Dance With Death

“Cashmere.”

The golden child was on his knees, with a bloodied trail soaking the wooden floorboards. Drunken delirium wasn’t enough to numb the sting of ravaged skin. Bubbly alcohol couldn’t undo the poison that is a father’s hatred. It feasted on weakness–on the humiliation that comes from being the failed heir to the Magnus throne. It wasn’t difficult to notice. Silas’ hold on his glass tightened at the mere sight of him. Cashmere was nothing more than a mess, with hazy eyes tinted a subtle rose, limbs that could barely hold his weight, all followed by the cursed scent of shimmer that Silas hadn't forgotten.

History repeated itself. Poor little lamb, seeking refuge in the wolf’s jaws once more. The forest wasn’t any kinder. But what kind of salvation would Silas be able to give? The gory stains from their last encounter haven’t come off. The dog that weeps when it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. What more could he possibly give?

And yet, his heart bled at the miserable sight, all over again. His gaze locked with Cashmere’s, unwavering as he shifted his stance. His left leg moved to block the man’s figure from barbaric creatures that threatened to tear him apart, limb from limb. A silent promise. He would keep him alive, just long enough for him to escape. He swore to repay the hands that reached for his humanity when he was covered in sin.

“…Valentin?”

Jedediah Magnus. He pushed through the mass of people with haunting ease. Years carved away at his youth, leaving him with fine wrinkles and sunken eyes that held no remorse. There was no guilt despite the countless cries of agony—the endless shrieks of victims whose corpses were shredded into pieces as they fought to survive like wild animals. He stood tall, with his head held high in unspoken pride; he was a king among the mayhem. Years left their mark, but his crown was decorated with tears and blood from every life he took.

Silas visibly faltered in his presence. He choked on his own childish fear. His body took a step back, as frantic as a wounded kid. But there was no one to save him. He didn’t have the small comfort of distance that the fighting ring gave him, where he could hide in the crowd’s shadows while Jedediah towered among the bleachers. Not anymore. The man’s eyes bore into his, and Silas swore he saw the faintest glimmer of amusement in his gaze.

The chem baron scrutinized the boy’s appearance, his brows furrowing ever so slightly with clear distaste at the sea of scars.

“You’ve grown up so much,” Jedediah mused, “You look just like him–”

“Don’t come closer,” Silas warned, despite the tremor in his voice.

The man paused, blinking, before slowly raising his hands in the air. By then, the music had become nothing more than white noise–a faint hum that buzzed in Silas’ ears. Long lost heartbreak found him once more at the sight of Jedediah. Slowly, silently, it took the breath from his lungs and stole the power from his words. Powerless. That’s all he truly was. Incompetence kept him paralyzed. His heartache brought him to his knees at the sound of the bell, signaling the end of the match. His head throbbed with the sickening squelch of broken skin, as his father suffocated under the hands of true power.

“Calm down. I’m not here for you,” The monster spoke, his eyes now shifting to rest on Cashmere, “Though, you are just as reckless as your father. He never knew when to quit.”

Silas couldn’t save him, and he’s been taught by the Night Crawler himself. Every punch, every aching muscle, everything was done so that the Undercity wouldn’t eat him alive. But none of it mattered. In the blink of an eye, his father’s corpse was brushed aside, taking a piece of his heart with it. There was no purpose when he couldn’t call upon his strength when it was needed the most.

“What would he say now? His son is stumbling about, getting drunk and wasting his life.”

His mother’s cries were a haunting melody that kept him awake throughout the night, up until the morning’s first light reached through the clouds. His sister’s whispers of comfort were an unintelligible mess. His father was left to rot six feet beneath the earth—what a waste. Jedediah ripped away Silas’ claws, leaving him with a fierce yearning that grew teeth. Madness drove him forward; it pushed him to the brink. He wore his bruises and blemishes like trophies.

“Disappointing. It seems as though it was merciful he passed. He doesn’t have to see the savage you’ve turned into.”

Poor little wolf, mourning for what once was. Warm stinging spread throughout Silas’ hand, and dark red drops fell to the floor. His glass cracked under his hold, its jagged edges slicing into his skin. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every drop was as red as the gore his father shed. It was as hot as the fiery rage that tinted his cheeks. Silas stood tall, challenging Jedediah as he observed him with bloodshot eyes. Brutality offered him a brief respite; people thought twice before taking any more from him.

He grit his teeth. If he was cursed to be nothing more than a brute, so be it. He bit and tore into his opponents, coating his lips with the metallic taste of crimson. He was a sinner, mindlessly attacking and destroying until the bell rang once more. The ache of his muscles grew familiar. But he would never apologize for refusing to bow to a tyrant.

“I won’t give him to you,” Silas spat.

Jedediah sneered, bowing his head. His lips moved in incoherent whispers, and a blur of midnight fur lunged towards the fighter. Sharp fangs plunged into his arm, hungry for the taste of bone. A frantic shriek tore through his lungs, followed by shattered glass making contact with the dog’s skull. Its blood splattered all over his cheeks, warm and slick. Its sibling ran to its aid, only to be met with cold wood slamming into its spine. It yelped at the sight of Silas’ fist raised high, trembling as it came thundering down.

Behind him, a silent figure snaked through the dark shadows in which drunken lovers hid. Silas’ breath left him as an arm took hold of his neck, slowly closing in with a deadly grip. His hands sank into the flesh that held him captive, scratching and heaving. Just as his vision blurred, he threw his head back; The gasp of his captor rang in his ears. His body stumbled to face the other, lips parted with every breath.

They flashed a sleazy grin, taunting Silas. Go on. Make a spectacle and show me what you’re made of, beast. Their lips turned upward, as twisted and vile as Jedediah’s. Their rotten teeth stood out under the dim lights. That smile only grew wider once Silas took the bait; His arms raised to strike. But the Night Crawler taught him well. Knuckles flew into their jawbone, one—two—three. They coughed on their own broken teeth as a swinging chair brought them to their knees.

Their partner lunged towards Silas, limbs flailing with the need to kill. He narrowly dodged the attack, inviting them to a fateful dance with death. Their bodies remained close, an intimate affair as they toyed with each other through swinging fists and mindless threats. Hot breaths brushed against his cheeks. Beads of sweat fell from his temple. But he forgot one of the most important rules; never drink before starting a fight. Erratic swings rewarded him with a blow to the gut and a sickening crunch to the nose.

Tables fell to the side with the impact of his fall, various glasses shattering with them. Cold fingers suddenly squeezed his windpipe. His stomach caved beneath the monster’s weight, as the brute’s shadow swallowed him whole. Broken gasps and hoarse pleas left his lips. He could still taste his own blood. Poor little wolf, left to die to his own vices.

His nails clawed at the floor, relentlessly, until they cracked and split. Hot tears spilled from his eyes. How shameful, crying like a little boy. And yet, as the monster leaned closer, he couldn’t help but wonder if Remy felt the same way. Had he shed the same tears? Did he plead for his family—the same way Silas begged for Max? What would he say if he knew that his son made the same mistakes as he?

Silas turned his head towards Cashmere. His lips were losing their warm tint. He could no longer speak, but his determined gaze urged Cashmere to leave while he could.

The Valentins are born with tragedy in their blood. At least Silas had gone down fighting, thrashing, to rewrite the pages.

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Author's Note: Yes, this is inspired by the Arcane universe, haha! Just something I wrote for fun and to expand my writing skills, since I've never written a fight scene before. Thank you for reading!