He wasn’t dead, which was a surprise in and of itself, though he was not sure yet if this were a blessing or not. It did not immediately feel like a blessing. His head pounded, and if he’d been more familiar with the mythology, he might well have compared it to the sensation Zeus must have felt when Athena attempted to free herself from the confines of her father’s skull. It certainly felt like something was trying to escape. The clanging pain in his head was only matched by the duller ache around his neck, and the brighter throbs and jerks of pain that went up and down his back and shoulder, muscles jerking in protest from their injuries and his confinement. Even his arms ached, from shoulder to fingertip, from being chained.

Give them points for that, they weren’t fools, though perhaps Schorl had overspoken when she had whispered in his ear that it was the end of his struggles. Or had she? In a way, Kairatos could be slain by forced corruption. He’d loose everything, be chained to the dark throne as good as forever.

Fear twisted in the pit of his stomach, and climbed into the back of his throat like bile. He would not recorrupt. He could not recorrupt. He’d rather die. But that was the point wasn’t it?

His pulse was faster now, and it made the pain in his skull knock like a bad engine.

Hvergelmer.

He remembered her limp form slumped on the ground, white like a bolt of lightning that made his aching muscles jerk again in fresh twitching agony and he hissed through his clenched teeth. Hvergelmer. Was she here also? Had they captured her? Killed her? God help him, corrupted her? He could picture the other-future her, with the terrible scar and he felt sick all over again, not because of the scar but because he was helpless to try and protect her. If they’d captured her… if they’d cut out her tongue because –he- had brought her to that place, even with the whisper of doubt that it might have been a trap.

He didn’t know that he’d be able to live with himself. He couldn’t keep failing the people he cared about. He just couldn’t.

He wanted to roar and scream and rattle his chains, break the chains that hung heavy on his limbs and seek her out, but God he was so damn tired still, and the –potential- alone for having failed so badly pressed on him like stones.

He couldn’t help her. Didn’t even know where she was. Couldn’t help himself.



Somewhere in the nauseating roil of fear in his gut, a spark of anger landed and began to smolder, growing hotter as it fed on other emotions in its path. Anger was easier. He could work with anger, it was a familiar place, living in that pyre of rage, and if he had lost everything else, he could still embrace that and use it to carve a path through anyone who stood between him and protecting them.

Someone was coming, he could hear their foot steps approaching, and he waited, stoking the fire inside in silence behind closed eyes and a set jaw.