A Visitor [Sylvais]

[Sylvias]

Frowns, in all of the memories he ever saw, meant ‘no’. Sylvias solemnly nodded his head, as though he had been slapped in the face. There was a burst of raw power, the internal cold taking up the space, the oxygen, as though all of it was going to simply freeze still. And that was the last Lang would see of his blue irises, now hidden in the dusk of death. While he had not moved very much, he was moving now, beginning to sit up. But instead of using arms to lift the canopy and escape, he had flicked through it, as though a shadow. He stood outside of Lang’s bed.

“We are prepared for your final answer, shall you decline, we will take what is most precious to you,” when he had spoke the voice didn’t sound human at all -- it was like two voices were recorded on top of each other, monstrous and threatening. Awkward, considering a twisted smile was on the Death Fey’s face.

[Lang Na]

Balking, Lang raised a hand to his throat. There was still oxygen there - there had to be, because the fires hanging from the ceiling, casting irregular light into the rest of the room, hadn't gone out, and they needed oxygen to thrive just like Fey did. Yet, Lang felt like it wasn't enough, like it was all over the room but he just couldn't breathe it, like a fish drowning in water. He scraped his fingers across the skin of his neck, and though they didn't break through enough to bleed, they left angry red trails in their wake.

"Fine!" he choked out, voice raspy. Above all else, above the fire in his lungs and above the chill, that image still lingered. What Lang held as most precious, he held at higher regard than even what was at stake in this contract. He couldn't very well let the Death Fey take that, while he stood around with no way to stop it - the helplessness was almost as frightening as the thievery (because it was thievery, no more, no less, no matter what words the Death Fey threw around to mask it). "Take it! You can...you can take it!"

He bent over, heaving. Lang's head was ringing, alarms and sirens going off in his head, warning him of something he knew already. What are you doing? You are signing off your -soul-!

[Sylvias]

The prowess of cold disappeared immediately when the ruler had made his decision. Like a predator who had its fill of bloodshed, everything returned to its normal state. Everything was free to work it its natural, unpredictable way. All the air, all the warmth, was all real again. Sylvias didn’t even look like a Death Fey, but as another Fey who merely dressed in dark clothing for some sick joke. The response made Sylvias praise himself on the inside, as though accomplishing something great; receiving that was out of his grasp.

It gave him little hope, in a place to be found. What the Death Fey was giving off was his protection, a contract that he himself made; and he himself could not break. It was done. Syl raised both his hands, cupped them together, and stared at his gift: Lang. That tortured soul, regrettable, lively, loving and loyal, ruling soul would all be his one day. He could hardly wait. For once, he was standing still because he wanted to enjoy the temperature of the room, not to mingle to retrieve something -- he was doing something for himself.

“Thank you,” was all that came from him, having no idea it was the wrong thing to say. “I’ll leave you be, if that is what you desire ? You seem to have had enough of me, although you have pleased me with your willingness -- I am open to any questions, and this is a rare opportunity, might I add.”

[Lang Na]

Willingness, Lang echoed in his head, and even the tone in his thought sounded cynical. Regaining his breath was almost as painful as having lost it - he kept on trying to inhale, forgetting to exhale, and it was also like suffocating, only on excess of oxygen rather than the lack of it. It took him a few minutes for him to level his breathing, and a few moments after that to regain his bearings as the temperature returned to normal, as the room returned to normal (except it was still there, standing and waiting like it was welcome here, like 'here' was his).

Signing off his soul didn't feel any different. Lang still felt alive - the suffering of it only reminded him of it. He still felt the warmth return to his body, felt it seep back into surroundings. He felt the power return, lying dormant right underneath his skin. He still remembered where he was, who he was, what he had to do, why he had to do it. In fact, the only thing that was different was the lingering, nagging knowledge that he was owned, not his own, and that when he would pass (perhaps in centuries, or perhaps tomorrow, with this continuous war), he would be bartered off and taken. Sold.

Without raising his head, Lang spoke. "I could've done without this 'rare opportunity', truthfully," he said, still biting, still alive for now. "But since you're being so generous...fine, let me ask. What, exactly, are you going to do to assist? Or is not doing anything how you're going to help?" He laughed, looking up. "Because really, that doesn't sound too bad to me. You could just go haunt our enemies instead. They'd love you, Death Fey. They like pretending they're good people too."

[Sylvias]

Good versus Evil, was always a funny thought. But no one in their life was pure, no one was truly good and truly evil -- it was all measure on their society’s views, on what their religion offered; on their rules. While Death Fey were similar in their living ways, they did this to offer solace because the Underworld was a world within itself, and filling it up like a giant tick wasn’t one of their intentions. So Syl merely stood there, not really caring what Lang’s words implied. Sylvias had no true emotion in him, there was no personal qualms or gain; he simply did things because those were his orders and those were his rules.

“Huh,” was the only sound he made, unsure how to react to those words. There was no manual in copying a living fey, but to simply use their own knowledge to throw in a polite word here and there, offer a smile, and be terrifying. The last option was the easiest. “I help in anyway you request, hopefully not in a form of question, and yet you don’t want my assistance despite accepting it in the contract. If you want me to simply leave and bother your enemies, I will do so, for your enemies will be mine.”

There were two meanings in his words, he had not meant it to be so, but Lang could very well translate it. For he would go to other Kingdoms, and he would try for their souls. Not every Kingdom will be as lucky to have protection, but one Ruler could very well have access to his power, while the other might preoccupy most of his time -- while Syl may be able to return and kill a Fire Fey as long as it did not conflict with a previous contract.

[Lang Na]

"How do I call you, should I have a request?" Lang asked, almost fully recovering. The nagging feeling remained, and it would likely remain for the entirety of his life; he supposed he would have to get used to it (though supposing was easy, doing was not). It wouldn't take long, though, or rather, it couldn't. He was a ruler, after all, and he couldn't afford to spend time mulling over the state of his soul after death. No one needed to know what happened then.

It had been a good decision.

The warmth that returned to the room was a welcome change. Lang slowly soaked up that heat, taking advantage of what comfort he had access to at the moment. In a way, he pitied the creature in front of him. It made demands, it got them, but could it feel the heat of this fire? Did it even know what disappointment felt like? Despite its manipulation, did it understand why someone would give themselves up for the sake of someone else? Or did it only know the steps, not how it worked, just that it did?

How pathetic, how sad, that even if Lang was the one who paid the price in souls and lives, that it would not know its significance. It brought a small smile to his mouth, a little color to his face. That was right, that was it. He was alive, and this thing wasn't.

[Sylvias]

And while Sylvias would sit here and pretend like he felt the heat, none of it would really reach anywhere, not even to put a signal to his brain. He would simply manifest in the light of the flames flickering off his pale skin, and he would breathe in the smoke, and go without taste. There would be no pleasure for him, not until he gained a soul. Like an addiction, he continued with his order, trying to feed a hunger that would never be quenched. “Call for me. Call for Sylvias, simply use that name alone. Do not refer to others in that name, for if I show up to someone else calling the name, they will die.”

It was a fair warning, because each Death had a name, and to give Death’s name away would be a terrible thing to bestow on someone. Of course, it would be very amusing to make an enemy say it. Although he did not suggest the name for it to be a tool of weapon, if Lang ever came up with the idea on his own -- then so be it. While Sylvias’ fate was a sad thing, no one had really known that he had been someone else in the past; someone just as alive -- someone so willing to save his sister that he, too, would allow himself to die. In the end, they were not all that different.

Mindlessly, Syl copied Lang’s small smile, unaware that he was even doing it.

[Lang Na]

Lang smiled back, wider, mocking. Was it repeating the motions? Or was it happy? "Sylvias," he repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue. It was a surprisingly natural name for a very unnatural thing. "All right, Sylvias. Then should I need you, I will call." 'Should I' and not 'When I', because he was a Fire Fey, and the ruler at that. He didn't need outside influence to prove victorious. He was confident, perhaps overly so. "Now," he added, "Leave."

[Sylvias]

Death winced once hearing his name, hearing at this close range, and yet he was already present. It was like a command to come closer, but he had not moved, there was no where to go. The second time his name was said, he raised his lids, staring at Lang as though he had just seen a ghost. To have a name and to share was a powerful to have for a Death Fey, and the Ruler had used it, had named him. Every muscle in his face pulled down, although he had wanted to mirror the expression.

Without his control, a grin appeared on his face, copying Lang’s -- and then he was gone, as though a match’s flame had been blown out.