The soft light of dawn crept through the heavy velvet curtains of Damien's bedchamber, casting long shadows across the opulent room. Ancient tapestries adorned the walls, their faded scenes of conquest a stark contrast to the man who lay motionless in the massive four-poster bed.
A gentle knock broke the silence, followed by the creak of the ornate door. Mimic entered, her body balanced carefully as she carried a silver tray laden with breakfast.
"Good morning, my lord," she said softly, her gravelly voice tinged with concern. "I've brought your breakfast."
Damien stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, confusion clouded his features, as if he couldn't quite remember where he was. Then reality crashed back, and his face hardened into a mask of bitter resignation.
Mimic set the tray on the ornate bedside table, the china clinking softly. The spread was fit for a king - freshly baked croissants, a selection of jams, perfectly poached eggs, and a steaming pot of rich, dark coffee. The aroma filled the room, but Damien showed no interest.
With visible effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement pulled at his still-healing wounds. Mimic watched silently as he picked at the food, barely eating more than a few bites before pushing the tray away.
"It's time for your usual training, my lord," Mimic said after a long moment of silence.
Damien didn't respond. His mind was elsewhere, lost in a maze of fear and self-doubt. He cursed Blake bitterly, blaming him for this weakness, this corruption that had stolen his very essence. The blood dreams haunted him, leaving him feeling hollow and lost.
He stared at his reflection in the dressing mirror. The man looking back at him was a stranger - gaunt, haunted, a shadow of his former self. [In his thoughts:]
'What have I become? Two years... two bloody years, and I'm still this broken shell of a man'.
He flexed his fingers, watching as tiny ice crystals formed and then crumbled away, tainted with streaks of red. The sight made his stomach churn.
'Curse you, Blake. Curse you to the depths of hell for what you've done to me.'
The memory of their final confrontation flashed through his mind again.
'I was a god among men. Feared. Respected. The very mention of my name sent shivers down the spines of everyone. And now? Now I can barely form a shard of ice without collapsing.'
Damien took his position in the center of the room, his face a mask of grim determination. Mimic stepped back, watching intently as he raised his hands, focusing on summoning his ice powers.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Damien's brow furrowed in concentration, his hands trembling with effort. Then, slowly, frost began to form on his fingertips.
A flicker of hope crossed Damien's face, quickly replaced by dismay as the ice was yet again weak and brittle, shot through with veins of red - a visual reminder of the blood corruption coursing through his veins.
"No," Damien muttered, his voice hoarse with frustration. "Not again. I can do this. I must do this!"
He tried again, forcing more power. This time, a shard of ice formed in his palm, but it was misshapen and unstable. With a cry of determination, Damien hurled it at one of the targets.
The ice shard shattered before it even reached halfway, dissolving into a shower of blood-tinted crystals.
Damien fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked utterly defeated, a far cry from the powerful, feared man he once was. Mimic approached cautiously, her brows twisted with concern.
"My lord," she said softly, "please, let me help you. I know you're struggling, but-"
"Help me?" Damien interrupted, his voice bitter. "How can you possibly help me? Look at me, Mimic. I'm pathetic. Weak. Useless."
Mimic knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "You're not useless, my lord. You were nearly dead when I found you, remember? But you survived. You're still here, still fighting. That counts for something."
Damien looked up at her, his eyes haunted. "Does it? What good am I like this? I can't even control my own powers. I'm nothing but a shadow of what I once was."
"Then let me help you become more," Mimic pleaded. "I've always believed in you, my lord. Always worshipped you. Give me a chance to assist you in regaining your strength."
For a moment, hope flickered in Damien's eyes. Then it died, replaced by a cold, hard bitterness. "The only person who can truly help me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "is in the arms of another man."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Mimic's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding as she clenched her fists at both sides and whispered in her thoughts...'Rose'.