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Description
You hated him. Hated him from the centre of your very existence; hated his dismissal of everything you did for him, hated the pent up cruelty within him that found you its victim, hated that eternally present smile, mocking and scorning everything you were, like you weren't even capable of being a person. And, in the eyes of many, you weren't.

The entire story was never publicized, so you had to piece together every little rumour on the streets, every single piece of gossip and every obscure reference in long forgotten tomes. It hadn't been easy and sometimes you were forced to doubt the validity of what you had heard, but it was all you had. All you had to explain your very existence.

In the world you lived in, a person's existence was defined by their soul. Without that soul, they weren't seen as a person, but as an animal, a piece of property to be owned and used at will, before being disposed of once they had served their purpose. The problem was that nobody knew who these soulless would be; many noble families were torn apart from the birth of one of these children, civil wars were fought and many had just disappeared in the night. Then, a bright young alchemist had found the answer; a 'donor' could be found, whose soul would be given to the soulless child, rendering the donor themselves soulless, even though they carried a soul within their bodies. It was a discovery that brought relief to many noble houses, presidential palaces and landowner's manors across the known world; all they needed to ensure that their line would continue was the child of some penniless hag off the streets, who was too desperate to turn down the money.

All they needed was a child like you.

That was all you were; a sacrifice made to keep him a suitable part of society. And by taking your soul away, they had taken everything that made you a person in the eyes of the world. He owned you; free to treat you in any manner he saw fit. And you couldn't fight back at all; if he died, so would you. And it would be him who reached the afterlife. After all, you were just the shadow of his soul, the shadow of another person. And what hope would somebody without a soul have of reaching heaven? The closest you could get would be in the airship you were currently flying in; to escape to the cold wastelands of the north, away from the enemies he had made. The air onboard was constantly smoky, the once bright brass decoration in the cabins now stained from decades of exposure. It didn't feel safe onboard; there were only a handful of cannons, situated together, like they had become lonely and decided to congregate, leaving the rest of the ship vulnerable; a group of assassins could sneak onboard without anyone the wiser. And given who was a passenger on this ship, it was hard to imagine a voyage without an attack.

You shared a cabin with him, having to put up with his penetrating purple gaze glide over your back whenever you turned away. You shivered, trying to ignore the widening smile on his face and continue to go through the folded pieces of clothing in your small trunk. But your seeming lack of care didn't throw him off; he just kept staring intently, just as you kept trying to ignore him. You could hear his heavy footsteps draw closer, his strong arms pulling you into his chest, you ears becoming enveloped in his scarf. Had you listened to your instincts, you would have tried to pull away, to fight back in any way you could. But twenty-four years living with, and as part of, Ivan had taught you better than to fight back. So you just let him pull you closer, trying to halt the sense of hatred bubbling inside you.

"What is it мой подсолнух?" he asked, his tone sugary sweet, as if he were trying to convince you he was harmless. But you didn't believe him for an instant. You shook your head, not wanting to answer. He slid a hand down your face, lightly tapping the eye patch over the socket where your right eye had once been, before stroking your cheek and jaw. Ivan must have known how much you disliked him; everything he was doing seemed to mock you, to finally prove to you that you were exactly what you had been told from a young age. You could feel him pull at the buttons of your plain grey shirt; wanting to tear the entire thing but knowing that it would be over too quickly if he did. And he wanted you to suffer for as long as he could make you.

He whispered in your ear again, his hot breath making you squirm, "You know what happens now, don't you Милый?"

And it was at that moment that a miracle happened; there was the unmistakable sound of glass smashing outside the door. You weren't the only one to notice it; Ivan immediately turned his attention towards it, letting you drop to the floor. You crawled across the floor away from him, trying to ignore the splinters buried in your palms, hoping it would distract him long enough to let you escape. But when you'd only managed to get around three feet from Ivan, you felt a hand clamp down on your leg, pulling you back towards him. You didn't fight back, letting yourself be dragged across the room.

The next thing you remembered was being shoved through a solid wood door.

After you regained consciousness, Ivan was standing over you, his long coat blowing wildly in the wind. You were obviously up on deck, away from the enclosed environment of the quarters. You started to pull yourself to your feet when you heard a single gunshot, the sound reverberating through the air. You instinctively dropped back down to the floor, adopting a foetal position, curling up into a protective ball. Again, Ivan pulled you back up, not from any concern he had for you, but from concern about his soul. For his soul, even though it was now truly his, was still living inside your body and if anything happened to you, he would be left helpless.

Another explosion sounded, a hail of wood splinters raining down on the deck. You needed to get off this ship, no matter what; even if that meant you had to follow Ivan through the maze of corridors without any questions or defiance. Your mind was clouded; your senses being overpowered by the smell of burning canvas, the sound of air rushing through the tears in the air balloon and the freezing temperature against your skin.

So it shouldn't have been so surprising when you didn't notice the person behind you before he hit you over the head.

You awoke to find yourself in an entirely dark room, a tall figure standing over you. Your hands were tied behind you, a solid wooden backrest digging into you, the now torn shirt providing little protection. Your throat was dry, like you hadn't drunk for years, your entire body aching with bruises. Before you had time to adapt to your new surroundings, you felt the person in the room with you pull you up by the collar, forcing you to directly face him. His breath smelled of whisky, forcing you to cough.

"Who are you?" he asked, hissing out every word, his blue eyes filled with anger.

"[N-name]", you stuttered. The man raised an eyebrow.

"No surname?"

You shook your head and you spotted a flash of realisation in his eyes; you dropped your gaze, not wanting to have to see that look of disgust that you knew that would be there.

"Who do you belong to?"

You were surprised that he cared, looking back up again in shock. But then you realised why he'd care and how you could use that to harm the person you hated the most. After all, when you were alive, he couldn't be harmed.

"Ivan Braginsky."

Anger grew the man's eyes, like you were just an extension of Ivan, just another part of him. He reached into his overcoat and you knew what he was reaching for. You swallowed, trying to find the courage to accept what was going to happen.

"It's nothing personal; you know that, don't you?"

You looked down the barrel of the handgun aimed directly at your head, nodding, not wanting to have to speak up. He didn't seem to care, not that you'd blame him, not given what you were. You closed your eyes, not wanting to have to fully experience what was happening next.

The shot rang out and somewhere on that ship two heartbeats stopped.

Description
You hated him. Hated him from the centre of your very existence; hated his dismissal of everything you did for him, hated the pent up cruelty within him that found you its victim, hated that eternally present smile, mocking and scorning everything you were, like you weren't even capable of being a person. And, in the eyes of many, you weren't.

The entire story was never publicized, so you had to piece together every little rumour on the streets, every single piece of gossip and every obscure reference in long forgotten tomes. It hadn't been easy and sometimes you were forced to doubt the validity of what you had heard, but it was all you had. All you had to explain your very existence.

In the world you lived in, a person's existence was defined by their soul. Without that soul, they weren't seen as a person, but as an animal, a piece of property to be owned and used at will, before being disposed of once they had served their purpose. The problem was that nobody knew who these soulless would be; many noble families were torn apart from the birth of one of these children, civil wars were fought and many had just disappeared in the night. Then, a bright young alchemist had found the answer; a 'donor' could be found, whose soul would be given to the soulless child, rendering the donor themselves soulless, even though they carried a soul within their bodies. It was a discovery that brought relief to many noble houses, presidential palaces and landowner's manors across the known world; all they needed to ensure that their line would continue was the child of some penniless hag off the streets, who was too desperate to turn down the money.

All they needed was a child like you.

That was all you were; a sacrifice made to keep him a suitable part of society. And by taking your soul away, they had taken everything that made you a person in the eyes of the world. He owned you; free to treat you in any manner he saw fit. And you couldn't fight back at all; if he died, so would you. And it would be him who reached the afterlife. After all, you were just the shadow of his soul, the shadow of another person. And what hope would somebody without a soul have of reaching heaven? The closest you could get would be in the airship you were currently flying in; to escape to the cold wastelands of the north, away from the enemies he had made. The air onboard was constantly smoky, the once bright brass decoration in the cabins now stained from decades of exposure. It didn't feel safe onboard; there were only a handful of cannons, situated together, like they had become lonely and decided to congregate, leaving the rest of the ship vulnerable; a group of assassins could sneak onboard without anyone the wiser. And given who was a passenger on this ship, it was hard to imagine a voyage without an attack.

You shared a cabin with him, having to put up with his penetrating purple gaze glide over your back whenever you turned away. You shivered, trying to ignore the widening smile on his face and continue to go through the folded pieces of clothing in your small trunk. But your seeming lack of care didn't throw him off; he just kept staring intently, just as you kept trying to ignore him. You could hear his heavy footsteps draw closer, his strong arms pulling you into his chest, you ears becoming enveloped in his scarf. Had you listened to your instincts, you would have tried to pull away, to fight back in any way you could. But twenty-four years living with, and as part of, Ivan had taught you better than to fight back. So you just let him pull you closer, trying to halt the sense of hatred bubbling inside you.

"What is it мой подсолнух?" he asked, his tone sugary sweet, as if he were trying to convince you he was harmless. But you didn't believe him for an instant. You shook your head, not wanting to answer. He slid a hand down your face, lightly tapping the eye patch over the socket where your right eye had once been, before stroking your cheek and jaw. Ivan must have known how much you disliked him; everything he was doing seemed to mock you, to finally prove to you that you were exactly what you had been told from a young age. You could feel him pull at the buttons of your plain grey shirt; wanting to tear the entire thing but knowing that it would be over too quickly if he did. And he wanted you to suffer for as long as he could make you.

He whispered in your ear again, his hot breath making you squirm, "You know what happens now, don't you Милый?"

And it was at that moment that a miracle happened; there was the unmistakable sound of glass smashing outside the door. You weren't the only one to notice it; Ivan immediately turned his attention towards it, letting you drop to the floor. You crawled across the floor away from him, trying to ignore the splinters buried in your palms, hoping it would distract him long enough to let you escape. But when you'd only managed to get around three feet from Ivan, you felt a hand clamp down on your leg, pulling you back towards him. You didn't fight back, letting yourself be dragged across the room.

The next thing you remembered was being shoved through a solid wood door.

After you regained consciousness, Ivan was standing over you, his long coat blowing wildly in the wind. You were obviously up on deck, away from the enclosed environment of the quarters. You started to pull yourself to your feet when you heard a single gunshot, the sound reverberating through the air. You instinctively dropped back down to the floor, adopting a foetal position, curling up into a protective ball. Again, Ivan pulled you back up, not from any concern he had for you, but from concern about his soul. For his soul, even though it was now truly his, was still living inside your body and if anything happened to you, he would be left helpless.

Another explosion sounded, a hail of wood splinters raining down on the deck. You needed to get off this ship, no matter what; even if that meant you had to follow Ivan through the maze of corridors without any questions or defiance. Your mind was clouded; your senses being overpowered by the smell of burning canvas, the sound of air rushing through the tears in the air balloon and the freezing temperature against your skin.

So it shouldn't have been so surprising when you didn't notice the person behind you before he hit you over the head.

You awoke to find yourself in an entirely dark room, a tall figure standing over you. Your hands were tied behind you, a solid wooden backrest digging into you, the now torn shirt providing little protection. Your throat was dry, like you hadn't drunk for years, your entire body aching with bruises. Before you had time to adapt to your new surroundings, you felt the person in the room with you pull you up by the collar, forcing you to directly face him. His breath smelled of whisky, forcing you to cough.

"Who are you?" he asked, hissing out every word, his blue eyes filled with anger.

"[N-name]", you stuttered. The man raised an eyebrow.

"No surname?"

You shook your head and you spotted a flash of realisation in his eyes; you dropped your gaze, not wanting to have to see that look of disgust that you knew that would be there.

"Who do you belong to?"

You were surprised that he cared, looking back up again in shock. But then you realised why he'd care and how you could use that to harm the person you hated the most. After all, when you were alive, he couldn't be harmed.

"Ivan Braginsky."

Anger grew the man's eyes, like you were just an extension of Ivan, just another part of him. He reached into his overcoat and you knew what he was reaching for. You swallowed, trying to find the courage to accept what was going to happen.

"It's nothing personal; you know that, don't you?"

You looked down the barrel of the handgun aimed directly at your head, nodding, not wanting to have to speak up. He didn't seem to care, not that you'd blame him, not given what you were. You closed your eyes, not wanting to have to fully experience what was happening next.

The shot rang out and somewhere on that ship two heartbeats stopped.