To Bewitch a Devil

Chapter 297 Weathering away in finery

Chapter 297  Weathering away in finery

The fist came as fast as his presence, and Zavian found himself flying back in the air with a force that knocked his breath away when he hit the ground. He heard a cracking noise, and his body felt like a sack of potatoes, bones misaligned and heavy.

Zavian pulled himself up, not acknowledging the bleeding on his legs, and Aloysius walked to him, the Darstun soldier behind him, ready to finish what he started.

"He is mine now," Aloysius told the soldier, predatory eyes gleaming at Zavian.

To his far right, Zavian saw Freya fighting for her life in the circle of the enemy's soldiers around her. She was fighting with the plaque sword meant to kill Aloysius, and she could not make her way out of the ambush of the soldiers yet.

"You surprise me, son," Aloysius started. He looked even huger, his domineering frame covered in healed scars, face jagged from the horrors of the Underland.

"I was thinking I didn't have to kill you myself since I did make an impressive army to do that for me," Aloysius said. "But you have killed some of my best soldiers, so, you leave me no choice."

"I would give you a less painful death if you surrender right now," Zavian offered.

Aloysius's laugh was so loud it felt like a taboo in the center of all the gore and death.

"Is that your way of telling me you are losing, Zavian?" He asked, his claws slowly drawing out. "Because I can still reconsider if you bow to me." He gave a sardonic smile. "And besides, look around you, you aren't exactly on a winning streak."

Zavian straightened himself. "Very well then, you leave me no choice than to kill you."

Aloysius grinned at the face of the challenge, and he came striking so fast that Zavian was not prepared for the contact. His claws had ripped at Zavian's forehead, and the metallic taste of blood filled Zavian's mouth before his fist came flying at Aloysius's face.

"Do you know what we could have achieved together?" Aloysius asked, blood dripping down his nose. He stalked around Zavian in a circle, and the King kept his dagger close, poised for an attack at any time.

"We could have been Kings," Aloysius said. "Respected. Revered. We fought the war with the humans and we won, we could do so much more, have so much more."

"And for what?" Zavian spat his question. "What is there to gain? Power? Wealth? Fear?"

Aloysius shrugged a shoulder. "Among many others."

"You'd be nothing but a hollow empty shell," Zavian said. "And all these things you want would never fill the emptiness you have inside."

Aloysius quirked his mouth in a grin. "You think your little speech would make me remorseful and I would swear to change my ways? So since we are doing this little dance, tell me, Zavian, what exactly is better than power, than wealth, fear, respect, and many more? Tell me."

In all the centuries Zavian had been alive, there were experiences he had, both good and bad, that had shaped him into the demon he was till that moment. Grief and happiness, loss and gain, pain and sweetness, dark and light. He had experienced everything and more.

But Zavian knew, even before Aloysius had asked that question, of what was better to have than anything else. He knew what was better to have on days sadness or grief wanted to rip him from the inside out, when joy swelled in him he could almost combust, and when he replayed the moments he had painted as the most mundane, were actually all of the beauty in the totality of his life.

Aloysius stopped moving. "Well?" He said mockingly to Zavian.

If Zavian were to answer that question, he would tell Aloysius it was the laughs and the fights he had with Freya. The breaking and the repair of their blood bond. He would tell Aloysius it was the time he and Freya had spent training in the fields together, of the laughter they shared over meals.

He would recount how he almost hated his sister sometimes, and how his love for her would drench this hatred, of how it would make him wish for their daily squabbles when Freya had been unconscious for so long. He would talk about Freya's enviable wealth of knowledge, of her dissection of information. He would talk about how Freya's arms had been his home when grief wanted to swallow him whole.

He would talk about Azriel too, of his undying and unwavering loyalty, of his friendship that had turned to brotherhood, of how he was a pillar so solid he could lean against. He would tell Aloysius of the formidable aura Azriel carried, but had the softest of hearts, the most assuring of presence.

"I knew you don't have anything," Aloysius said, satisfied with himself.

But most of all, Zavian could spend centuries talking about Neera, and Lailah, the two women he had come to love as one. He would talk about how his life was never the same since he met her, talk about the littlest details, the curve of her lips when she smiled, the sweetness of her voice, the generosity of her spirit.

He would talk about how she had given him the most intense of emotions, and how he wanted to get back to her, so badly at that time he almost turned away from Aloysius to run back to the castle, hug her, kiss her, tell her in a thousand words how much she meant, even though a thousand words were so little.

So he had to defeat Aloysius, no, he must defeat him.

"You wouldn't understand," Zavian said to Aloysius at last. "You are never given the privilege to understand. You feed off things like chaos because deep down, without it all, Aloysius, you are nothing but an empty demon. You want to believe you matter, you are something, but you are nothing, Aloysius. Always have been. And you will be a rock weathering away in finery."