Muffled footsteps drifted into Cuthbert's consciousness as he lay on the planks of his prison– pulling him away from the darkness that surrounded him. It was the only space in the cell that allowed Cuthbert a tiny glimpse of the outside world.
Time blurred inside the Void Canvas. Shifts came and went, but Cuthbert no longer counted them. Somewhere beyond the Void Canvas, day had long since lost its meaning
His cell had no windows, no way for light to reach him. His jailers seldomly removed the cover of his quarters. The Canvas devoured sound and light—and something deeper. After so long beneath its weight, even his thoughts seemed muffled. Cuthbert estimated they had been stationed for just over a day—an unusual delay for their pace. His companions were all too eager to cast him out from the realm of the living.
Just the thought of ending his life brought a wave of relief to Cuthbert before the pain of guilt engulfed his soul anew.
"Just let this misery end…" Cuthbert whimpered to himself as he laid curled up on his bed of straw.
Hunched in self-pity, ear to the floor, he heard footsteps. Louder. Closer. Too clear to ignore. A few muffled words and laughter were exchanged before another pair of footsteps walked off and disappeared.
A blade of light sliced through the gloom, right across his head. Cuthbert turned his head with the slightest curiosity of the jingling of keys becoming audible inside the cell which shouldn't allow any noise through the Void Canvas. Instead the sound of the canvas could be heard fluttering in the wind as his prison door opened. It took him a moment to adjust to the torchlight that flooded the entrance, but he didn't need his eyes to know who was paying him a visit this late at night.
As the draft of wind passed, so did the noise from the canvas caught in its whim. Silence fell upon the two men as the flame of the torch danced in the small cold space around them.
Never quite reaching the walls of the Void Canvas.
"The way you flinched from the fire—I was worried the garlic might have been a mistake.." The silhouette stated as it stood at the doorway.
The joke lingered in the air like a memory he hadn't asked for.
Cuthbert didn't have to see his face to know that Sir Christian held a stupid smirk after his greeting. He hated how easily Christian manifested the ghost of their old banter. It hurt in places Cuthbert had thought long dead.
It also maddened him how misinformed the noble man could be. Even now, his mind couldn't help but catalog every mention of vampires from his old studies. Years of habit, organizing facts as if they still mattered.
'Practicing blood magic does not make a person a vampire. Although some books state that the extended use of such magic does lead to deterioration of the body. Many believe that is what leads many to practices that allow them to absorb the vitality of others through vampiric methods. There's also no records of vampires being repelled by garlic or any variety of vegetable in the Allium family.'
The silhouette of the man placed the torch in its holder by the door and stepped closer. He then placed a box down by his foot before working free the shackles that held Cuthbert's hands together. Cuthbert's wrists ached from the weight of the cuffs—and flinched from the touch.
Cuthbert stared at Sir Christian as he methodically set up the meal he brought within the box.
'I wish he would just leave me alone.'
Sir Christian was one of two men leading the convoy to Cor' Sol, where Cuthbert was to be executed.
He wasn't sure who he hated more: Sir Christian or Lord Haart.
Lord Haart's men found new ways to make the journey as painful as possible, a personal mandate of the Lord. Whether it be exposing him to the elements to let him burn during the sun's zenith or having him walk in the storms behind the guards. His body was burned and drained by these ordeals. Punishments never severe enough, according to Cuthbert's guilt.
It was always done in Sir Christian's absence which was seldom. The man would always come galloping to put a stop to it as soon as he was made aware.
He spoke to him as an equal, like he was that man before the blood, before Elfeda's screams, before the sins he could never undo. Never once seeing the monster everyone else claimed Cuthbert was.
What he claimed to be.
Sir Christian instead treated him with reverence, as if Elfeda was still alive.
She wasn't.
He ensured Cuthbert stayed alive, personally feeding and treating him whenever his body gave out under Lord Haart's abuses. All the guards feared laying a hand on him due to his new found affinity towards the dark art.
He was a monster after all, who would want to risk getting too close.
Sir Christian constantly reminded Cuthbert of the humanity that he no longer allowed himself to be a part of.
He hated Sir Christian for that.
Sir Christian broke the profane silence once again.
"It seems your humor remains intact" Christian laid the meal out carefully, placing plates and silverware for each of them, as though they shared a table at court again.
"Well, eat up, from the looks of it you should probably learn some of those techniques to get some of your vitality back but in the meantime this meal will have to do. A local merchant had something special tonight. I think it'll do wonders for your 'tormented' soul." He said with a grin on his face.
Cuthbert forced himself upright, his body stiff and aching as he met Christian's gaze.
He hated how he didn't see the blood on Cuthbert's hands. How he looked at him as if there was still something left to save.
As if he was still human.