When his father turned back around to search for more enemies to engage, Oren lost his temper in a way that even scared him. He never got as angry at anyone or anything as he did at the man at that moment.
He let lose a fireball on the earth beneath his father and watched with a morbid fascination as the ground became molten. His father’s agonizing screams echoed in his mind as he walked away. He left his dying father there. A grin spread across his face as he knew the ground was burning him alive as it swallowed him whole.