It had been three weeks and four days since the news of the royal family’s loss had swept across the Veridian Isles. The queen was thought to have been blessed with twins, but complications at birth meant it wasn’t so. Of the two, only a the girl had survived.
It had been three weeks exactly, since an intimate funeral was held for the child. A boy. Only the family and close friends had been permitted to attend. The media had been banned from the services, but pictures emerged regardless. As the family left the premises of the Hart family plot near the C.A.F base of operations, it was clear to see that they were stricken with the loss. Dressed in all black, the queen had been escorted to and from the procession by her husband, and her two sons. A small wrapped bundle held close to her chest.
Elliot had been in the dungeons for two weeks and six days. An interesting coincidence if anyone took the time to analyze it, and only if that someone was nuanced enough with the prince regent to know his dark preferences for necromancy and blood magic.
Desecration and grave-robbing had not been above the warlock to get what he wanted. He’d dug the child’s coffin up himself, in the cover of night and plucked the lifeless form from the silk lining. Decland had accompanied him, on direct orders that he couldn’t refuse. Though he very much wanted to refuse. He’d held the limp, half-decayed swath of blankets as his stomach turned and Elliot refilled the hole from which the body had emerged.
Decland would have rather done the digging, but Elliot seemed adamant about doing all of the labor. If that could say anything for his work ethic.
The guardsman was not to speak of what Elliot had done, therefore when the necromancer locked himself away in the dungeons, the Lynx returned to his duties, citing specific quotes. “I don’t know what he’s doing down there,” and “It’s best to leave him to himself.” Smiling all the while as if he’d not participated in something so vile.
The news of the child’s passing could not have come at a more opportune time for Elliot. Who was, in fact, the only sort of person who would find the death of an infant to be at all opportune. He’d been wanting to test the limit of his skills, but also had not been willing to waste them. The reagents and tools that went into resurrection were not something he could have his servants pick up at the market. And there was no better test subject than his young, fallen nephew, who could perhaps, be useful to him someday.
On the twentieth day since his descent into the dungeons, Elliot emerged and his footsteps were drowned by the screams of a child. He would never say specifically what had gone into meeting this particular goal. Never recount what had been spent and sacrificed. He cradled the child with one blood and dirt stained hand and pushed the other carelessly through dark locks gone limp with sweat and whatever he’d had left on his fingers. His suit had been reduced to slacks and a half-buttoned white shirt, that was teetering closer to dark brown.
He was not approached as he stalked towards his private chambers, flailing child wailing endlessly as he descended the halls. Tiny hands pushed forth from the cloths it was wrapped in, begging for the warmth and attention Elliot was incapable of providing. Another frustrated clawing of his own hands through his hair. He teeth ground together as he pulled open the door to his rooms.
“Eden!” he barked down the hall as he always did when he had need for her. It was enough, and he slammed the heavy doors behind him. Though the barrier did little to muffle the child’s screams.
It had been three weeks exactly, since an intimate funeral was held for the child. A boy. Only the family and close friends had been permitted to attend. The media had been banned from the services, but pictures emerged regardless. As the family left the premises of the Hart family plot near the C.A.F base of operations, it was clear to see that they were stricken with the loss. Dressed in all black, the queen had been escorted to and from the procession by her husband, and her two sons. A small wrapped bundle held close to her chest.
Elliot had been in the dungeons for two weeks and six days. An interesting coincidence if anyone took the time to analyze it, and only if that someone was nuanced enough with the prince regent to know his dark preferences for necromancy and blood magic.
Desecration and grave-robbing had not been above the warlock to get what he wanted. He’d dug the child’s coffin up himself, in the cover of night and plucked the lifeless form from the silk lining. Decland had accompanied him, on direct orders that he couldn’t refuse. Though he very much wanted to refuse. He’d held the limp, half-decayed swath of blankets as his stomach turned and Elliot refilled the hole from which the body had emerged.
Decland would have rather done the digging, but Elliot seemed adamant about doing all of the labor. If that could say anything for his work ethic.
The guardsman was not to speak of what Elliot had done, therefore when the necromancer locked himself away in the dungeons, the Lynx returned to his duties, citing specific quotes. “I don’t know what he’s doing down there,” and “It’s best to leave him to himself.” Smiling all the while as if he’d not participated in something so vile.
The news of the child’s passing could not have come at a more opportune time for Elliot. Who was, in fact, the only sort of person who would find the death of an infant to be at all opportune. He’d been wanting to test the limit of his skills, but also had not been willing to waste them. The reagents and tools that went into resurrection were not something he could have his servants pick up at the market. And there was no better test subject than his young, fallen nephew, who could perhaps, be useful to him someday.
On the twentieth day since his descent into the dungeons, Elliot emerged and his footsteps were drowned by the screams of a child. He would never say specifically what had gone into meeting this particular goal. Never recount what had been spent and sacrificed. He cradled the child with one blood and dirt stained hand and pushed the other carelessly through dark locks gone limp with sweat and whatever he’d had left on his fingers. His suit had been reduced to slacks and a half-buttoned white shirt, that was teetering closer to dark brown.
He was not approached as he stalked towards his private chambers, flailing child wailing endlessly as he descended the halls. Tiny hands pushed forth from the cloths it was wrapped in, begging for the warmth and attention Elliot was incapable of providing. Another frustrated clawing of his own hands through his hair. He teeth ground together as he pulled open the door to his rooms.
“Eden!” he barked down the hall as he always did when he had need for her. It was enough, and he slammed the heavy doors behind him. Though the barrier did little to muffle the child’s screams.
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