the bitter blade verseXnyix

[Verse]

They'd told him he was born of violence.

It certainly rung true in the vibrating arias of his silver blades after they'd struck bone. Coaltan Deviere, last son of the Deviere house, believed in the things they said about Duelists who had done their due diligence, honing their craft. Of blood, through blood, with blood. But now, when he was cutting through the Winnie family men because one of them had slighted him in a forgotten bar at the end of a forgotten London street, he wasn't looking for the furious rewards of violence, even if it was violence with which he chased it. No. As he opened these brothers and cousins and even a father up with rapiers and sabers, Coaltan searched for the softness his mother had given him before blacklung had taken her. It was the promise of security that his father had loomed over him as the trained. It was family rather than power that he stabbed and cut for.

The latest, and the last of the able-bodied Winnies, was supposedly the best of them. But Winnies, while adept in killing, were no Duelists. They sold murder, and moved drugs to poison anglo-saxon veins, and stole from people with things to steal. They had not perfected their posture or located where the critical point in an arc was. Duelists, when the crown had built the Duelist Economy, must not be less then any noble in the pursuit of their art. And even though the Deviere son had strayed from immaculate form in favor of his own wayward brutality, he was nothing less than efficient in bringing men down. This Winnie, large and strong with a good sword in his hand, was tripped and almost butchered alive and humiliated before Coaltan finally skewered his esophagus against a stone wall. If you knew to look for it, the side sword had actually gone through a vertebrae before sticking to the brick.

Coal still held the handle firmly as the musical note in the metal died down. He stared at the surprised and sad, still open eyes and mouth of his dispatched adversary. The imagery mingled with the alcohol in Coal's blood and made him feel a perverse sense of accomplishment, even though it was tainted with the bad conscience of having killed another man. It was a sting he'd learned to displace, and even appreciate. Another note shook his blade when he pulled it back, letting the Winnie son kneel and topple. From above, Coal drew the bloodied tip of his weapon through the fallen opponent's hair once. A last tenderness, maybe?

And then Coaltan turned. He sheathed in the same motion, but it was a sloppy action. He had spent his focus on the fight and now indulged the stupor as he swayed out, relying on the wall thrice before leaving the mouth of the alley. He had a small line of borrowed blood on his risen cheekbone, beside his straight nose. Eyes so brown they were red in the gaslight. His coat had once been a brighter blue, but at least the body it clung to was still athletic and tall. He would not let his physicality decay. With the rate he was challenged for the former glory of his family name, it was almost impossible, anyway. Dark hair tied back but coming loose because of his recent activity. He was his usual nightly mess as he staggered into a brothel who knew his name. He had a rubied pin from the Winnie in the alley, and the silver setting might still have a streak of blood on it when he dropped it in the greeters hand. Should be enough for even two nights of drinking and warm bodies.

"Welcome back, Coal." the woman said and put the treasure between her corseted breasts and turned to offer her silhouette at a flattering angle. Coal touched her cheek and chin on his way past her. He might talk to her earnestly when he sobered up, but right now he needed someone who he didn't know to lose himself in.

"Whiskey and wine and women, Tiff." he muttered, intentionally dismissive. He wasn't looking for familiar friends.

 

[nyix]

They told her she was born of greatness.

A vague destiny. Greatness could mean many things. In her parents’ eyes she was born of beauty, wrapped neatly in the lustrous bow of elegance. She was bred to court royalty and charm dukes. Taught, from a young age, her place in this cruel world was solely dependent on how successful she would be in such affairs. Aim high to climb higher. Be gentle, but brutal. Claw your way to the top under the guise of flawless perfection. Fail to do so, and the family might fall. A stain on your name was as good as a death sentence. After the death of her brother, the heir to the family crime syndicate, the pressure only grew. It wrapped its bony fingers around her throat in a vice: “Obey or die. The weight of the world as you know it rests on your delicate shoulders”.

There was no room for desire. What she wanted didn’t matter anymore. There was a love lost to a lowly boy born of violence. She left him, reluctantly but willingly. She had been young and stupid, anyway. The grief of her father after the loss of his only son carved her fate in stone. If the family was to thrive, to live, it was her responsibility to climb ever higher. Be selfless, be diligent, be cruel. And cruel she was, leaving the boy without a word, perhaps leaving hope in her wake that would never amount to anything. It left a bitter taste on her tongue, not because she was cruel, but because he didn’t seem to care.

That’s when she learned the world was unkind. It wasn’t the death of her mother or her brother nor the neglect of her father afterwards that taught her that, it was learning she meant nothing to that lowly boy. She had to be selfish yet selfless. She had to sacrifice her own desire for that of the family without seeming too eager to do so.

When her father’s neglect turned to passive ignorance, she had to learn to be both a perfect vision of high society while a commanding presence within the organization. If she let them fall, what would become of her? Everything she sacrificed and worked for would mean nothing. She had to be her brother and herself all at once.

And that’s how she wound up here, in the vile bowels of the city, forced to clean up her father’s mess. He’d become too complacent. One by one their men fell: cousins, brothers, fathers; all Winnies. Their vaults may overflow with the profits of her family’s notorious greed but there was no one to defend it. Gold attracted dragons, and they breathed hot down her neck, ready to pounce and tear them apart with their sharp fangs and daggered claws. Rival families whispered threats and even more greedy men vied for a chance to steal her away, erasing the Bennetts in one foul move.

Amelia Bennet would die before she let them take her family name, reducing them to nothing but memories.

“Miss Bennett,” Francine, her handmaid, whispered softly from beside her, “I don’t think we should linger here long,” her words were hesitant, and for good reason. She wasn’t the one that made decisions, Amelia was.

The heiress peered out of the carriage’s small window into the foggy streets. The scrap of metal against stone rang in her ears and twisted her stomach into a tight knot. Coaltan Deviere had taken another one.

Their last Duelist.

For how stoic she had taught herself to be, the sight of that much violence always unsettled her. Bile rose into her throat and she brought a gloved hand up to her pink lips to hold it at bay as she turned away. For a moment, her emerald eyes peered off into the shadows of the carriage’s cabin as she both grieved for their loss and let the implications of their dire situation sink in.

Word traveled fast in this town. It wouldn’t take long for the Umbridge Gang and the Fifty Theives to hear the Bennetts were utterly defenseless. Her hand fell to her lap, along with her gaze. Every possible future passed through her mind like the cart of a runaway train, chaotic but precise.

Amelia knew what she had to do. Unfortunately, she had exhausted all other options.

“Tell James to follow him,” she commanded, lifting her delicate chin to look out the window once more at the man stumbling away from the scene of the duel. In that moment, she could hear fate laughing bitterly as a ghost of her past faded out of view and the carriage jerked forward.

Eventually, they found themselves staring out the window across the street at a . . . brothel. Amelia’s face seemed to be permanently twisted into a look of disgust while Francine peered around her at the tavern’s entrance, “You don’t need to-”

“Yes. I do,” Amelia cut the handmaid off sharply, cast a warning look over her shoulder behind an auburn curl before she could say anything else, “Retrieve Patrick’s body and-” she was going to say return him to his family but . . . there were no Winnies left, “And take him home.”

Though she and James vehemently objected to the idea, Francine didn’t argue it, she simply nodded her head, “Yes miss. Please be careful.”

With a silent nod, Amelia departed the carriage and entered the brothel.

Thankfully, she dressed more modestly today. Her green and white corseted dress was flawless but not too gaudy. It hugged her comely figure in just the right way; narrow at the waist, forcing her breasts into gentle mounds and her dress to flair at her hips. Her perfect posture and graceful movements hinted to years of high class elegance education. Obviously, she’d stick out like a sore thumb in such a wretched place, but she didn’t plan on staying visible too long.

Gold sparkled between her fingers and she wooed the hostess with a coy smile. Leaning close, she whispered into her ear.

“Send him to me.”

Everyone had a price. Amelia was quite good at deducing what that price may be. Coaltan offered silver, but Amelia offered gold. She gently tucked it into the woman’s bosom herself before pulling away to see if her bribe was accepted. Tiff’s toothy grin told her it was.

“Upstairs. Room 3 should be open. I’ll send ‘im your way.”

Before she could attract too much attention she moved towards the stairs. Tiff stopped her with a quick snatch of her elbow.

“What should I tell him?” she looked cautiously in his direction, worried.

Amelia frowned down at the hostess from the second step. It seemed Coaltan had a reputation that reached past his merciless nature as a Duelist. She needed to coax him away from the booze and women with something more intriguing. Or perhaps, something more irresistible. Men like him responded to more carnal emotions, so she had to poke the metaphorical bear.

“Tell him Mel is waiting,” a simple, unmistakable nickname that may provoke a more visceral reaction from a shared past.

Tiff nodded and released Amelia’s elbow. The heiress’ smile faded and she climbed the stairs to Room 3, where she would wait patiently for a lowly boy born of violence.

He’d find her standing in the center of the room, of course, unwilling to dirty herself in such an uncomely establishment.