a bloody demon
‘I don’t get why you are so afraid of that boy.’
The other man snickered, but his eyes remained dark. ‘That boy is a bloody demon. You haven’t been around long enough to know, so I don’t blame you, but you should be advised not to cross paths with him. He has a way of…’ his voice trailed off as he was looking for the right words; tossing them around in his mind, ‘leaving destruction in his wake,’ he finally decided.
Then he continued: ’I remember him though, the first time I met him. It must have been six or seven years ago, he was maybe all of twelve years old. All raised by his pirate brothers. He hadn’t been a boy for a long time, even back then. We all know how pirates raise their kind.
‘He was different though. Quiet, but with some snarky remarks up his sleeve. That day he spoke up to the wrong men. They beat him up, and quite badly so. Despite his lack of boyhood, and the arrogance and pride he hold plenty, he was still a boy. They could have taken it a bit easier on them. But who was I, or anyone for that matter, to blame them? This is a hard world. There is not a lot of room left for mercy. It is a lesson he should have learned better sooner than later.
‘More dead than alive he left with the Maiden at the end of the next day. We all thought that was the end of it. He hadn’t died after all. Just some broken bones and a couple of new scars; he would live. It was not.’ He paused to take a sip of the ale in front of him. His eyes unfocused; somewhere fixed at a point in time rather than place. ‘About a week later we found one of the two attackers dead: slipped from the dock, broken his neck on the way down -’
‘Just a coincidence,’ the other man interrupted.
The first one shrugged. ‘Or so we thought. Until the other one washed up ashore, two hours later. Ripped in half by a shark.’ There was no amusement in his smile. ‘Never, not before and not after, not in all my thirty years in this area, I have seen a shark here. Not a single one of them.’
There was slight hesitation in the eyes of the second man. ‘It still sounds like a coincidence. What else are you saying? He came back to murder them both?’
His comrade didn’t reply straight away. He was staring down into his ale, as if he could find the answers there. ‘I am not saying anything. I am giving you a fair warning: don’t cross him, he will make you pay.’
He was answered with mocking laughter. ‘I am not afraid of sharks my friend. And I am most certainly not afraid of some eighteen year old that thinks he is a god. Tell me what you own him and I will make sure the debts are straightened out.’
The first one shook his head. ‘No, I am not going to let your foolish pride risk my life. Get a debt yourself and you will find out what I mean soon enough. But don’t make me part of it. I would like to live another day.’
Blood and women
‘Your scars, how many do you have of them?’ With her fingertip she trailed one of them on his upper arm.
He did not move, did not look up to her, was not moved by her touch in any way. ‘One for every person I killed,’ he replied, his voice cool and lined with a slight hint of disinterest.
She chuckled, like he had made some kind of joke. ‘Not really though, right? You are too young to have killed that many men.’
A slight frown betrayed his annoyance, and a hint of surprise, yet his voice remained flat either way: ‘Not just men.’ The fact that she had just pointed out men, had somehow amazed him, as all bodies were the same underneath his blade. He did not make exceptions based on gender. Dead was dead, if you were to ask him.
Struck by his answer she hesitated. When she breathed in, after a breathless moment, it was with a sharp sound of disbelieve: ’you killed women too?’
Now he turned, offered her the dagger he had been playing with. ‘Why don’t you slit my throat?’ His face was like a mask sculptured out of marble, lacking any kind of emotion.
She stared at the leather heft he was handing her, before her eyes flashed back to his. She didn’t reach out to take the weapon from his hands. ‘Why would I do that?’ She sounded more insecure than confused. There was a hint of fear in her eyes.
The smile that krept around his lips was shark like: dark and compelling. ‘So I can add you to my collection.’ His eyes widened with the adrenaline that now was rushing through his veins.
She shook her head, wanted to pull back, but he grabbed her hair before she could slip from her stool. In the same movement he turned the dagger; securing his grip on the heft. She screamed as she stumbled backwards against his chest, her pale throat all open and bare.
He breathed in deeply; almost capable of tasting her fear in the air. If he would have been one of his beloved vipers, it would have set off the venom in his mouth. He trailed his nose along the soft skin of her throat, ending up at her ear. He kissed her earlobe, she softly whimpered as he scrapped his teeth over her skin. He could feel how soft she was underneath the iron of his knife. He knew, out of experience, how easy the skin would break if he were to slide the weapon from right to left. He could almost feel the blood slip over the blade already, warming his fingers if he would not pull back fast enough.
‘Deimos!’ His head snapped up; a low growl escaped his throat. There was venom in his eyes as he found the brother that had called him out. He did not need his words to know what he was asking. ‘Let the lovely lady be, no?’
His jaw, his shoulders, every muscle in his body, was tense. Vaguely he registered how the ‘lovely lady’ was quietly weeping. He jerked her head an inch further back, still considering to push the weapon through, but then dropped her. She stumbled, yet managed to balance herself before she hit the ground. He had turned his gaze, consumed by contempt, back to the bar before she had even rushed out of the room.
The hand of his brother landed heavily on his shoulder. ‘Come on, man,’ he muttered, ‘you have to recognise that women are better alive than dead.’
He didn’t move. Didn’t recognise the hand that was resting on his shoulder, nor the almost friendly contact his brother was trying to make. ‘I like blood better than women,’ he stated, his voice perfectly monotone.
The other man dropped his hand; recognising the unvoiced threat. ‘She better not end up dead, Deimos, I would like to return here in the future.’
Deimos showed an empty smile. ‘As you say, sir, as you say.’
‘What about that girl, though?’
Deimos didn’t reply straight away. He wondered if he should light another cigarette, or bash the man’s skull in with the empty whisky bottle. He half smiled as he realised that he only needed to focus on the last part, and he would find back the man a couple of days later - with his skull bashed in. He was getting stronger. He had always been strong, but he got a better sense now, of his powers, than he had before.
He didn’t touch the bottle. ‘What about her?’
‘Oh man, come on,’ the other man turned around, leaning with his back against the bar. Deimos looked him up and down sideways, but didn’t reply. If he wanted answers, he should ask more specific questions, otherwise there was no way he was going to get them - ever. ‘I know about her. Everyone who knows your name, knows about her.’
Deimos raised a single eyebrow. ‘I may sure not hope so.’ There was no threat in his words, there didn’t need to be: the tone of his voice was threat enough.
His speaking partner noticed the same as he visibly hesitated. ‘That’s not…’ his voice trailed off immediately as he seemed to realise his words weren't making things any better. ‘You seem to have everything,’ he tried again, his voice wasn’t as secure as before, ‘you are the man that could have everything. You are always surrounded by women, especially ashore. I know you fell in love back there. So, what happened to the girl?’
His voice was almost inaudible at the end of the question, but Deimos heard him all too well. His smile was grim. He balanced his dagger over his fingers. Back and forth, back and forth.
He played with the weapon for some time, well aware of the anxiety that floated from the man’s body. He could probably dim it, but he kept his powers well in-check this time. This wasn’t the anxiety he wanted to dim. He wanted the man to feel it, to be aware as possible of the fact that he had crossed a line. That he would pay for it.
‘The girl,’ he eventually stated, his voice low, ‘died.’
The man glanced at him. For the moment he seemed to be more confused than afraid. Deimos could read from his face that he was about to ask a question, but for one reason or another he didn’t manage to put it in words. He wagered he fairly well didn’t dare to phrase his thoughts.
Dreams never last.
About Cayenne I loved her. I really, really loved her. She was this angel that came to my bed when I was closer to death than I ever had been or ever would be. You could call it teenage love. You could say teenagers are not capable of the same kind of love that adults are, but you have to understand: she shaped me. In a very fundamental way. I always knew I loved the ocean. My brothers might never have taught me how to swim, so you might wonder how could I possibly love these fast and deep waters. But when it is all you see, day after day, week after week, year after year, you will learn how to love her.
It was that girl from the island, however, who took my hand and waded me in. She did teach me how to swim. When I could swim, she taught me how to dive. I turned out to be a natural. This was the thing I was born for, perhaps even more than being a pirate. I was not born cruel, I think nobody is, but when you have seen enough death… well. Let’s say we all end up a bit sour. The ocean, the girl, together they managed to cut of some of my sharp edges.
I should have known it could never end well: one with pirate blood, especially my pirate blood, is not made for love. It was a dream. It lasted over a summer. It was beautiful. It was beautiful, and we were doomed to wake up. Right from the start.
No matter how much she shaped me, she made a mistake in trying to turn me against my brothers. I killed her over it.
Dreams never last.
Ela Ela Ela
He could not say how he had ended up with the cigarettes. Like usual he had simply found himself the thing he had been longing for. It occurred to him that since his time on the islands his powers had been growing. It was no longer an invisible and coincidental force. He could actually feel his connection with the world. It felt like there was an infinite number of strings attached to his skin, all leading to some unknown object. The strings turned when he turned; they moved when he moved. He set his mind to something and he pulled in, whatever if it was on the other end of the line. The only problem was that he could never be entirely sure where which string exactly would lead.
Pondering on that thought a bit more, his eyes lingered on the other object that had came to him recently. He could not remember being in need for this particular item, but perhaps this had been one of these rare occasions that he had stumbled into something at random. The question he could answer was why he had decided to hold onto it: the reasoning had been very simple - plain even. It happened to be a beautiful thing and he happened to like beautiful things. Beauty might be overrated, but Deimos knew fairly well that there was nothing wrong with appreciating it, as long as you kept in mind that it was nothing but that: beautiful.
Thoughtless he stroked the metal with his free hand. The scales were even and cut out with great precision. No matter in which shape they came, if they were real or made out of steel, snakes had something alluring about them - hypnotising even. This jewel was no different, due to his great detail it was even more intriguing than most.
He realised there was an other reason he had held onto this particular item. Another beauty he might interest it with it. For a moment his turbulent eyes sparkled with something deep and dangerous: a wicked temptation that was always hidden underneath the surface. Just like the mysteries of the ocean beneath the waves.
‘Ela, pretty Ela,’ he muttered, turning around. His girl - because even if anyone disagreed, no-one dared to deny him, aside from the girl herself - was leaning against a table. By the sights of it she was arguing with one of the soldiers. In one smooth movement he had slipped from his barstool and started to stroll her way. His movements were confident, his gaze dark. Most noticed him before he got there. They all backed away immediately - they had heard the stories about him, they knew what he was capable of. They rather didn’t witness it first hand.
He took his time to look at her as he wandered over. It was almost curious how much alike the two of them were. How they both could shape the world to their desire. How they both struck fear in the heart of men. How they were both too young to actually do so - but they did it all the same.
Without hesitating he moved himself between her and the soldier. Absent-minded he caught a stroke of her hair and dropped it almost immediately. As if he had not intended to carry out that particular action. The soldier next to him cleared his throat, but one of his friends warned him under his breath.
‘Better listen to him,’ Deimos added, without turning to face him, his voice low, ‘my friend here doesn’t need my help to kill a grown man … now do you?’ With the last words he had caught her gaze: her icy blue eyes. He wanted to grab her throat, pull her close. Kiss her lips - devour them. And all for the sole purpose of making a point. It would not even be to her - or about her. It would be to the men surrounding them. It would be to remind them not to cross him. He was hungering for blood; it was the kind of temptation that set fire to his veins. It made him cocky and careless, but with his powers … who was he to care?
He grabbed her hair and pulled her face close to his. She would undoubtedly cut him open for both his pride and his ruthlessness, but he didn’t care. He had been bleeding so many times in this life, she could cut him all she liked. He might even cherish the scars she would give him.
about Booth Great. Another half brother. How many did he have now? Deimos pondered a bit on the thought before shrugging it off his mind. It did not matter anyway: there would always be more. The only difference was this one was older - by far. He had always thought that Timo was the oldest, but this one, this Booth, he had at least to be five years older. He must have been one of Swarth's first children. Even so he had never heard of him. More over, as far as he could determine, no one ever had. Reasonably seeing this man should have been Swarth's legitimate heir, but he wasn't.
Why wasn't he? No matter how he tried, Deimos could not get rid of that thought. He tossed and turned, put it inside out and upside down, but the riddle refused to let itself be solved.
Of course, this whole thing probably hadn’t mattered at all, if it hadn’t been for Timo. Timo who had been so angry since his arrival. So much more rage than his usual psycho state.
the Attack of the Scorn - Part 1
What was he doing? He was trying to set fire to the Scorn, to his home, to the ship he had spent his entire life on. He couldn’t be doing that. ‘Don’t!’ he blasted. There was so much rage in the air. The emotion was eating him inside out. The man didn’t react, not even in the slightest. Deimos leaped forward, grabbed his shoulder to turn him. He was holding one of his daggers in his left hand, the ice in his eyes set ablaze. ‘I said DON’T.’ With those words an explosion of power rippled from him. It cut through all the anger, all the rage, all the hatred and blew out the fuse.
For a moment there was nothing but silence. Confusion as people around him tried to get a grip of their emotions. For a moment they all staggered. They could no longer remember why they had been so angry, or terrified. All the emotions he had pushed away, diffused in a fit of his own rage, now washed through him - took his breath away. Deimos stumbled backwards. He was fighting to keep his balance, his heartbeat was screaming in his ears. He needed to breathe, but couldn’t remember how.
The man he had been trying to stop was still holding the torch - even though he was frozen in movement by the sudden lack of adrenaline. Deimos did not hesitate to think. He slit his throat and caught the torch before the fire could make contact with the deck. He he had to find Timo, Timo could make things right. But he was so tired; the explosion of power had exhausted him. And around him the people were slowly getting back to fighting again, not as convinced as before - their emotions still numb, but one can not look in the face of the enemy and not act. Not if one is a pirate, at least.
Timo. He had to find Timo.
the Attack of the Scorn - Part 2
Deimos froze, his eyes wide with shock. His mind could not comprehend what was happening right in front of him. He saw the woman pull her sword back, he saw Timo tumbling over. He saw the legs of his captain gave away. There was a lot of blood - everywhere. He saw all of this, but it was the kind of information that didn't reach his brain. It could not be real. Timo was capable of destroying all these people with a mere thought. He could not be dead. He could not be dead, and they could not have killed him.
The atmosphere in the room was weird. Tense, but it was undeniable that his powers had reached this far. He could feel the traces of it in the air. The rage was not intense enough, but the hatred behind it was real. Somebody had noticed his presence, one of the men. He said something that sounded like surrender or die.
He dropped his sword: he was not an idiot. If Timo had fallen, the ship had fallen - and he was not going down with her. He did not know what he was going down for, but not for her, not like this.