Icarus's blog: "Somantics"

He did love a good opera. Every act a burning suite of passion, every song containing a shrill plea.
A whole lifetime of vengeance, infidelity, and melodramatic absurdity in only a few hour's time.
His mute companion to his right like a delicate celestial flower, practically hovering in a cocooon of silk and sheer white cloth, numb to the spectacle, unflinching against his appraising hand on her chin.
Meanwhile, the crowd stirred against the scene, abuzz with a swill and roll of emotions.
Like a tide of excitement and tears lapping gently at a nearby coast.

But nothing sustained him like the glittering golden hopelessness of lady Chelsea.
At least he thought her name was Chelsea... it was the name her father cried as a sword was plunged into his spine. She hadn't uttered a word since, and had barely made a shriek the last time she tried to murder him.
That last attempt was nearly a year ago.
Had she perhaps given up on trying?
Or was she simply waiting for him to get comfortable and drop his guard?
With that thought he dismissed her chin gruffly flinging her face aside.
She knew how this worked... it wasn't like he wanted to depend on her.

Now under the guise of a lord. Having purchased patents and assuming the name Marquis Davretor.
The blood money of a dozen dirty wars had been enough to purchase a peaceful villa next to the lake... where he could sap the rest of Chelsea's soul undisturbed.
He hadn't resorted to much physical torture.
Just a light bit of scarring and scalding here and there.
A few days without food generally put a bit more spirit into her when she was feeling obstinately numb.
Davretor hadn't confessed the secret to refilling his pretty empty glass was the occasional front of sympathy and tenderness for his little lamb.
He felt nothing more for her than begrudging addiction. Despite the gentle smile and kiss he offered her once under the blue moon.
What would happen to her when there was nothing left?

More importantly, what would happen to him?

Intermission. For appearance's sake, he stood, applauded, and beckoned his feedbag. Joining the mill of ladies, lords, and fops for cocktails.
That agonizingly rehearsed smile and gentility as he engaged them in small talk.
There was no small talk among mercenaries... just tales. Campfires. Scars. Victory.

The crowd buzzed about the performance, the alchohol, and latest rumors. Who had a mistress, who had a bastard, who had to sell everything to keep the clothes on their back, but the chimes sounded, and the performance was to resume, their primary farce within the farce was to resume.
The hero was about to descend into hell.

He was questioning retirement for the third time this week when a particularly delicate powdered, silky glove placed itself in his hand, and a head was placed against his bicep.
Chelsea...

And a particularly sharp clean, smooth piece of glass slid into his ribs.
Hot, thick red poured onto her finely spun garment as her captor staggered and slumped, an overbearing hatred erupted from his body as the light began to fade around him.

Was he to die on this fine, cool marble, having long ago forgotten his real name, and his only purpose?

Enkechel... that name felt familiar...
something to call out to, to grip desperately as the world fell out from under him.