Falling Skies

Thirty Three

The velvet room is excruciatingly quiet, each tightened exhale audible around the course of the jasper table. December can't bring himself to glance at Abrahm sat by his side, nor can he focus on Ryder's deepening breaths beside him. He can only focus on Wren laid against the velvet floor with Celeste by his side. The sweat that drips down his brow and plasters his hair to his forehead, the way his eyes flicker beneath closed lids and thick lips tremble in the slightest. There's a visible pain written across his twitching features though his body lays unconscious and limp in Celeste's arms.

"You." It's the sound of an immeasurable anger, a frustration that bleeds through each syllable mangled with a pain that threatens to escape gritted teeth and a tight locked jaw. "You tortured him." Ryder's voice is too low, the words shaking in the slightest with each rapid breath he draws. "I-"

His gaze is empty, eyes glassed over and void of emotion as he stares at his reflection cast in the milky table before him. It's as if he's attempting to calm himself, attempting to still his feral breaths and racing thoughts as he digs his nails into each palm over and over until blood speckles the peachy flesh.

The action happens too quickly, December unable to react before Ryder is reaching across the jasper table, hands locked tight around Abrahm's throat though the boy merely grins against the action.

"That's quite enough, Ryder." The scratching voice calls out towards the trio. Miraculously, it's enough to make Ryder pause and back away from Abrahm still grinning before him, hand rubbing away at the mark left on his throat.

It's too late, however, the room having already fallen into disarray as voices overlap one another in continuous disagreement. English mixes with Shėä as the council continues to fight amongst one another about the events they were all forced to witness.

"Did you know those memories were in there?" A voice screams above the crowd. It seems to belong to Celeste, the way her brows furrow in frustration and grip tightens around Wren draped in her arms, the fae only now waking up from the noise. "Elchanan!" She yells once more until the cloaked figure slowly turns her way. "Did you know that those memories were there? Why did you let him do this, do you know how dangerous this was? It's a miracle he didn't have an aneurysm."

The cloaked figure, Elchanan it seems, merely turns away from the girl laid on the floor, fabric draped hands falling behind his back as he lets out a raspy exhale that silences the room. "Witch, it is your job as his doctor to ensure procedures like this do not harm him. Any casualties would have been no one's fault except your own. Now," he draws the word out slowly, cloaked head tilting in the slightest as he crosses the room in two long strides. "The Order must come to a decision."

The figure pauses in front of Ryder still flustered from the previous fight, their bodies only separated by the slab of gemstone between them. Even with the barrier the figure feels too close, his presence overwhelming this close up. Laggardly, the figure raises his cloaked arm until the fabric slips away to reveal a hellish hand. It's skin is a sickly grey tone, raised green veins painted against the flesh that slips beneath the shadows of his black cloak. His fingers are slender and twice the length of their own as the flesh tapers into exaggerated black claws. The hand opens and encases Ryder's face, claws scraping against his forehead as blood trickles from the impact point.

"Human Ryder, it is seen you had no knowledge of the actions taken against Wren. Admirably, you stood by him though it meant the betrayal of your own kind." He detaches the hand from Ryder's face, the boy's eyes wide as he stumbles backwards in a brief panic. "Though your powers prove weak, I permit your request to become the High Priest in hopes that you may prove yourself to be useful in the end."

As the figure turns to December he freezes, his presence alone enough to force every cell in his body into a panic. The fear that courses through him feels almost instinctual, the way his body begs him to turn away though he stays trapped in place, eyes widening in fear as the grey hand raises before him. His fear only increases at the sight of the hand, claws beginning to encase him as the center of the palm opens to reveal a singular bloodied eye. Thick surgical thread overlaps the eye embedded within the palm, it's citron pupil rapidly darting back and forth as it scans December's features.