Nicholas

“Let us celebrate this victory till morn! I do not wish to have a dull evening after such grand events.” He announced in a blaze of light when he approached his kin at the military encampment. They crowded around a supply cart clutching the neck of liquor bottles. Upon seeing him, they cheered and raised those bottles high.

“We shall light a glorious fire. The monsters will make for excellent kindling and there are plenty,” said Arden at his side. The red of his eyes glistened beneath the growing starlight. Nicholas always found those most agreeable, a set of rubies to keep him warm. He captured Arden’s waist in a lewd gesture and relished in the hungry kiss he received.

“Lord Nicholas.” Duke cleared his throat, souring Nicholas’ mood in a single sound. Arden kissed his neck in a fruitless attempt to ease his abrupt tension.

“What now?” Nicholas barked, facing the annoyance constantly trying his patience. He couldn’t kill the bastard, but Duke made him want to dust off his skills of deception.

“After such a trying battle, is it not prudent to speak with the soldiers?” Duke nodded at the medical tent adjacent to them. “You are a delegate of Faerie sent by Lord Darkmoon himself. The Generals, and kings, would appreciate your attention towards the wounded.”

“And what attention would I give those ailing bastards struggling against the inevitable?” Nicholas took a long swing of rum.

Arden placed a hand against Nicholas’ chest, fingers toiling with the buttons of his blouse. “Nicholas has done more than enough. We have earned an evening of celebration.”

“I do not disagree,” Duke said, nodding. “But this will only take a moment. Speak to the soldiers, let them know how grand this victory is, that you slayed a Shadowed Disciple considered of great importance and we’re far closer to catching Fearworn than ever.”

“Mortals and their cares will always elude me.” Nicholas handed the rum to Arden and pressed a rough kiss to the base of his neck. He clung to Arden’s waist, whispering against shivering skin to start the fire and wait for him. Arden slipped away and Nicholas waved a dismissive hand.

“So be it,” he grumbled. “I’ll speak to the wounded, then you will leave me. If I see your vile mug before dawn, you may find an unpleasant gift forced upon you.”

Duke bowed and Nicholas stormed towards the tent reeking of human filth. They had an uncanny ability of carrying the aroma of a sewer wherever they went. Their weak bodies lay out on cots, broken, bruised, bloodied, and bandaged. The combat medics and nurses toiled over them. A useless endeavor, he always thought. Mortals passed with such ease. The weak should be left to their own devices, but alas, he was not there to question them.

“Mortal filth!” Nicholas twirled his hands dramatically.

Duke pursed his lips, though kept silent as Nicholas paraded through the tent. He meandered by the cots, speaking in a high tilted voice like a parent coddling their children.

“I’ve come with great tidings that may ease your pain, though will not spare you of the wretched stench your kind always carries. As you may have known, Lockehold was of great importance to us. Some of you gave your pathetic little lives to the cause. I’ve been informed that it is a great honor. Though nothing compared to my achievements. I burned one of Fearworn’s Shadowed Disciples to a crisp. Thanks to that, we’re one step closer to defeating the bastard. Although I doubt most of you will survive to see it, this remains a blessed day.” Nicholas cast his gaze from one silent cot to the other, then added, “This is when you applaud.”

No one did, though a disgusting bastard made the mistake of clutching Nicholas’ wrist. Blood slipped over his skin. A frail voice sputtered from a man with red bandages over what little remained of his melted face. A grotesque affront that Nicholas figured would be best if taken from this world.

“Please, Sir, water,” the mortal croaked.

Nicholas heard death along his breath. Nothing the mortals tried would prevent this soldier’s demise. The Collision Treaty stopped fae from harming or killing one another, unless they’re already dying. Mortals found it merciful to end suffering. Nicholas found it a convenient loophole to cause more harm prior to final breath.

“I will give you something, but it won’t be water,” Nicholas chuckled. He reared his arm back. Power twisted around his arm, forming a sharp saber intent on relieving the disgusting dreg of a limb.

A gun fired.

The iron bullet pierced Nicholas’ shoulder. He cursed. The skin sizzled and burned. Coral mist seeped from the wound, accompanied by bubbling blood, then the bullet slipped out to fall on the ground. His guttural growl grew when he gazed upon the smoking revolver held by a soon to be dead dunce.

“Get out of our tent,” the combat medic spoke, based on the red stained shirt clinging to his muscular form. Sweat clung to the short ends of his blonde hair, carrying the sun’s first rays of dawn. Those jade eyes did not carry the same warmth, frozen as the heart of a winter storm. He stepped out from behind a cot to stand at the center of the tent, gun raised. Nicholas hated how he admired the man’s tone figure, long legs and pale skin glistening beneath the translucent fabric over his chest. What a waste of looks on a mortal, who would be eaten away by time and death.

“You shot me,” Nicholas hissed.

“You were about to dismember one of my patients. If you try to do so again, I will aim for the head.” The gun clicked in warning. A nearby nurse gasped and knelt by the cot of her patient.

Duke stepped forward. “Let us all calm down. This is unnecessary and the Collision Treaty—”

“Is a load of bullshit,” the medic interrupted. “Written by halfhearted kings and lords with no care or mind for what happens here. Now, get the fuck out. We have enough work on our hands. We needn’t care for an arrogant child, too.”

“An arrogant child. You best tell me I heard wrong,” Nicholas repeated with a chortle. He rolled his shoulder. Nurses and patients gasped, shocked to witness the bullet wound closing. Nothing remained but a dull throb.

“Let me correct myself then, an arrogant and hard of hearing child utterly incapable of thinking of anyone other than himself. He comes raging into camp without thinking of the consequences of his fire.” The medic nodded towards the muddy ground. “The snow was cold, but at least it was sturdy. Our medics shouldn’t have to worry about twisting their ankles attending to the wounded. Then you come in here spouting horseshit and daring to put your hands on anyone. I don’t believe I’ve ever met one as dull as you.”

In a breath of wind, Nicholas clutched the throat of the disobedient bastard. The combat medic kept his haughty chin high, meeting Nicholas’ gaze regardless of the nails piercing his skin. Blood followed the slender curves of his neck.

“You have quite the tongue on you, I would love to rip it out,” he snarled and squeezed harder.

“Go on.” The medic spoke with no emotion, though he smirked when Nicholas grunted from the head of the gun digging into his crotch. “Let us determine who is quicker.”

“That is a game you don’t wish to play, mortal scum.”

“I’ll decide what games to play myself, arrogant jackass.”

“Lord Nicholas.” Duke shot an arm between them, fruitlessly attempting to separate the two. “This is uncalled for. You are on the verge of going against the Collision Treaty. No king, and especially not Lord Darkmoon, will tolerate this.”

But Nicholas couldn’t tolerate smug mortals and this blonde dolt made him want to snap necks. Though, truth be told, the combat medic was not worth the torture his father would set upon him for causing trouble. The one man he listened to, in a sense, and for good reason.

With an annoyed breath, Nicholas released the medic. He fell to the heels of his feet and stepped back, gun still pointed between Nicholas’ legs.

“You should learn to hold your tongue before you lose it,” Nicholas warned.

“I don’t take the advice of fools,” he replied.

Nicholas wanted nothing more than to burn the medic and listen to his shrill screams through the night. But a glimpse of Duke reminded him of what would happen if he dared, so he stormed out of the tent leaving a trail of flames along his footsteps.

He overheard Duke apologizing for the disturbance, then the mentor approached him outside.

“Who was that?” Nicholas growled. He caught sight of the medic through the slaps of the tent. A bruise formed around his neck. Nicholas couldn’t wait to do worse.

“Nothing more than a combat medic,” Duke replied. “Forgive him. He didn’t know to whom he spoke. Tonight is a victorious one. Please, enjoy your evening among your kin.”

Nicholas was sure to do so, drinking the night away and spending a warm evening in bed with another, all the while dreaming of gouging out a pair of smug green eyes.