Just a moment ago, Fen would've given anything to hear such canorous cries spill out of his elf's throat, but now, his screams grew weary on Fen's ears. The longer his poppet took to apologize, the longer the Beast grew displeased, rumbling in the pit of the blood mage's soul.
Blank, red eyes stared down at his defiant elf, readying the tip of his boot again, until finally, his doll's eyes closed softly. The blood mage raised a slender, white eyebrow, confused at first— until he realized:
Ah. I've worn him thin. Somehow, Fen had overdone it...?
This happened often, and honestly, this shouldn't have been a surprise to him. But a for a long moment, Fen could only stare down at his pet in silent surprise, biting back a bitter laugh.
Ah! Damn you, Beast— had you gone and killed the poor thing?
T'was but a boot to the ribs, honest! He placed a bloody hand over his face, and despite himself, found himself laughing. It was an almost mirthful chuckle at the absurdity of the Beast's rage and his own lack of control. Had he honestly just gone and killed the damned doll? Shouldn't he know better by now?
Fen stooped down to the elf's level, putting his hand near the elf's throat, feeling for a pulse. A wave of cold relief washed over him when he felt blood still pumping through the elf's veins; the Beast hadn't screwed up this round, yet! The elf had more fight in him than he knew. But this would serve as a lesson to the blood mage: if he didn't want the fun to end, he should be more careful and selective with his pain... no matter how audacious the poppet had been...
The blood mage scooped the elf up in his arms, sighing softly. He carried him to the spare room— a cold, bland place, where he normally kept his spare toys— and laid him down on the bed there. This room was threadbare; not much lay it in but a few bookshelves, a dresser, a full-length mirror and, of course, the bed— but it would do; the poppet wasn't getting
Fen's bed after all.
After laying the elf on the bed, he took a few moments to release his blood bonds, and to meticulously clean every single drop of blood off his person, to bandage the wounds he had given him. The last thing Fen needed in the morning was to see his bloody form wandering 'round his home, rousing the Beast when, sometimes, it was best if the Beast slept.
When he was clean, the blood mage looked down at him, brushing hair out of the poppet's eyes, pulling the covers over his battered body. He could not help but think of that wonderful, artful scream— how perfectly his body contorted under Fen's knife. But this one was feisty, Fen knew. If he had the opportunity, perhaps he would fight him, resist him, once more.
He made a note to keep the knives out of this one's reach.
_________
Morning would come, despite how long midnight had stretched over Fen's bloody abode.
For a brief moment, one might think this a normal house. The fireplace was stoked, to remove the autumn chill from the home. In the oven, a load of fresh bread baked, and the kitchen countertops were awash with flour, broken eggshells and droplets of spilled milk. Through the barred windows, gusts of cavalier wind blew, lazily. But those barred windows might remind a captive:
Ah, and here is my prison cell.Fen stood over the elf's bed, like a shadow in the night. One might find it near comical: Fen, standing with a coffee mug in his hand, sipping at it while watching his catch.
"For how long do you intend to waste the day, pet?"
