#just sinvyrin things
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fall to pieces
Thirty years ago…
The Blood Hall was always a place of revelry, politics, and violence, but it was especially so on the evenings of the prince’s parties. Gatherings of san’layn and death knights mingled through the darkened corridors, their faces faintly illuminated by the orbs of blood which they feasted upon. Sinvyrin moved among them with ease -- not as a silver-tongued bastard, but as a shadow that went largely ignored. Everyone knew who Sinvyrin belonged to and everyone knew his purpose.
He pushed his short-shorn hair back away from his eyes as he walked, ears pricked for the conversations that were just loud enough for him to overhear: that is the Beast of the Blood Hall; that is the bloody fang of Lord Chaus Filse. He paid neither their words, nor their eyes staring into his back any mind. The more they thought of him as a means to an end, the easier it was to allow him to do his work.
And his work stood waiting for him: Sin cast his eyes up the staircase where a tall elven man in slim-fighting armor cast his eyes down over the crowds, his pale blue eyes watching nothing and everything. Sin wordlessly moved toward Chaus, stepping into his proper place in the shadow of his commander -- his lover -- without an ounce of acknowledgement. Sinvyrin didn’t require it; he knew his place, his role, and he reveled in being Chaus’ most effective weapon.
It was only when Sin dared to reach out to him that Chaus tipped his head. The sinner’s gloved hand reached to brush the small of Chaus’ back, far from the sight of the rabble below, but one look from his master’s chill blue eyes was enough for Sin to know he’d gone too far in public.
“You were gone shorter than I expected.” Chaus’ voice was low and crisp, soft as silk with steel hidden beneath it. “Are the arrangements settled?”
Sinvyrin pulled his hand back, folding both of his arms behind his back as he looked out over the revelries. This party was more raucous than many before it and the reason why made Sin feel as cold as the wind outside. “Yes,” he replied evenly. “They’re preparing Archerus now. We’ll leave at dawn.”
Chaus looked back over the crowd once more, a few strands of black hair falling past his ear; once Sin would relish setting it back in place and making sure his lover looked picture perfect, but now he didn’t dare to move. “You will ensure that none of ours die. Not a single one, no matter the cost.” Chaus didn’t look at Sinvyrin, but the implication was clear in his whisper-soft voice. “Do you understand, Tohias?”
He felt something pull at him like he always did when Chaus said his name -- undeniable and all-consuming. His gray eyes widened and narrowed again and he felt his chest go tight. “I understand,” he muttered. They were his responsibility, just as Chaus was -- an extension of his will. He would be their protector, their shield; he would not let a single one perish. He would bring them all back to Chaus.
Sinvyrin would not fail.
--
Sin laid in bed awake and staring at the ceiling. Archelaos had done all that he could; his lover reassured him countless ways, fed him, comforted him. They had fucked until Sin was sure he was worn enough to sleep, but instead he listened to the sound of the old stag’s gentle breathing and felt nothing but the rattling anxiety in his brain.
In a few hours, Archelaos would wake up. They would talk again, maybe fuck; he would feed the dogs while Sin fed the chickens and grabbed fresh eggs; they would shower, Archelaos would dress, Sin would kiss him goodbye at the door. Then there was nothing left to spare Sin from facing the reality of Northrend and what happened there so long ago.
He startled when he heard Archelaos shift in his sleep, snapping back to the present. Rather than struggle for sleep that would not come, Sin slunk from underneath the pile of blankets and pillows and padded silently across their bedroom. Their hidden house in Surwich was beginning to feel more like a home -- not just a place that belonged to Sin or Archelaos, but something that was theirs. Starlight and moonlight pierced the thin veil of curtains that covered the tall windows, painting patterns across the wooden floor of the repurposed farmhouse. He only paused once to give a soothing pet to Butch and Indiana Bones when they noticed the sinner had roused; it was enough to stop them from following him outside.
The sound of the ocean that lapped along the tide of the beach was a distant comfort as he sank on the bench, only noticing a pack of cigarettes once he settled in; had Archelaos guessed he would be restless? “Red,” he muttered to himself before he pried a smoke from the pack and set it between his teeth.
Four days ago he asked Proformu for a favor that terrified him. Three days ago he gave Address a gift that could save or kill him. Two days ago he killed Imon to protect his pack, his family, and lost Ashafael for it. Yesterday a slap to the face from Arthalia drove him over an edge that would have barely phased him a week ago. Today, who knew what hell awaited him.
Only week ago he wasn't so fucking fragile. It never would have phased him before.
He lit his cigarette, thumping his head against the bench as he looked up toward the night sky. The smoke that spilled from his lips painted shadows against a darkened canvas, making his eyes pick out shapes that were not there. He asked himself the same question he had been asking for days: was it worth it?
Was any of it worth it?
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song, ii
The room smelled strongly of incense, hanging thick in the air like a promise, punctuated by notes of the hearth’s fire and fresh roses blooming on the vine. Sin sat on the chair set off to one corner, shirtless and exposed with all of his scars like a litany of pain across his skin.
His guitar lay across his lap, his fingers moving slowly across the keys, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere; he was watching Archelaos undress. The divinity that rolled off of the old man -- something that would have repulsed or driven him to the dark -- made his focus become as intent as a hunting dog’s, and when his voice spilled from his lips it came as a low, ugly rumble.
“I want to be where all the stupid shit I say sounds so romantic and true-- ‘cause I'd rot in hell with you. If you’d just ask me to..”
Sin’s eyes caught the light like a cat in the dark as the old inquisitor turned around, the brightness of his blue eyes making his dead heart seize in fear. His fingers kept moving across the frets as he watched Archelaos walk closer to him, each step an impending threat.
“I love the shitty things we do together, live with me in this sin forever: hell and you. I know, you want it too--”
Archelaos’ strong fingers, rugged with callouses and scars alike, grasped Sin by the chin and lifted it upward until his eyes had no place to look but the still-healing brand on the old man's chest. How easily the fear in his heart became hunger at the sight of it, and how easy that hunger became lust, and bone-deep affection.
“I hope you take the shot, see this chance -- feel the fire, and let me have this dance with you..”
Sin’s fingers stilled on the strings as Archelaos’ hand curled around his throat, a promise and a threat in equal measure. The san’layn’s eyes narrowed and his lips parted as he felt himself tugged up and up until his mouth crashed against the inquisitor’s with the same ugly hunger he was beginning to understand all too well.
The guitar fell away from his lap, clattering and forgotten on the ground. The violent embrace of the Holy Light, awash with the intent of Archelaos Redright, descended upon him like a white-hot sun. Sinvyrin wished to do nothing but welcome it.
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scars
The last thing he remembered was Archelaos bathed in unforgiving, golden Light. He remembered the old man’s face set in a way that made his stomach feel like lead, all his softer edges becoming cold, hardened steel. Gone was the man who he kissed in the rain by the pond, tired, but still brimming with life in a strange, new way. This was someone else. Someone who made all of Sin’s mind sound in alarm.
In that moment Sinvyrin’s presence was meaningless, but he felt Archelaos’ words dig into his mind like a knife prying open a lock. He sketched a cross in the air above his patient, letting it radiate down the power of his faith upon her shadow-ridden soul; his voice dropped with confidence, with power.
“Good. Give me all of it.”
( cw: torture, ptsd. ft: @archelaos-redright )
--
“Good.”
The san’layn was practically made deaf by his own screams of pain, but the inquisitor's voice still rattled through his mind like a one-ton bell every time the man spoke. Sin could no longer count the time he had been trapped within the halls of the Scarlet Enclave. It might have been hours, days, or years. It was enough that whatever humanity he had left was practically dead and gone, burned away by the warmth of the Holy Light and its endless song into the very core of him: repent, repent, repent.
His body sagged so heavily against the shackles on his wrist that his shoulders were almost out of the sockets; balanced on the tips of his toes as he was, he would inevitably end up slipping on his own blood and nearly falling, only to catch himself on the chains. Sin’s body was a wreckage at that point -- an ugly sack of flesh, his hair shorn off, sallow and gaunt. Whenever he was sure that he would receive the sweet relief of death, some confessor would come with a live rat or a hare and they would watch him chase it like a rabid dog and suck the blood out while its heart still beat.
But it was different whenever the inquisitor came to see him. For the others, he was a training tool; for this man, he was a project. A thing that would only be freed into death once it was cleansed.
And he would cleanse it.
“Very good,” whispered the inquisitor. The man circled around him once. “You are almost ready, aren't you? To release this wretchedness from your soul.”
Sin’s eyes were caked shut with blood; he flinched when the inquisitor took his face by the temple. It might have been a loving touch for any other, but he could feel his skin burning from the Radiance of the priest's face as he peeled open the san’layn’s eyes.
His gaze was bleary and fogged, and seconds passed until the sight came into focus: the heat of a black smithing fire which today heated a different sort of weapon. The iron brand shaped in the sigil of the Holy Light took two men to lift, stretching out as tall and wide as a man’s chest -- as Sin’s chest. He watched the men bestow their blessings on it until it sang with the Light as much as it did with the fury of the flames that forged it.
The inquisitor held the san’layn still as they brought the brand closer. He could feel the heat of it, blistering his skin, burning like a sun before it even pressed against his flesh.
The inquisitor gently ran his hand against Sin’s brow as the san’layn screamed, tilting his head to make sure he watched the brand sear through his ruined body.
“Good.”
--
The night passed in flashes, blurred moments of coherency that painted an incomplete picture. A shattered fragment of a soul; Imon’s face, her brow wrought with concern. Smiling. Just keep smiling, until he could run. A dark, familiar den. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol. The night, and cold wet earth. He left Stormwind behind, passing through the streets like an unseen ghost and into Elwynn. Wolves eyes flashed in the dark, his presence silencing their baying at the moon.
Good. Good.
There was no such thing as safety in the prison of the mind. It chased at his heels, haunted him with things that he swore were real -- the sights, the sounds. The smell of his own burning flesh. That voice, eerie and calm. Archelaos? No. Not him.
Good.
The forests of Elwynn were the cold, broken ruins of Northrend. The gentle rolling hills were the caves and cliff sides he once hid himself away in like a rat in the crevices of a ship, praying not to be found. Wishing he could simply die instead of what would happen next.
Past the borders of Duskwood, in the thick fog that always seemed to linger in those ugly places, he crawled around gravestones and mausoleums. The memories of Icecrown nipped at his heels: digging up corpses in the frozen snow to bury himself underneath them, hiding from the soldiers passing nearby. Don't breathe. Pretend to be dead long enough, and maybe you will be dead. What a pretty thought.
Still, the voice rang in his ears -- relentless as it ever was, and yet different now.
Good. Give me all of it.
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