The Caged Raven

Macnayer escaped from the evening festivities early, eager to start the winter away from courtly politics. Though it was difficult he would leave Raven to sleep alone that night. She was becoming a drug, and the effect she had on him though intoxicating, was also quite frightening and if he was not careful he would lose control over her powers and he still didn’t trust that she wouldn’t kill him if given the opportunity. He had known of her for many years, had been intrigued by her and had been stunned when she had fallen into his grasp so easily. Not that he would complain of the outcome, quite the contrary.


He ducked into his private quarters relieved at the absence of servants and courtiers for once. Without the yammer of other individuals he could relax his mind and allow it to wander. And like always his thoughts turned to the war being raged and the prospective consequence of letting it find its way onto his land and into the hearts of his people. For once it began to spread it would be difficult to contain and though his army was vast they could easily be undone if attacked whilst off guard.


Macnayer took a seat upon the edge of his large bed, folding his arms across his chest. If the army came they wouldn’t be after his land, they would be after his head. And though he did not fear death or what ill fate awaited him thereafter, he did fear the dire outcome that came with allowing his bloodline to die off. For without a proper Newblood heir to take the throne in his demise the war would end, victory falling to those who had persecuted his people for centuries-Raven’s people.


And so he considered the prospect of making her his queen but knew the consequence of such a brash act would leave his people enraged and slurs of anarchy were not something he wished to deal with. If she became pregnant with his child however and he claimed the bastard legitimate then if the war did come he would not find himself in such dire straits. But it was still a risk of course, in his time he had met and ended his fair share of hunters (as they called themselves) and he had little doubt about whether they would kill their own or not.


He rubbed his temples falling back onto the bed. How much the world had changed since he had come into power, it seemed in that moment. The once proud noble people who had so valiantly stood against his ancestors had been reduced to proverbial wolves lusting for even the tiniest scrap of demonic carrion. He pitied them, but held no regrets in seeing to their eradication. So long as they hid in the shadows his life and the life of those like him were at risk.


The renaissance that he and those who had stood against the hunters had brought about had changed the world much more vastly and far quicker than once assumed would be possible. Technology had crumbled, undone by magic, and the world fell to darkness. Macnayer moved in then, bloodshed enveloping him and marking him as a king of beasts, lord of flies, and demon in his birthright. He had hated the names they had given him each one more degrading than the next. But such was fate, for though he hated the names there was no denying his heritage. Blood flowed through his veins that linked him to the demons that had once scuttled through the darkness. But blood also flowed through his veins that had belonged to his ancestor’s long time enemies and one time allies. He had been born the perfect being; the son of the four races of men each one more loathsome than the last.


The malicious sadistic nature of his father moved through him each time he stood on the battle field against an enemy, the man a hybrid of soul hunter and Newblood demon. But away from the battle, he was the intelligent, logical and wise the product of his mother, a sage amongst hunters who had been born of a demon hunter and an ancient. His eyes were the deep blue of the demons, catlike like the soul hunters and his hair was golden, like all of the Newbloods, His nature persistent and determined like the hunters and his magic was unmatched. He was the perfect creation, the one to rule all races of men.


And on that particular winter night he wished to give it all back. Wished for nothing more than the silence of the snow outside his window to envelope him, carry him away from the carnage and diplomats that haunted his every thought. To be king had not been a burden he had asked for but he accepted his fate dutifully and would rule until the grounds turned to ash and the skies burned but he was still a man and he was still allowed to wish even if such a thing seemed futile.


He sighed and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, the plaster had been painted gold and red and it occurred to him how much he truly hated those colors, especially gold. Throughout his life he had been consistently draped in gold but such was the fate of a prince his father had told him, dressed in silks as red as blood, a snarl present o n his features that had frightened Macnayer in his childhood. He had not known his mother only known of her. He pondered often if she was alive, hidden away from the world and her son who had so wished to know her. He had stopped inquiring about her by the age of five; each stint of curiosity met with either a snarl or a slap to his jaw, his father muttering something cruel in his wake. It was still a wish of his to meet her one day but he doubted such a thing as likely.


Not that he trusted himself enough anymore for such a thing. There was a virus in him, something that had infected the gentler side of him, something which had slowly begun eating away at him, turning him into something similar to his father. Though he prayed death would come before he became that man yet, he knew again he was wishing for a fate not his to have. In time he would be the man his enemies thought him to be.


The door to his bedroom creaked open and he sat up studying the woman standing in the frame. Her eyes were focused on his, their deep blue shade like his own. She approached without words, her feet silent as she moved across the carpet. She was like most of the women who came to him. Blonde haired and blue eyed and interested only in the power that came with being his lover. Especially those like the woman before him, those of a low birth status. Macnayer stayed still, watching her half interested in what she would do while also half interested in curling up and sleeping alone. He could not recall the last time he had slept alone, as the women who stayed at the castle as concubines always managed to find their way into his bed.


He laughed at the thought and acknowledged the fact that he had grown quite bored of them. He thought of the exotic beauty that slept away from him that night, of the hair black like a crow’s wing and eyes green and filled with innocence. The familiar need that rushed him when he recalled the way she moved beneath him sent a shiver up his spine and he beckoned the blonde woman forth. He closed his eyes and retracted back on his thoughts when he felt the weight of the blonde woman on top of him. The anger and rage that reminded him of his father rushed him next, brought forth by being denied what he desired. The kisses trailing across his chin belonged to someone foreign someone who marred the image in his mind. He decided in that moment to kill the woman. The act would be simple; he need do little more than crush her larynx. His kind had become so weak since they had claimed power. Her body would die and her soul would linger forever trapped in a limbo between the world of the living and the world of the dead.


No one would inquire as to what had befallen the blonde woman; too frightened that Macnayer’s temper would turn on them next. He saw his father in his mind all images of Raven vanquished by the snarling blue-eyed man coaxing him forward, urging him to squeeze the life out of her. But not immediately of course, she still had her uses as his father would have said. It would be a waste otherwise.


Macnayer knew he should have fought, knew the more he gave into his nature the more he would be like his father in the long run. He didn’t think of his mother anymore that night, didn’t dare think of Raven, and only focused on the woman before him whose kisses did little more than coax forth an unsavory amount of rage. Warmth moved through his veins and down through his muscles. His eyes opened and rolled his body, pushing the woman beneath him.


“I thought you had forgotten about me, my love,” she purred, raking her nails down his back lightly.


Macnayer said nothing, his thoughts were no longer his own, and were instead foreign and dark. He moved his actions mechanical. The pleasure would not come with the release but that, which came after. The woman beneath him was squirming, her chest rising and falling, her breathing rabid. Her muscles tightened around his length and he gasped aloud before thrusting deep into the woman. He tried to recall when he had discarded his clothing, never mind when he had entered her but such a thing seemed irrelevant.


His hands were around her throat but he felt far away, staring at the act from the distance as he pressed down into her, using his weight to pin her to the mattress. Her eyes went wide and she flailed, struggling despite the futility. There was a smile upon his face that he found haunting and frightening. It was something his father would have worn.


“Stop it.” He said aloud, disconnected as he squeezed the life out of the woman. She would be dead soon. “Let her go!” he shouted louder this time. He closed his eyes, tried to focus, and tried to pull his hands away from the tiny throat. “Let her go, damnit, Celes!” A sound like a pop echoed through his skull, he gasped and his eyes flew open. The blonde woman was dead, her eyes half open. She stared back at him, her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. Macnayer gasped and fell backwards off of the bed, the body still slightly warm laying at an awkward angle above him.


He stared at his hands, they had ceased being his for a moment, had become the tools of his father briefly. “You are dead. Stay that way.” Macnayer mumbled, “The king Celes will never be again. And I will not become you, mark my words.” Macnayer felt an unfamiliar surge of emotion wrack his form. He curled up, pulling his knees to his chest as tears fell from his eyes, the sound of his father’s laughter surrounding him, tugging at his every breath. He knew then more than ever it was not the war outside that threatened him or the wellbeing of his people, it was the war being waged in his own heart. For he knew he would lose eventually.


A/N: Yay, serious innner conflict. There are names mentioned here that probably make no sense but for the record this story is set many years in the future of another story I sorta been working on. If you have questions about characters or wanna know more let me know and I'll fill you in. R&R please!!