Silver weapons

I stare at my feet, not wanting to meet his eyes. Part of me fears what I might see, what judgement will be pressed upon me. I had failed to mention how dangerously I had played around the Prince, teased him, taunted him, provoked him, driven on the rush of adrenaline and the fearlessness in my veins. I had let him play with me, like a cat plays with a mouse. I pause. I had let him. The fact dawns on my mind like a moon on a dark night, only now truly hitting me for all its worth. My mouth sours, dread tingling down my spine. And a part of me had liked it. I groan inwardly, my brows knitting together with distress. He was right. The bastard vampire was right. Somewhere deep in my cold and lonely heart, part of me had liked it. And he knew it. I wonder silently what sort of sick, deprived creature that made me; or if it simply made me like the rest of those pitiful creatures who ambled about the vampire's territory, trying to get bitten, to be turned. The thought alone was enough to give me thoughts about running to the bathroom and spewing up whatever was left in my stomach. Desperately, I force my mind back to something else: to the sickening snap that had echoed round the room as Soren had shoved the white haired vampire against the wall, careless and insane. How easily he had gone to lick his own blood off his hand, a delightfully wicked grin playing on his face, as though I might be next. The way his eyes had flared, his voice murderous, switched from a prince to a monster in an instant. Yes, focus on that.

"I have to do this, Ithuriel. Soren is our best chance at finding the flame." I say at last, twiddling with my thumbs. Ithuriel sighs.

"I know, just, be careful. I am not going to always be around to help you." I nod solemnly, my mind elsewhere as I pick once more at the cuffs of my sleeves, pulling up strings of fabric with a grim satisfaction.

My whole body aches, and the more I sink into the velvety chair, the more I feel like falling asleep. The fires I have cast are beginning to burn low, casting a light under Ithuriel's face that all at once makes him look very tired. With slender fingers he draws out his ring from a pocket, toying with it in his fingers, tracing the white diamonds with his thumb lovingly. Minutes pass by in an uncomfortable silence.

"I am going to sleep," he declares at last, bracing his arms on the side of the armchair and heaving himself up. The chair squeaks. "I suggest you get some sleep too, you have a Prince to woo tomorrow," he laughs in spite of himself, hair fading green as he flashes me a half smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. I nod somberly, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand then sink further into the armchair, making it clear that I am not going to be moving anywhere. Ithuriel stands there for a moment, puzzling over me, and then realising my intentions rolls his eyes.

"Goodnight my Queen," he murmurs, padding over to the bedroom, and I hear the sound of feet shifting from heavy to a light pattering of paws. My eyes droop as they gaze over the empty cabinets and the shifting patterns on the wall that dance like leaves in the wind.

I can't let myself fall victim again. Not now, not ever.

***

By the time I awake, a full day has passed. The room looks like a totally new place. Boxes have been emptied and stacked neatly into the least full corner, dried foods have been stacked in the shelves, and glass cabinets are filled with small boxes that I can only presume contain silver knives and filings. Books have been aligned too- books on vampires, on spells, on elvish culture and everything in between, and an array of potions in translucent bottles with animal head stoppers glint at me from their stands. Yes, one full day.

My eyes rest on them for a while. It had always been common practise for angels to carry around bottles of silver with them. When I was younger, I was never truly sure as to why. However, as I grew older and began honing my divinist and heavenly magic, the reason was made more and more apparent. To a vampire, silver is like a white hot poker fresh from the fire: get too close to it and it will burn your skin, touch it and it will sear right through your flesh. A divinist's power lies in their ability to bind a vampire in magic, calling on the power of the sun and stars to counter a vampire's darkness with their own heavenly light. Fill their blood with boiling star light, bind their powers with invisible chains, cast terrifying illusions, put grim suggestions in their mind... These are the things a divinist may do. But such magic comes at a price, the price of a bond. Such an overwhelming amount of concentration is needed to summon such a huge pool of power that many divinists simply cannot handle it and pass out in training. Ithuriel had always tried not to grin every time I had awoken surrounded by wards of guardians trying to heal me after I had staunchly told him I wouldn't faint. 'Not this time.' After a while it became a running joke between us. But such concentration often roots a divinist to the spot, leaving us completely vulnerable to vampires. So, we carry the bottles: our last resort, our final hope. Tiny, precious bottles of liquid silver, just small enough to slip into our robes or chain to the side of your belt, concealed under layers of fabric. They had just enough liquid for one dose: because one dose is all you will ever need.

Drink the liquid. Poison your bloodstream. That was it. A mouthful of tainted silver blood for the vampire, a noble death for an angel- at least you would die a hero.

Part of me considers attaching a bottle to my belt next time I go out. Another part of me realises what a horribly tragic idea it would be. As much as I hate their cruel red gaze and gluttonous feasting on innocent blood, I couldn't make myself look an obvious threat to the vampires. It wouldn't be worth the risk. Sure Soren had given me leave to cut off the hand of any vampire who touched me, but he hadn't given me orders for anything else. I breathe a staggered sigh through my nose. I suppose not then.