SONG RECOMMENDATIONS: DON'T BLAME ME- by Taylor Swift.
Silas had lost count of the hours he sat by the window, flipping the coin between his fingers and staring blindly at the orange sky. He stared until the orange turned dark and stars filled the sky. The moon especially looked huge that night.
The sparsely lit room contained few of his belongings. He would leave when he was assured.
He flicked the coin in the air again and caught it at the same time a cawing sound pierced the silence. His gaze darted to the dark sky. A streak darted toward him and landed on Silas's now outstretched hand.
His eyes narrowed at the color of the bird being used. He reached out swiftly to retrieve the message tied to its leg.
Unrolling it, he scanned through the words.
Cowards! His teeth ground as he crushed the papers in his fist.
Frederick pushed through the door. "My lord, you can't—" he stopped short, noticing the gloomy air charged with dark chaos around him.
"You have received the message, my lord." It wasn't a question.
"I will prepare the carriage at once—"
"No need." Silas's voice was chillingly calm, but the veins throbbing in his hand, which still clenched the parchment, betrayed his emotions.
He strode across the room, his steps purposeful, his face cut from stone. "It would only slow me down. Ready the carriage."
"Meet me there." The door banged shut.
---
"Kya!" Silas roared, urging the stallion faster. The wind whipped his hair, his steely gaze focused and narrowed into the night ahead. His brows were scrunched together, and a burning rage that deepened with every gallop surged through his veins as he gripped the reins in a death grip. The dark stallion, with white spots and patches, appeared in the night like the star-filled sky. Its speed was unmatched, strong limbs racing across the dirt, kicking up stone and dust in its wake.
The viscount looked magnificent, his form and bearing like that of a wise general racing into battle. His large, impressive horse with such blurry speed made him seem like he was one with the night sky.
Woe to them all.
---
"Mama!" Theodore screamed, his voice cracking as he shook his mother. Dark blood continued to ooze from the stab wound.
Before Theodore could realize someone was behind him, the assassin raised his sword, delivering a death blow.
A pained cry filled the air before the assassin's body dropped motionless.
A shiver ran through Theodore's body as he slowly turned around.
The man towering behind the child in the dark hallway held a sword coated in blood. His clothing blended into the night.
Theodore's tear-filled green eyes trailed up to the imposing figure's face, and he cried out in a heart-wrenching whisper…
"Papa!" The tears came in full force as Theodore watched Silas sheath his sword and slowly lower himself to one knee.
Silas's gaze darted around the scene, taking in every detail. Lucinda lay on the ground, blood oozing from her side, her expression sickly pale. His shaky gaze sought out Theodore, who knelt there, tears streaming down his round cheeks. His eyes… his eyes wrenched his heart. Something that wasn't there before stood out—an immeasurable pain and fear, one so familiar. The emotions swirling in his bright green eyes pulled him into a current of memories. He was once like this, when the world had cast him aside, and as Theodore looked up at him, it reminded him of someone who had looked up to him too, with hope, like he was the savior. But he had failed him.
"Papa..!" Theodore threw his small arms around Silas's neck. The poor boy was trembling. Or was it him? Overwhelming emotion filled him.
"You're here, Papa! You came to save us."
Papa… His trembling hands slowly came to wrap his arms around the boy's small frame, and Theodore's tiny legs finally gave out, now in the embrace of his father. Papa.Silas suddenly realized this was the first time he had truly heard Theodore call him by that name. It wrapped around his heart like a vice. It fueled him. Just what on earth were these emotions that made him tremble? And why, why did he so badly want them to stay?
A wave of fierce protectiveness overcame him at that moment. Not only for the fragile child crying into his huge shoulders, nestled at the crook of his neck, but also for the woman in death's grip lying before them.
Silas slowly raised his hand and ran his fingers through Theodore's dark curls. He patted his head. "It's alright. Papa's here. Everything is going to be okay."
And he meant it. All wrongs must be set right.
As Theodore pulled away, Silas had the chance to finally assess Lucinda. Her complexion was ghastly pale, hints of blue veins running through her exposed skin. Her lips had turned purple. His gaze trailed to the injury—the dagger still sticking out of her side. He probed around the area, but Lucinda was unresponsive, not even a wince. He brought his head to her chest and listened. Her heart was still beating, but weak. Too weak. His head shot back as he stared at the blood once more. He brought up his fingers to look closely. Only then did he notice the particularly dark blood had an unusual color.
Purple. Her blood looked like the darkest shade of purple. His eyes subtly widened.
Poison. Lucinda was poisoned. But this poison… no, it was gone. Supposed to be gone. To be found nowhere on this continent. For he knew the power of this poison. He had watched it kill a maid. A maid that had tried to kill him.
"Papa…?" He heard Theodore's frightened voice. "Is Mama gonna be okay..?" He sniffled.
He turned to stare at Theodore. The child's eyes were red and blotchy. Theodore's face and clothes were stained with now-dried blood. His gaze was worn out and tired. What horrors had this child experienced by the time it took him to get here? Was he too late to make a difference? He turned back to Lucinda, and a flicker of doubt passed across his eyes.
His throat felt raw and dry as he croaked out, "…Yes, Theodore. Your Mama is going to be okay."
He lied.
Because the thing is, no one survived this poison. No one ever had.