The Naming | A Prompt Fill

Deep Water Prompt #3324

​Put a fresh enough human heart inside a brand new demon, you get a wonderfully confused sort of half-person. Black blooded and obedient, they make excellent hit men. 

​You stare at the prince, trying to wrap your mind around his claim, even as the silver cords bite into your wrists and throat and thighs, binding you in place and burning, smoking, as they do.

No one told you the prince was a mage. Regardless, somehow, your own reconnaissance never revealed that he was, and recon is one of those things you excel at.
​
Besides assassination, of course. And somehow you’ve failed on both accounts. How had he hid his powers? How had he caught you?

“What are you—I am not—” you begin, though really, his wild claims should not be your priority right now.

The prince rolls his eyes extravagantly. “I know more than you,” he drawls. “But here are the proofs, if you must have them.” And he begins ticking them off, one by one, on his fingers. “You don’t have a history. You think it’s just that you don’t remember it, but you don’t have one. Your dreams are so real that you’re never entirely sure you’re awake, and in them you live an entirely different life.

"Silver burns you—,” he waves a hand at the ropes demonstratively, as if you aren’t gritting your teeth against the pain of them, “—but it’s not an allergy, because allergies don’t char people’s skin and they don’t recover the exact moment contact with their allergen ends.

"You’re drawn to corruption and it has never occurred to you that this is natural in you, rather than a result of your…occupation. And you are helplessly obedient to your master, so much so that it’s only now, as I’m saying it, that you’re realizing this is so.”

Denial is a scream trapped in your throat. The prince’s words ring true, horribly true, nightmarishly true. Liar, you want to spit—but you can always, always tell when someone is lying.

The prince waits, eyeing you, perhaps expecting some sort of outburst. Your teeth ache from how hard you’re clenching them. Your blood, black as ink and infuriatingly damning, begins to drip in rivulets to the stone, as the ropes bite deeper and deeper.

When you say nothing, just breathe raggedly and glare at him, the prince crouches before you, his insouciant expression falling away like a dropped veil, his eyes glinting.

He has a face like a knife, you think, half-delirious from pain and shock and fury and an echoing sense of loss. Sharp and cutting. A perfectly formed weapon.

“Now here’s the thing,” he says softly. “You’re a slave and you didn’t even know it until now, but I can free you. And I only want one thing in exchange.”

It takes every ounce of will for you to grit out, “How would you free me?”

The prince smiles. It is humourless but approving, and it makes you want to bite his throat out. “Very good,” he says. “I’m glad to see you use the mind you have. Freeing you is simple: I need only give you your true name. And with it, you will own yourself. Do we have a deal?”

You hesitate, thinking fast. If he’s lying, you are still trapped, and in more than just silver. If he’s telling the truth…

“What do you want from me that you can’t get yourself?”

“Revenge,” he says simply. “Against your soon-to-be erstwhile master. Do we have a deal?”

Revenge. Freedom. The choice is easy, in the end.

“Yes,” you hiss, and the prince’s smile widens. Cupping your cheek like a lover in his palm, he leans close.
​
“Your name—,” he breathes against your ear, soft as a benediction. “—is Azazel-whose-heart-was-Ismene.”

---

Ismene: Ismene can mean knowledgeable or equal to the moon. In Greek mythology, Ismene was one of the daughters of Oedipus and Jocasta, sister to Antigone, and represented reason and moderation in contrast to Antigone’s rebellious nature. (source)
​
Azazel: often considered a fallen angel or demon, also a desolate place/scapegoat (source)