#Plunder of the Sun

[corvianbard]

#7284

Sekhmet, oh lioness of the golden sun's tear, Rise once more to strike fear Upon all the foreign invaders Before they can think about plunders.

[telestoapologist]

ohhhh my god. i forgot eramis in a way turned eido against misraaks at some point in the story, and every once in awhile spider would take a little pick of him as well during ketchcrash. so it just. became this gif for a bunch of the missions

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) masterlist | part two →

12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol. dividers by @/strangergraphics!

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hiereia of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, “You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Prince Mydeimos is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

[bernardsbendystraws]

｡˚ʚ Bubble .ᐟ Reader x Chris

Chris keeps you calm when seeing a couple deer.

au masterlist

“Chris!” you shout, your hand sliding over your mouth as you observe the sight in front of you. Something in the pit of your stomach is bubbling with warmth. 

You feel Chris wraps his arms around you from behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he pets his hands over your waist soothingly. 

“Shhhh, shhhh,” he coos, a slight laugh pushing through his lips as his eyes soften with adoration. 

It’s beautiful. 

This park has always been a fun spot to hang around, the sunset always making you feel like you’re in a movie, but this is different. Right in front of the sinking golden glow of the sun are two deer, sniffing and plundering around the grass field only a short distance away.  

“Oh my god,” you breathe, the view in front of you seeming ethereal, almost as if you’re living in a dream. 

Chris’ touch keeps you grounded. You feel his breath whisper against the side of your neck, his hands caressing your sides as he hugs you against him closely. 

“It’s pretty, hm?” he tuts, giving your shoulder a gentle kiss as you nod slowly, “Mhm, real pretty—almost as pretty as you.”

A/N: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Dividers by me. I love these motherfuckers so bad. This makes me feel all mushy like wtf???

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[aceyalonso]

playing with ice - KIMI RAIKKONEN

pairing : kimi raikkonen x wife!reader kinktober day 11 - temperature play

summary : y/n knew that marrying the so-called "iceman" of formula 1 certainly has its hot and cold times, especially when it's kimi using ice cubes in the bedroom

warnings/notes : swearing, smut, temperature play (ice cubes he puts it somewhere where the sun doesn't shine), reader is sensitive in this, nipple play, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), slightly mean kimi (he has his moments guys), praise kink, restraints (handcuffs), slight dacryphilia, begging, overstimulation

word count : 3.1k

a/n : bwoah

main masterlist | kinktober masterlist

Kimi entered the bedroom, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he approached the bed where Y/n lay restrained by the handcuffs. The metal clinked softly as he set the bowl of ice cubes down on the nightstand.

"Are you ready?" Kimi asked with a smirk, his deep voice sending a shiver down Y/n's spine despite the warmth of the room.

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart racing with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. She tested the restraints, the cold metal biting into her wrists as she tugged at them futilely. "I... I think so," she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kimi chuckled, the sound low and dark. He picked up an ice cube between his fingers, admiring how the light caught the crystal-clear surface. "Let's see how much you can take," he murmured, before slowly trailing the ice cube down Y/n's neck, leaving a glistening path on her skin.

Y/n gasped as the cold ice cube glided over her sensitive skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. Kimi continued his torturously slow descent, tracing the ice along her collarbone and down between her breasts.

"P-please..." Y/n whimpered, unsure if she was begging him to stop or to continue. Her body was already responding to his touch, nipples hardening into stiff peaks.

Kimi smirked at her reaction, clearly enjoying the power he held over her in that moment. He circled a nipple with the ice, watching in fascination as it puckered even tighter.

"You like that, don't you?" he rumbled, his voice a deep purr. "Your body is so honest, even if your mouth tries to lie."

He popped the ice cube into his mouth, sucking on it for a moment before leaning down to capture Y/n's lips in a searing kiss. The cold ice mingled with the heat of his tongue as he plundered her mouth, swallowing her moans.

Kimi broke the kiss, pausing for a moment, considering his next move. His gaze lingered on Y/n's pert nipples, still glistening from the trail of the ice cube. With a wicked grin, he selected another cube from the bowl.

Slowly, teasingly, he dragged the ice over one hardened peak, circling it until Y/n was squirming against her restraints. Her breath came in short, needy gasps, her body arching as much as the handcuffs would allow.

"Kimi, please..." she whined, unsure what exactly she was begging for. The cold sensation was maddening, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to her core.

Chuckling darkly, Kimi leaned down and took the other nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. He suckled hard, grazing it with his teeth, before releasing it with a wet pop.

Y/n's chest heaved as Kimi released her nipple, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. Her skin was flushed, a rosy hue spreading across her breasts and down her stomach.

Kimi sat back, admiring his handiwork with a satisfied smirk. He reached for another ice cube, holding it up to the light. "I wonder," he mused, his voice low and thoughtful, "how long it would take for you to break."

He trailed the ice down Y/n's sternum, over her belly button, and lower still. Y/n's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking friction, but Kimi avoided her most sensitive areas with a maddening precision.

"You're so responsive," he purred, circling her navel with the ice. "I can practically feel how wet you are just from this."

To emphasize his point, he dipped a finger between her thighs, finding her slick and ready. Y/n let out a desperate whine, tugging at the handcuffs until her wrists ached.

Y/n's pleas grew more urgent as Kimi teased her mercilessly, the ice leaving a glistening trail on her heated skin. "Please, Kimi," she gasped out, her hips rolling shamelessly against his hand. "I need more, I need..."

Her words were cut off by a sharp slap to her sensitive core, the stinging pain blossoming into a throbbing ache. Y/n yelped, her body jolting against the restraints.

"Patience," Kimi growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. "Begging won't get you what you want. In fact, it might just make me change my mind about letting you cum at all."

He punctuated his warning with another slap, this one harder than the last. Y/n cried out, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The pain was exquisite, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "I'll be good, I promise. Just please, don't stop."

His eyes narrowed as he considered Y/n's desperate plea. He traced a finger along her jawline, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "Maybe," he mused, his voice a low rumble, "if you can stay perfectly still, I'll consider letting you cum."

Y/n's breath hitched, her body trembling with the effort to hold herself motionless. Every fiber of her being ached to move, to seek more of Kimi's touch, but she knew the consequences of disobedience.

Kimi watched her struggle, a sadistic gleam in his eye. He reached for another ice cube, holding it just above her chest. "Don't move," he warned, his tone brooking no argument.

Slowly, torturously, he lowered the ice, letting it melt and drip onto Y/n's skin. The cold droplets trailed down her sternum, over her belly, and pooled in her navel. Y/n whimpered, her muscles quivering with the strain of keeping still.

Just as Y/n thought she might be able to maintain her composure, Kimi suddenly pressed the ice cube directly against her sensitive clit. The shock of the cold against her most intimate area caused Y/n to jolt violently, a strangled cry escaping her lips.

"Ah!" she gasped, her hips bucking reflexively. The movement was small, but it was enough.

Kimi's eyes flashed with a mix of disappointment and dark amusement. He removed the ice cube, tossing it aside carelessly. "Too bad," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Looks like you've lost your chance to cum tonight."

Y/n's heart sank, despair washing over her. She had been so close, so desperate for release. Now, it seemed, that opportunity was gone forever.

"Please, Kimi," she begged, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to move. I'll do anything, just please let me cum."

Kimi stood up from the bed, looming over Y/n's restrained form. He reached for the key to the handcuffs, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Just as Y/n thought he was about to release her, Kimi paused. He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to consider her desperate pleas.

"You know," he mused, his voice dripping with false concern, "I might be willing to compromise. If you're really that desperate to cum, maybe we can work something out."

Y/n's heart leaped, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. She nodded eagerly, willing to do almost anything at this point. "Yes," she breathed, her voice trembling with anticipation. "Anything, just please..."

Kimi's eyes glinted with a sadistic gleam as he considered Y/n's desperate pleas. He leaned down, his face mere inches from hers. "I have a proposition for you," he purred, his breath hot against her skin. "If you want to cum so badly, I'll put an ice cube inside your pussy. Just to see how much you can really take."

Y/n's eyes widened, a mix of shock and excitement coursing through her. The idea was both terrifying and thrilling, the thought of the cold ice against her most intimate parts sending a shiver down her spine.

"Do we have a deal?" Kimi asked, his voice a low rumble. "Put the ice inside, and I'll let you cum. Refuse, and you'll spend the rest of the night aching and unsatisfied."

Y/n swallowed hard, her mind racing with the possibilities. She knew it would be intense, perhaps even painful, but the promise of release was too tempting to resist.

Y/n nodded eagerly, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do it."

Kimi smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across his features. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, a rare display of affection. "Good girl," he murmured, before reaching for the key to the handcuffs.

The metal clinked as he unlocked the restraints, freeing Y/n from her bonds. She rubbed her wrists, the circulation returning to her numb fingers.

"Here," Kimi said, handing her a pillow. "I'm feeling sorry for you. You can hold onto this while I... experiment."

Y/n clutched the pillow to her chest, grateful for the small comfort. She watched as Kimi reached for the bowl of ice cubes, her breath catching in her throat as he selected a particularly large one.

Kimi knelt between Y/n's spread legs, the ice cube glinting in his hand. He looked up at her, his dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her shiver.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Y/n swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the pillow. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her body was tense, every muscle coiled with anticipation.

Kimi's gaze dropped to her exposed sex, a wicked smile curving his lips. "Remember," he purred, "if you want to cum, you have to put the whole thing inside."

With that, he leaned forward, his breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh. Y/n whimpered, her hips twitching involuntarily.

Slowly, teasingly, Kimi trailed the ice cube along her slit, the cold sensation sending jolts of pleasure-pain through her core. Y/n gasped, her head falling back against the pillow.

Y/n gasped as the ice made contact with her most intimate area, the cold sensation, unlike anything she had ever experienced before. "F-fucking cold," she stammered, her teeth chattering slightly.

Kimi chuckled, a dark and wicked sound. He continued his torturous ministrations, circling her entrance with the ice, teasing her with the promise of penetration.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a low rumble. "Just relax and let it happen."

Y/n tried to do as he said, but her body was tense, resisting the foreign intrusion. Kimi pressed a little harder, the ice beginning to slip inside her.

Y/n let out a strangled cry, her hips bucking involuntarily. The cold was intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain rippling through her core.

"Kimi, please," she whimpered, unsure if she was begging him to stop or to continue. "I-I don't know if I can..."

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. "You already said yes," he reminded her, his voice firm. "You can't back out now, especially when you're doing so well."

Y/n bit her lip, her body trembling with the effort to relax. She knew he was right, but the intensity of the sensation was overwhelming.

"Just breathe," Kimi coaxed, his free hand coming up to rub soothing circles on her thigh. "Focus on the pleasure, not the cold."

Y/n tried to do as he said, taking deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. Slowly, gradually, she felt her body beginning to accept the intrusion.

Kimi watched her closely, gauging her reactions. When he was satisfied that she was ready, he began to push the ice cube deeper, his movements slow and deliberate.

Y/n let out a long, low moan as the cold filled her, stretching her in ways she had never experienced before. It was intense, almost too much, but beneath the discomfort was a growing sense of pleasure, building with each passing second.

Kimi's eyes darkened with lust as he watched Y/n squirm and moan, the ice cube buried deep inside her. "See, you can take it so well," he purred, his voice a low rumble. "Such a good girl for me."

With his free hand, he began to stroke her sensitive folds, his fingers gliding easily through the slickness of her arousal. Y/n gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily as he found her clit, circling the swollen nub with a maddening precision.

The combination of the cold ice and Kimi's skilled fingers was almost too much to bear. Y/n's head thrashed against the pillow, her body torn between the desire to escape the intensity and the need to chase the impending pleasure.

"Kimi, please," she whimpered, her voice high and needy. "I-I think I'm going to..."

Kimi grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. He pushed the ice cube as deep as it would go, the cold pressure against her inner walls sending Y/n over the edge.

As Y/n's orgasm crashed over her, Kimi continued to work his fingers, drawing out her pleasure. He could feel the ice cube melting inside her, the cold water mixing with her own arousal.

Her body shook and spasmed, her inner walls clenching around the ice and Kimi's fingers. She cried out, her voice raw and desperate, as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her.

"That's it," Kimi growled, his own arousal straining against the confines of his pants. "Cum for me, baby. Let go."

Y/n's nails dug into the pillow, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. She was lost in the sensation, her mind blanking out everything but the feeling of Kimi's touch and the cold, melting ice inside her.

As her orgasm began to subside, Kimi slowly withdrew his fingers, a satisfied smirk on his face. He watched as Y/n collapsed back against the bed, her chest heaving with exertion.

Kimi gazed down at Y/n, a mix of pride and affection in his eyes. "You did so well," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "You deserve to cum again."

With that, he lowered his head between her thighs, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh. Y/n gasped, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her previous orgasm.

Kimi's tongue delved into her folds, lapping at the mixture of her arousal and the melted ice. The contrast of the cold and his warm mouth sent shivers down Y/n's spine, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face.

He worked her with a skillful precision, his tongue circling her clit before dipping inside her, teasing her with the promise of more. Y/n's hands flew to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as she pulled him closer.

"Kimi, yes," she moaned, her voice breathy and needy. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

He continued his assault on Y/n's sensitive flesh, his tongue delving deep and swirling around her most intimate parts. Y/n's body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

Tears streamed down her face, the intensity of the sensations overwhelming her. She was so sensitive, every touch, every lick sending shockwaves through her core.

"Kimi, it's so good," she sobbed, her voice broken and raw. "I can't take it, I'm going to... I'm going to..."

Her words dissolved into incoherent moans as Kimi redoubled his efforts, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her open. Y/n's legs trembled, her muscles tensing as she teetered on the brink of another orgasm.

Y/n's body convulsed, her back arching off the bed as another powerful orgasm ripped through her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she cried out, her voice a hoarse scream. "Kimi, I can't... I can't take anymore!"

But Kimi didn't relent, his tongue and lips working her through the intense waves of pleasure. Y/n's hands scrabbled at the sheets, her knuckles white as she gripped the fabric for dear life.

Her legs shook uncontrollably, the muscles tensing and releasing as she rode out the aftershocks. Kimi held her steady, his strong hands keeping her open and exposed to his relentless ministrations.

Y/n's sobs mingled with her moans, the sounds spilling from her lips in a desperate symphony. She was lost in the sensation, her mind blanking out everything but the feeling of Kimi's mouth on her pussy.

As Y/n's body shook and convulsed, her orgasm bordering on too intense, Kimi finally relented. He pulled back, his mouth leaving her sensitive flesh with a wet pop.

Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Kimi cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

"Hey," Kimi murmured, his voice soft and soothing. "Stay with me, baby. I've got you."

Y/n blinked, her vision slowly clearing as she focused on Kimi's face. His dark eyes were filled with concern, his brow furrowed with worry.

She nodded weakly, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her intense orgasms. Kimi's hands were gentle as they stroked her hair, his touch a comforting anchor in the midst of the overwhelming sensations.

"I'm here," he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere."

Kimi held Y/n close, his arms wrapping around her trembling form. He could feel her heart racing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she struggled to calm herself.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "Just breathe, nice and slow. In and out, nice and easy."

Y/n nodded, trying to follow his instructions. She focused on Kimi's voice, using it as a guide to regulate her breathing. Gradually, her breaths evened out, the tremors in her body subsiding to a slight shiver.

Kimi continued to hold her, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back. He pressed soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, her jaw, offering her comfort and reassurance.

As Y/n's breathing returned to normal, Kimi pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching her face. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. "Was I too much?"

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "No, it felt good," she assured him, her voice still slightly breathless. "I just didn't anticipate how... stimulating it would be."

Kimi's expression softened, a hint of pride and satisfaction in his gaze. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "But next time, we'll take it a little slower. I don't want to overwhelm you."

Y/n nodded slowly, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. The intense orgasms, combined with the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, had left her feeling drained and sleepy.

He noticed her fatigue, his brow furrowing with concern. "You should rest," he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You've been through a lot tonight."

She leaned into his touch, her eyelids fluttering closed. "Okay," she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep. "I think I need to sleep."

Kimi helped her sit up, supporting her as she leaned against the headboard. He pulled the covers over her, tucking her in with a gentle hand.

"Sleep well, my love," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'll clean you up while you sleep."

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[moonsglare]

“your kitten is awake.”

your words are grumbled into your pillow, but with the way you feel the spiderweb of threads on your back quiver, you know your dear goldweaver has heard you. beyond the cocoon of your bed you can distinctly hear a little creature sneaking about—of chests being opened and couch cushions being rifled through.

“she needs enrichment,” comes the melodic, dry reply from your lover, the picture of golden elegance even in sleep, her all-seeing eyes shut, delicate lashes brushing the apple of her cheeks. “she will tire out eventually.”

“mm, after she has plundered all your wealth, perhaps,” you retort, shifting under silken sheets to gather her into your arms, slotting your face in the crook of where her neck meets her shoulder. she smells of rosewater and fresh laundry, the scent as delicate as every other little thing about her.

a sleep-touched laugh slips from her lips at that, as her hands find the smooth plane of your back. a kiss is pressed to your temple, soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. “if that is the case, then i shall simply weave us all more wealth.”

“you’re already overworked,” you counter with a soft sigh. “a little discipline is good for kittens, you know.”

aglaea’s hands find your face, and she draws back to meet your eyes. gold and irisdescent green, like the emerald leaves upon the boughs in the grove you once came from, peer into you as if examining your very soul. something in your chest—perhaps heart, perhaps coreflame—trembles at the touch, like a thread pull taut.

“so is a little love,” she says softly, and you know this battle is lost. for all of an orator you are at the grove, in this debate under rose-scented sheets, in a home draped in gold thread, your words fail. this is the great irrationality, that which exceeds the calculus of the universe; this, is love, and you are but a powerless butterfly carried upon a warm west wind.

“oh, alright,” you sigh eventually, smiling wryly. “but do not blame me if she ends up ripping your curtains trying to get to the—“

just then, you both hear the characteristic sound of fabric being shredded, and it is aglaea’s turn to sigh now. you simply chuckle, and release your beloved goldweaver from your grasp as she rises from the bed like the brilliant, aureate sun, and you wish in your heart that the dusk might never come.

irrational, the coreflame in your chest whispers, carried by the lightness of mirth.

in love, your own mortal heart corrects.

this time, there is no divine rebuttal. only the sounds of a waking home, unfurling from the chrysalis of sleep to greet the rosy-fingered dawn.

[wri0thesley]

thinking about jing yuan somnophilia. it's normally him who lets his eyes fall closed when he finds a warm patch of sunlight and a chance to slip away from his work, but when he comes home very early before lunch one day (no matters needing his attention) and finds that you've taken the decision to have a very long lie-in and you're currently spread out across his bed, still in your nightgown with one thigh up high and the chiffon skirts all rucked up around your hips showing him a tantalising glimpse at the curve of your ass and the secret between your thighs . . . how is he supposed to resist?

he pads towards you as quiet as a big cat, humming low in the back of his throat in appreciation of the sight. you're so pretty with the sun dappling your peaceful sleeping face, the gown you chose to sleep in diaphonous and leaving nothing to the imagination. perhaps he even softly gathers your wrists in his (your face twitches and you whine in your sleep, but you allow him to gently manoeuvre you onto your back) and slowly, carefully and not too tightly, ties the red ribbon in his hair around them so that you can't squirm too much whilst he has his fun.

and of course, he cannot help but play a little game with himself as he does it all. it's far more satisfying than a game of starchess; the only one who can be conquered and plundered here is you. but he tells himself he will see how long he can keep you asleep as his big hands curve over your thighs, spread your legs. as his calloused fingers oh-so-softly brush over your slit, coaxing slick forward from you with only the barest feather-light touches. slips one finger inside of you and wins you moaning again, shifting, your cheeks heating up - but though your lashes flicker prettily, your eyes do not open.

when he softly rubs his hard cock all over the lips of your sex, brushing your clit, letting his precome mingle with your own arousal, you whimper his name and cant your hips up and your thighs reflexively tighten about his hips . . . and he knows putting it in you would wake you up, so all he can do is helplessly fuck into your thighs and the valley between the soft plump lips of your labia.

for the first time, he finds himself wanting to lose, if only so he could sheathe himself fully inside of you and give you the fucking you deserve.

[seaslugfanclub]

Disneys Sleepiest Soldier

————————————————————————

The video essay on (Y/N)s phone becomes increasingly blurry as they take a slow bite of their sandwich, trying to keep their eyes open.

Holy shit, they were exhausted.

(Y/N) sat hunched over the break room table, their eyes feeling like lead sinkers and feet pulsing from walking miles around the park. (Y/N) had arrived to their shift already tired, construction work had been done throughout the evening below (Y/N)s apartment—so they didn’t get a lick of sleep the previous night.

And after being in the sun all day, up and walking around tending to both guest and entertainment, they felt like they were going to pass out.

Pausing the video essay, (Y/N) checked the time on their phone, their soul clenching when they saw that they had 5 hours remaining to their shift.

Finishing off their sandwich, they looked at the time again to see they had 20 more minutes left to their lunch break,

“I’ll just take a micro nap, 10 minutes tops…..no one will notice…” (Y/N) reasoned, setting a timer on their phone and resting their head in their arms, almost instantly falling asleep.

————————————————————————

Even though he technically didn’t have to eat or drink, Hades couldn’t resist having a secret martini around this time of day. He had all the ingredients prepped in his room; gin, glass, live worm, all he needed now were the olives that were kept in the employee break room fridge.

Appearing from a cloud of smoke right in front of the refrigerator, the Lord of the Dead retrieved the olives, about to vanish to his room when he noticed a slumped over form in the corner of his eye.

“Well, what do we have here?” Hades mused as he walked over to his favorite park attendant, who was passed out on the break room table.

He loomed above them for a few minutes just appreciating their sleeping form when he noticed how dark the rings under (Y/N)s eyes were, they also looked paler than he remembered.

Now (Y/N) could look like anything and Hades would still find them attractive (the old pervert) but even he hated to admit how corpse like they looked.

“Geez kid….they don’t make things easy for you do they? Poor schmuck.”

Sighing in resignation, Hades swished the olives in his had away with a wisp of smoke, pocketed (Y/N)s phone, and proceeded to lift their limp body into his arms, carrying them bridal style. Once he knew (Y/N) hadn’t waken up from being jostled, he teleporting out of the break room and into the Villains common area.

Being so used to living around dead people, the feeling of warm, living flesh against his cold body was a change that Hades didn’t know was so welcomed until now. It almost hurt to part from (Y/N) as he layed them down onto the sofa in the middle of the room. Hades stared at them for a moment longer, before turning around to leave the room. He needed a stronger drink…

————————————————————————

“Cripes—Silver!? Did you nab my blunderbuss again— oh..”

Hook trotted into the common area, hoping to find and berate Silver for his missing pistol, before cutting himself off when he spotted (Y/N)s sleeping form splayed out on the sofa.

It seems that their exhaustion overpowered Hooks shouting, (Y/N) not even stirring.

Hook slowly approached the couch, looking over His park attendants form with silent wonder. He had never seen (Y/N) asleep before, they were always up and running around the park, confident and energetic. Hook marveled in this rare vulnerability, (Y/N)s sleeping form reminded him of the old renaissance paintings he had plundered with his crew years ago. (Y/N)s face was absent of all emotion, their hair splayed around them—

Wait a minute….

Hook was brought out of his reverie when he noticed how awkward (Y/N)s head was resting against the arm of the sofa. How could his dear attendant sleep without proper pillow!?

“My poor poppet… I’ll set you straight right.”

Hook sped out of the lounge, only to return minutes later with a pillow from his own quarters. He didn’t mind the strange looks from the other villains who were stalking the halls, his only goal was to get back to the common area.

Making sure not to scrape (Y/N) with his hook, the old captain gently lifted (Y/N)s head to place his pillow underneath their neck.

Taking a step back he admired his work, (Y/N) looking much more comfortable lying against his down feathered pillow.

“Sleep well my dear~” he whispered has he stalked out of the room.

————————————————————————

Hans clenched and unclenched his fists, not liking the way his palms felt— being so unused to not wearing his gloves. He rarely takes them off, and of course the only time he does so he misplaced them. He tried to ask around to see if anyone had found his pair of cotton gloves, but like every other time in his life, Hans was ignored.

His last hope in his search was the lounge, praying to Mickey-fucking-Mouse that they had somehow made their way there.

Completely focused on finding his gloves, Hans entered the common area and immediately began rummaging around. He didn’t care if his trousers got dusty or his hair fussed up, he couldn’t bear the feeling of his hands making direct contact with everything.

“Kom igen… var är de?”

Hans’s frustration was finally overwhelming him, about to give up when he noticed a flash of white from underneath the couch.

“Aha! Oh, finally!!”

Hans kneeled to reach under the couch, finally grabbing his beloved gloves and wasted no time in slipping them back on his hands. Relief washing over him, Hans went to stand back up— only to be face to face with (Y/N)’s

He flinched back, stumbling to his feet. In his mad search for his gloves, he had completely overlooked the sleeping (Y/N).

He titled his head, confused on why 1: (Y/N) is passed out on the villains sofa when they’re in the middle of a shift, and 2: why their head is resting on a satin down pillow that probably costs more than their rent.

Hans was brought out of his thoughts when a noticed a shiver ran up (Y/N)s back, the park attendant squirming.

Huh, he never noticed how chilly the lounge was, probably because he was used to the cold, even the central AC being nothing but white noise to him. Looking at (Y/N) again, he felt a strange squirming in his stomach…

….eh, it’s probably pity.

Tugging on his gloves, he walked over to the common areas closet, where they kept all the cleaning supplies, lightbulbs, untouched board games, and blankets. Groping around until he found something that met his standards, Hans pulled out a knit throw blanket and walked back to the couch.

With a flick of his wrists, the blanket unfurled and fell onto (Y/N)s body, (Y/N) unconsciously burrowing their face into the knit wool. Hans was strangely reminded of the bakers in his castles kitchens, blanketing the tops pies with dough.

Shrugging off the memories, he gave (Y/N) a fleeting look before exiting the lounge, his fists clenching and unclenching.

————————————————————————

The overhead LED lights stung in Frollos eyes, making him wince and rub the bridge of his nose. He used to think Paris as a filthy city, but now what he wouldn’t give to be back in the 15th century.

Trudging down the hall, a pit of anxiety welled in the bottom of his chest, dreading having to go back out in the park and having to… eugh, interact with others.

His procession stopped as he passed the doorway of the common area, turning his head towards the sofa. Checking to make so no one else was near, Frollo approached the couch to look over (Y/N).

If it was anyone else, Frollo would’ve sneered and berated the person for their sloth. Such waste of time and insult to God.

And yet…

It was a rarity to see the park attendant so still, their resting body allowing Frollo to notice details he never saw before; The stray beauty mark on their cheek, a specific strand of hair the coiled around their face, cuts and scrapes that littered their hands…

Frollo huffed, allowing (Y/N) to continue their sleep, about to exit the room when he stopped.

Their (Y/N) laid, their form vulnerable and unprotected, resting amongst those with wicked tendencies. It would go against his “beliefs” to allow evil to take advantage of those unaware.

Reaching into his robe, he pulled out his personal Rosary, the old wooden beads clicking as they hind from his fingers. Delicately, Frollo hung his rosary from the edge of the couch, the cross resting right above (Y/N).

“Procul recedant somnia, Et noctium phantasmata; Hostemque nostrum comprime, Ne polluantur corpora.” Frollo muttered a prayer, signing the cross over (Y/N)s body.

Having so other excuse to stay, Frollo stalked out of the lounge

“dors bien et fais de beaux rêves..”

————————————————————————

Facilier was….well— he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

(Y/N) sprawled out on the couch, head resting on a pillow that looked like it belonged in Big Daddy La Bouff’s mansion, worn knit blanket draped over their body, and a dingy rosary hanging above their head.

The shadow man stared down at (Y/N), his shadow trying to reach the couch, only to be shocked backwards. Probably the fault of the rosary.

“Ah forget it old sport— let the kid rest,” Facilier chastised his shadow.

The conman recalled seeing (Y/N) stumbling around the park earlier in the day, nodding off while standing. Poor sap must’ve surrendered to their bodies plea for rest.

Facilier’s been known to indulge in a nap once or twice, especially on the sticky summer days back in Orleans… but from personal experience, he always needed total darkness.

“I’ve got no idea how they can sleep with all this light… let’s do the poor Cher a solid. Shadow, cut the lights.”

With the command of his master, Faciliers shadow creeped towards the window on the neighboring wall, pulling down the blinds as Facilier walked over to the light switch, humming to himself.

“..pale moon's shining on the fields below…. The folks are singing songs, soft and loooowww~”

flicking off the overhead lights, the lounge was plunged in darkness.

“Much better, c’mon old sport—” Facilier beckoned his shadow, who gave (Y/N) a longing glance before return to his master.

“You needn't tell me, ‘cause I know… When it's sleepy time down south~”

————————————————————————

(Y/N) sighed in their sleep, nestling into the blanket and pillow. Although they were still fast asleep, far from waking up— they could feel the peace that washed over them. Something only achieved when you’ve reach maximum comfort after strenuous activity.

There were moments in their sleep when they were uncomfortable; neck aching, cold, bad dreams, and bright light stinging behind their eyes. But each time they almost roused from sleep, the problem was always solved, sending them deeper and deeper into the REM cycle.

So there (Y/N) rested, swamped in strange warmth and set to not wake for a long while.

————————————————————————

Can you tell that my love language is acts of service?

I just wanted to write something fluffy, (also I kinda want to write more Hans stuff, an obsession is growing…)

Anyway, enjoy!

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[thedansemacabres]

ARES CHTHONIOS, DEFENDER OF LAND

[IMG ID: A photograph of a dark, smoky landscape that turns the sun a brightly-dim red hue. The background is obscured by the ash, with tall trees in the distance. In the foreground is a single house, the blue hidden by the dark ash, with tall oak trees to the right accompanied by a visible large SUV. The scene is dark and dreary].

I HAVE HAD A HARVEST OF GOOD CONVERSATIONS AROUND THE TOPIC OF DIVINE ARES, especially as of late, and I have begun to find a deeper appreciation for the theos. Beyond what many hellenic pagans have said, of him using rage for justice and an aspect of revolution, in my personal research I found another related Ares: the Ares of Ge, the land defender, close to the Erinys and fertility goddesses, and who casts his dice based upon holy Dike’s will. Ares was a popular deity in antiquity, worshipped across the ancient world, especially in Asia Minor with his likely syncretism with a local deity and Iliac connections. I will begin to follow a journey with Ares to understand him as more than war and slaughter, similar to my endlessly loving dea Bellona, and thus I have found Ares Chthonios.

This will be a general survey of his historical cult and my understanding of it based upon my own actions in activism, land sovereignty, and also my understandings from the devotion to the war, retribution, and revolution goddess Bellona. I will interlude my personal interpretations, but I hope these are clear, and I urge those interested to see my bibliography to understand more about Ares in a less frenzied context. 

ARES, DEFENDER OF LAND 

A strong function of war in antiquity was the defence of land. War often meant the burning of crops and homes, the raping of women, slaughter of children, destruction of hearths, and sometimes even the destruction of sacred groves of the gods. Sanctuaries could also be raided and plundered, such as the case in Rome, and their goods appropriated for other deities and personal use. Another aspect of war was civil control, as states did not desire rebellion. For this we begin to see the binding of gods, Ares, but also Dionysos. The ancient world did not have the food security that we do—and imagining life without more readily stable food, defending land becomes not only a necessity, but an ethical move. Siege spells death through Limos. Without land, you cannot access the hearth of Hestia, nor is there security from enslavement by other poli in antiquity. 

Ares’ less war-bound primary functions lie in this defence of land. He was widely worshipped, with some facets of this worship were for the purpose of defending the homeland. 

He is described as a personification of the yeoman-hoplite, who was also likely a farmer that arose to defend his homeland and farm in times of war. Cultic evidence suggests that he was also often paired with fertility goddesses, such as Despoina, Chthonia, the Anatolian Mother Kybele, and of course Aphrodite. He lacks the direct agricultural association of Mars, but he possesses the inherent relation to the chora: thus placed in the city’s sacred groves.

Us modern people concerned with justice tend towards movements such as land back and decolonialism. Xenia does not permit us to be bad to foreigners and xenophobia is a pillar of modern bigotry. Ares’ power may be used to brandish the spear in the defence of land—especially in these ages of growing oligarchies and fascism, the defense of land and home becomes ever more important. His passion and rage lend well to an activist from giving up, giving us strength to continue on. Instead of empowering doom, we may pray for Ares’ courage in the fights present and cultural wars to come just as the homeric hymnal asks for his courage and manliness to investigate the worshipper. 

ARES, OF THE GROVE 

Worship of Ares is also often found in sacred groves. As a defender of chora, it is internal sense to place him within nature. His shrines were also found in the countryside in the network of interpolis social and spatial focal politics. His association with the Earth is enough to call him one of the theoi chthonoi and more for than just bloodshed. As Cults and Sanctuaries of Ares and Enualios summarises: 

Ares, it would seem, was believed to stand guard over the agricultural land of the polls and served the divine patron of its human protectors as well. When enemies threatened, it was Ares who guided the warriors of the polls in their attempt to pay back their enemy. Thus the mythology of Ares, in which he is almost always opposes the aggressor and is often roused to action by an attack against his children,reflects the essentially parochial and reactive nature of a god intent on the defense of the land under his protection (Gonzales, pg 61). 

As a defender of land, he is keen to strike against those that threaten his children: he attempts to avenge Askalaphos in the Iliad, he fights Herakles for the body of his son Kyknos, he avenges the death of the Drakon Ismenios by transforming Kadmos and Harmonia, and he avenges the rape of his daughter Alkippe. Ares is a god of protection in his own right.

Another remark is that Ares is connected to drakons, symbols of the protection alongside chthonic earth, and groves as a whole. He fathers a drakon and snakes are commonly associated with him, his sacred grove that contains the fleece also contained a drakon. Another remark from the book on his binding to the land states; 

The oracle from Pamphylian Syedra, once again, most clearly articulates the associations between, Ares, Dike, and the well being of the polis and its chora. Physically bound to the city and its land, the power of Ares would function both as an avenging protector and guarantor of prosperity: “thus will he become a peaceful god for you, once he has driven the enemy horde far from your land, and he will give rise to prosperity much prayed for..” (Gonzales, 62.) 

This oracle will be revisited later, but there is a clear line of Ares and protection of the land. 

ARES, OF THE PEOPLE

Defending land is equally the defence of people. Undoubtedly there were ancient Greek warriors that would fight to return home, such as Odysseus, and countless unnamed people. Particularly in the context of Iliac Ares, arete is positioned in war as related to material goods and the sadness women and people express at warriors dying relates to their failure as a warrior; their failure becoming agathos. An agathos brings dishonor and shame as he is not able to defend his home, often leaving women and children in distress (Mary, 4). In Iliac poetry, when a warrior lives, he is then chosen by Ares to uphold his Arete. When it comes to Iliac Ares, it makes me wonder about the portrayal of Ares in relation to this—Ares’ humiliation in the Iliad could be related to this idea of failing Arete. 

In this context of ancient society, Ares is enjoyed by common people who take an active role in the pursuits of war. He was invoked by the state for purposes of defending it, much as Apollon was used for colonialism and in war. Ares as the causal force of war, the dangerous slayer, also rallies people to join in union for the fight, 

Plutarch quotes Archilochus, a poet from Paros, also active in the seventh century, as describing the beginning of the close combat within a battle as Ares bringing together the press of battle on the plain. This idea also appears in a mid-fifth century inscription from Samos, in which Ares is described as having brought together the ships of the Greeks and the Medes in battle. Alcaeus’ Ares is the cause of war, and Archilochus’ Ares brings armies together in the conflict which, as other poets tell us, is Ares’ domain (Millington, 113). 

Another small note from Pindar is him positioning Zeus, god of the polis and the people, as an ally to Ares. The Iliad employs an adversarial relationship between them, but Zeus is also a noted war god—elsewhere it is remarked that Apollon’s lyre tames the spear of Ares and the thunderbolt of Zeus. War and the Warrior: Functions of Ares in Literature and Cult describes the friendlier relationship of Zeus and Ares as, 

In his first Pythian Ode, Pindar describes Ares and Zeus as an allied pair,contrasted with Typhon and the forces of chaos, implying that Ares is integrated into, rather than an enemy of the city and civilization (Millington, 128). 

Thus Ares may be compositied with the other theoi as a defender of people. And looking at his name in epithets of other gods—Athena Areia, Aphrodite Areia, Zeus Areios—he is not constantly of strife, but rather comes into unity with the other gods. His association with the Erinyes only puts this as more explicit, as he avenges the blood oath—giving power to the appropriate parties in the Oresteia to avenge the blood-curse. Just as he is mentioned with Dike, the Homeric hymn pairs him as an “aid to Themis” and “ally of mortals” (Rayor, 99).

ARES BEYOND STATELY VALUES

I do critique any reconstructionist that is going to say “chain Ares”, which while in the modern period refers to limiting or constructing, in the ancient world it was to chain Ares’ power to your homeland in particular. It was to ensure his power, by Hermes, would be favoured and stay on your side. Ares’ worship may be further stood in antiquity through this—the Homeric hymn asks to “quell the rebellious”, which for a state would be a primary function of Ares as he could bring civil strife. From a critical perspective, Ares’ worship in this capacity I believe traces back to a rebellious nature—this is a god that can easily bring civil war and revolution, thus he is worshipped to appease this nature and thus secure stability. Then, equally, as a god that brings bloodlust and rage, he also brings peace and the restraint of bloody desires. A function of worship for many in the ancient world is aversion. The same hymnal remarks on Ares to bring courage, not fear, and to tame bloody desires. 

Considering the need to chain and appease Ares, this to my personal understanding shows a deity deeply concerned with the state in a negative manner to said state. He is a vengeance deity, associated with blood-curses, found in actions such us Klytiemennstra’s revenge. Taking a note from my own dea, my understanding of Ares is that he operates as a vengeance god who contests the state on the basis of state injustice. The gods are far more progressive than ancient Greek society was—considering slavery, misogyny, and strife, I find it of no surprise a god of defending land and vengeance would be such a contrarian force. 

I also think of Harmonia, his daughter. A god who was entirely hate and terror would not father the personification of musical and societal harmony. Many of Ares’ children function in harmonic rather than wholly negative roles—even if Eros is sweet and bitter. 

BELLONA, ARES, AND REVOLUTION

Bellona is the roman warrior and hero of excellence, she holds virtue, victory, and retribution in her hands. Rome before the empire understood war as an act of revenge—Rome tried to create and self-justify expansion as a revenge and divine retribution. She essentially acts as a fury. But this retribution and balancing of the scales could turn inwards, and thus, Rome was in tension with her to stay of moral righteousness, lest she bring down her whip upon the city and strike up civil war. Her methods are bloody and furious, deeply caring about wrongs committed, and very rewarding to the righteous and good that follow. 

I see my dea as a goddess of justice, as retribution for wrong that is done is often a key component of justice. Compared to Justicia, who was used for imperial propaganda, Bellona became sidelined in the times of the empire but her popularity did not wane. In this I see a homoplasy between these two gods: Ares’ masculinity would naturally contribute to his more stately portrayal than Bellona, but he is in enough tension with the polis to require a binding by Dike and Hermes from anxious polis religions. And as he is guided by Dike, justice herself, he must often have very good reason to be a volatile causal force. 

Less on my interpretative notes, this quote gives an idea to modernised Ares worship:

Pamphylians of Syedra, who inhabit a rich land of mixed men in shared fields, plant a statue of bloody, man-slaying Ares in the middle of the city and beside (him) perform sacrifices as you bind him with the iron bonds of Hermes, and on the other side let Justice administer the law and judge him; let him resemble a suppliant. Thus will he become a peaceful deity for you, once he has driven the enemy horde far from your country, and he will give rise to prosperity much prayed for. And you, at the same time, take great pain, either chasing them or placing them in unbreakable bonds, and do not, out of fear of the pirates, pay their terrible penalty. For thus will you escape from all degradation (Gonzales, 2010, 280).

Ares here is directly connected to prosperity and defense of people. And most of all, he can be peaceful. One of Ares’ essential traits is his endless bloodlust and rage, which when guided by justice, gives rise to holy revolution and the passionate urge to do good. He as the gods of these things also gives my senses a modern interpretation of a passage in the homeric hymnal: 

Mighty Ares, gold-helmed chariot master, shield-bearer, bronze-armored city guard, strong-willed,  strong-armed, untiring spear strength, defense of Olympos, father of Victory in war, aid to Themis, tyrant to enemies, leader of righteous men, wielding manhood’s scepter, your red orb whirling  among the seven paths of the planets through the ether where your fiery stallions bear you above the third orbit (Rayor, 99).

While quelling rebellion, it is stated that he also leads the righteous. For a personal interpretation, I can easily see it as such: rebellious men are quelled, but righteous men are led, and oftentimes the revolutionary is a person aspiring for right societal change—the feminist argues against the coil and chains of sexism, the indigenous revolutionary against colonialism, and many such examples. I would never shame the rightful anger of a revolutionary. And this is another aspect of Ares I see: his anger and bloodlust may be channelled for the purpose of societal equity-health and stability. Tyrants in ancient Greece were not initially viewed poorly, but after the ancient Greco-Persian war, tyrants became viewed as an enemy of people and democracy. Ares’ hymn thus describes a stance against tyranny, requiring no imagination for the modern day. 

ENDING NOTES

This post is both a survey and a modern look at the evidence. I urge everyone interested to read Cults and Sanctuaries of Ares and Enyalios: A Survey of the Literary, Epigraphic, and Archaeological Evidence to gain a better understanding of him and to develop the historical literacy on Ares. And for Ares’ darker associations, there are plenty of other texts expressing the rightful  pessimism on war. As a fragment of Archilochus says, Ares is “common” to all people, and war affects us all. But this side of Ares does not have to be the one that people still know him for—he is like my dea in this, still bloodshed and slaughter, but he is also a defender and protector. Just as Dionysos drives people mad and Apollon kills through plague, Ares embodies the dualities and complexities of the conflict. I find it depressing that Ares has not been uncoupled or understood in his darker aspects compared to Athena or Apollon. Several are quick to pick away Athena’s war aspects as a vintage value, even her historical misogyny, but not Ares. This I find to be a shame. 

If you liked this post, please consider checking out this post on my wordpress!

References 

Gonzales, M. P. (2004). Cults and sanctuaries of Ares and Enyalios: A Survey of the Literary, Epigraphic, and Archaeological Evidence.

Gonzales, M. (2010). The oracle and cult of ares in Asia minor. DOAJ (DOAJ: Directory of Open Access Journals). https://doaj.org/article/e9173c9623d24726bc11a08093a1df74

Lewis, & Sian. (2025, March 10). Tyranny | Meaning & Facts. Encyclopedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/topic/tyranny/Greek-tyrants

Meghan Poplacean, D. (2017). The Business of Butchery Bellona and War, Society and Religion from Republic to Empire. The Department of History and Classical Studies  McGill University, Montréal. https://escholarship.mcgill.ca/concern/theses/b8515q959

Millington, A. (2014). War and the Warrior: Functions of Ares in Literature and Cult. In Doctoral thesis, UCL (University College London). https://discovery.ucl.ac.uk/id/eprint/1427880/

Scott, M. (1979). PITY AND PATHOS IN HOMER. Acta Classica, 22, 1–14. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24591563

Serrati, J. (2022). Gender and the Ritual Lament: Women as the Arbiters of Aretē and Virtus, 2022. Ageless Aretē: Essays From the 6th Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Hellenic Heritage of Sicily and Southern Italy.

[pursuitseternal]

🧜‍♀️𝔹𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕒 ℂ𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖:

🧜‍♀️ℙ𝕚𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝔸𝕌 𝔾𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝔽𝕚𝕔

Gale x Merelind (f!OC) | M | 6.7 K

Summary: Disgraced, rejected by his Queen and his former lover, Gale Dekarios hunts the seas as a pirate. But the greater shame is the Orb in his chest that rots him from the inside out. A year of searching, and his ship nears the rumored site of the Netherstones, the key to the Crown of Karsus. The object that will break his Netherese Curse. All that lies between him and the treasures of his redemption are waters infested by monsters… Those murderous, urgeful, beguiling creatures. Sirens. When one spares his life, they make an arrangement that might see them both freed. Or dead.

CW: slow burn (by P’s standards), Pirate AU, POTC influences, Gale fall first, but he also falls hard, Siren OC, DnD/POTC magic rules, flustered Gale, romantic Gale, forbidden love, Gale’s curse is rotting his body, Siren OC is Durge inspired.

Ao3 Link | Bg3 Masterlist

Nothing but jolly bright blue waters extended in every direction, the sun beating and the winds stiff from the north. His ship bobbed over the waves as if they were nothing, the worn canvas of her sails luffing only when his ship, the Tara, out ran the waves with her speed.

And her Captain stood at the rail, watching life on desk unfold under his keen, dark eyes.

How many months had it been, Captain Gale Dekarios knew not. Too many. Too long to stay festering at sea, his once noble crew turned motley.

His once noble profession of privateering, now branded as … ugh… piracy.

He hated the word. Left a sour taste in his mouth, almost more than the way his infection brought the taste of his own blood to his tongue.

This… curse… slowly eating at him from the inside out.

His fingers pressed to his chest, rubbing the site of his growing mark, the tendrils of its influence extending tirelessly over the months. He couldn’t hide it anymore with tattoos on his shoulder and neck. The lines of his infection's power reached his eye, making it milky, making him hide it under an eyepatch even as it worked just fine.

Such was his vanity. A sin almost as great as his ambition.

Gale folded his arms over his chest, the crushed purple wool of his long coat damp with spray. At least the Tara was making good time to Bhaal’s Cove. At least he might be within reach of a cure to his disease.

His folly. Gale’s folly, one might call it. For that’s what it was to love a queen, to serve her at sea and in her bed, and then to lose that love over something so stupid. He sighed to think of that time, treasured in court as her Fleet Captain, her chosen, most adored Privateer. But his romantic heart had wanted more.

And so, he had plundered the seas for the most forbidden of treasures. Damn it if they had been rumored to be cursed. Karsus’ treasure was supposedly worth it.

Supposedly. If only as he had settled for diadems or roses… but no. Gale Dekarios was a man of grand gestures. In this regard as well.

His mind grew foggy. His hand rubbed at the Orb in his chest, the pain flaring at the memory. He recalled how he had taken that locked chest with the Orb inside, only to have its claws and magic gnaw its way into his chest, making this mark and—

“Captain Dekarios! Land Ho, Captain Dekarios!” twittered an excited if maternal voice. The woosh of the Tressym’s wings blew the long dark hair off his shoulder before four paws landed smartly on its spans. Tara, the namesake of his vessel, self-appointed First and Second Mate, purred softly in excitement for her master before cleaning her patchwork of brown fur, her little pink tongue lapping the way the salt air made her fur stick. Then her paw worked to fix his tendrils of little braids and beads that held his hair back, batting the little top knot to get his attention. “Captain. You are unusually silent.”

“Perhaps this ballet of waves and wind has inspired… introspection,” he muttered, turning to squint up at her with his one good eye, fingers returning to the center of his chest to rub out the pain.

The Tressym knew better. “It’s the Orb again, isn’t it? It needs tending?” Tara sighed. Her feline head nuzzled against Gale’s temple, even as shouts of excitement passed around the crew as land, indeed, came slowly into sight. “Perhaps what lies ahead for us in the Cove will stop its pain, its hunger. Tsk.” She sucked her little feline teeth. “About time that blasted Orb found something other than your precious heart to sink its fangs into. Especially after Mystra…”

“Enough, Tara,” Gale chided. A bit peevish but none too harshly. “I deserve this fate for what I’ve done. But it won’t stop me from seeking this curse’s cure. Even if it’s just my own dea—”

“Pish posh, Captain,” now it was Tara’s turn to chide, digging her claws into the fading purple wool over his shoulder. “Not on my watch, Gale.”

Gale rolled his eyes, grateful for the excited shouts on the deck below as an excuse to reach for his spyglass and examine the virgin shore before them. Bhaal’s Cove. The shoreline was black with rock and white with sand. Scanning the geography, he spied the outcropping of legend. A strange circle of tear drop rocks on the cliff face. “There!” He called back to the helm behind him. “Bosun Ancunìn, make for that point, three points to larbord!”

The silver haired elf gave some half sarcastic means of acknowledgment, and with a roll of his crimson eyes, he adjusted course.

“Take caution, Astarion. The legends say all sorts of murderous creatures lurk in these waters. We shall be extra vigilante,” Gale turned, locking eyes with his current helmsman, a smile on his face.

A smile returned with yet another roll of those eyes. “Here’s hoping your blathering on about the mating rituals of Gnolls might bore them all away…”

“Ah, good one Fangs!” Karlach chimed back, clapping the elf on the shoulder hard before setting her cherry red hands to the mainbrace to ease the rope. As usual, a smile was permanently fixed on the Tiefling, a flicker of mirthful fire in her face and demeanor. “Maybe we will get to see something amazing! Like a selkie or a kraken!”

Gale only chuckled, knowing that her enthusiasm was only out of zest for life and an ignorance for just how fearsome said creatures were. “Not on my life, Cliffgate. Best we keep far away from mon… sters…”

For once, Captain Dekarios fell silent, head snapping back to the shoreline.

“Fucking finally,” Astarion snipped, “you know Gale, your rather pleasant when you’re…”

And the Pale Elf fell silent too, handsome face blank of its usual mischief as he also looked to the isle.

A thin melody floated on the wind. A voice.

“Oh, oh no.” Tara murmured, trying her best to flap in Gale’s face. But the lad was enamored.

Her wings beat harder, flying towards the elf at the helm, but those dexterous pale hands already had changed course. Far more dramatically than the captain’s orders, the ship was headed right for the sand. “Snap out of it!” She shouted at that angular face, hoping to knock some sense into any of them.

But the music only grew louder and louder. That female voice wrapped around them, the air itself vibrating with her haunting tune. Sad. Longing. And composed to never quite end.

Tara knew it for what it was. A monster to be sure.

A Siren.

She flew back to Gale’s shoulder, bapping her paw in his face even as he reached for the rail and leaned out over it. “Wake up, Gale! Snap out of this, I order you!”

Nothing.

Not even a blink from his one, undefiled brown eye.

To her immense dismay, all his companions and crew lined the rails, the ship's wheel left to spin and spin with loud wooden clicks. Sails flapped loudly as, but all of it was nothing to the way the music only crescendoed. A swell of this Siren song, and suddenly the whole vessel lurched.

Run aground, the whole crew spilled into the sea, knocked head over heels into the drink. Tara flapped wildly, shouting for Gale above the wooden groans of the ship. “Captain! Captain!”

She whizzed over the shallow waters, watching as the crew sputtered to the beach, some swimming, some dragging others. But there was no dark haired, eye-patched privateer to speak of.

Gale barely noticed falling overboard, nor the slap of chilling waters, nor the way his lungs burned as he swam.

There was only that song. And only silence and the echoing gasp of his own breath as he broke above the water. A sea cave, wet and swirling as the tide was coming in. The rocks were jagged and wet, and the spray and rush of incoming tide pounded the cave walls. Gale swam to a ledge, drawn by a sliver of light.

He needed to get his bearings. His eye patch was gone to the tides, as was his jacket. Only his thin cream linen shirt and breeches now covered his tanned and tattooed body.

A matter to fix once he escaped this death trap. His eyes scanned the cave as he treaded water in the rushing waves.

An opening, thank the gods. He swam for it only to find it was too small for his whole body..

Stay too long here and die, he thought. At least he’d be rid of this blasted curse. Gale almost resigned himself to his fate, to just let go and let the curse win.

But then he heard it again, that voice. She was close, just on the other side of the opening.

That lyrical flutter of her music drew him toward the opening, a crack in the wall large enough for him to reach an arm. “Um, hello? A hand? Anyone?” He knew it was silly, maybe futile, even as the wet rocks at his feet barely held him up, even as the water kept rushing in.

He waved his hand, reaching as he tried to slide further to freedom. Then he felt something wet. Something, someone, slapped his hand, followed by a cool breath… sniffing it? Gale cringed, praying whatever it was didn’t bite it off or something strange.

A little trill of music, and Gale knew who his potential savior was.

“Please, please powerful Siren,” he begged, just knowing he wanted to get free. Damn it to the depths if he would die disgraced. “I need help, and I’ll… give you anything you want. Just get me out of this blasted hole.”

First there was silence, then a purr… and then a wet hand gripped his. Gale fought the instinct to pull away, an instinct that was soon abated as she started singing again. Haunting and sad, that’s what it sounded like, this… Siren. Her song made the rocks crumble around him, widening the crack as she pulled.

But the longer she sang, the more Gale felt on fire. Enthralled. Like he could listen to this voice, this melody until his dying day.

A romantic notion, to be sure. One that was suddenly and swiftly ended as the opening split wide and Captain Dekarios went sailing through the air to land back in the open sea. The splash of his body back in the water almost rendered him senseless, but he was aware enough to feel two hands grip under his arms and drag him to the surface.

Barely conscious, lungs burning from seawater, Gale felt his vision darken. All that just to die on the beach, he grieved.

A final slight to his pride. Fitting.

He gave one last ragged breath he was sure was his last before something pressed against his mouth.

Cold and wet. Her again. Forcing his eyes open, her face consumed his whole vision.

Kissing him. She was… kissing him. Gale blushed, suddenly feeling the rush of Healing Magics filling his body, lungs clearing and pulse steadying. His eyes slid shut, mouth trembling to feel the way she pressed her lips firmly. To taste the sea salt on her kiss as even her cold lips set something burning inside him.

Magic. Had to be. Surely. But even still, he wondered how his hand found its way to the back of her head, fingers nestled in the wet strands of her sandy blonde hair. But as he felt her part her lips the smallest crack, he pulled back.

An awkward grunt as he cleared his throat, he let go of her completely. “Apologies, I’m usually better at this… introductions and that sort of…”

His voice trailed off as he looked at her. Really looked at her. The long tail of her hair hung over her shoulder, pulled haphazardly by the sea and his fingers. Pretty, to be sure. But it was her face that held his attention. That left him speechless.

Two-toned eyes stared at him. Wet and inquisitive and intense. One red like blood, the blood she should have spilt as a Siren. One clear and shining and blue as the sea itself. Rimmed in dark lids, they didn’t blink but once as he gaped at her.

Her tanned, sun-kissed skin was dotted every which way in freckles.

But the longer he gawked at her, the wider her berry lips turned in a smile.

And she started to trill and purr as his eyes drifted down to her bared breasts and her curled pale blue tail, its scales shimmering an incandescent rosy hue in the sun. Gale couldn’t help the blush on his cheeks as he took her in, ignoring the fact it was the first body he’d seen naked since his beloved Queen back home.

“I’m… I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” he murmured, soft and steady, hoping not to spook her away.

The Siren only fanned her wide finned tail on the surface of the waves that swept over the beach. A little hum of a small musical scale and she gave him a sharp-toothed smile. A bit predacious, perhaps, Gale thought, but thrilling and beguiling none the less.

Gale was undeterred, he needed to know more about this creature. His curiosity far outweighed self-preservation. “Can you understand me? Can you speak?”

The Siren nodded once, Gale thought, before tilting her head.

“Will you allow me the pleasure of knowing what you are called? After all, you saved my life and… I did promise you something in return.”

The Siren’s lips pressed tightly, she sang her wordless song once more. Gods, his eyes pricked with tears now to hear it, so very haunting and mystical. A single palm lifted, she unfurled her glass hand, revealing a single red rose bud. Her song continued, the rose opening its petals slowly, sea spray clinging to the velvety bloom.

A rose and her song. Those were her answer.

“Rose? Is that your name?” Gale chimed excited, a bit shocked as the Siren extended her hand for him, flower in her fingers for him to pluck.

She shook her head, however.

“Not Rose then… can’t you just tell me?” He furrowed his brow, desperate to learn more.

But she only wiggled her pointed ears a little, laughing loudly, clearly enjoying their little guessing game.

Her lithe body leaned back in her mirth, and his eyes drifted down to her breasts again, now noticing a shining stone pendant between them. Three points of red and pink and purple, three stones held into one triangular gem.

And the moment his eyes fell on it, Gale’s chest throbbed. “Hells,” he groaned, the lines of the Orb lighting up people under his damp white linen shirt and flaring up the side of his neck. “Where, Rose… err not Rose… where did you find this?” He snapped, voice strained in pain and hunger. “The Netherstones are just what I seek.”

He bent forward, crying out in agony, lifting his head to keep his eyes trained on her and that treasure. “Please…” Arm shaking, he reached for the stones.

But the Siren darted out of reach, afraid perhaps. Or sadistic. Even as the pain of his Orb flared, as his vision darkened, and as his body laid out on the sand now… he heard her splashing back into the sea.

The pain too great, his eyes closed as he passed out on the shore.

And he could swear he heard her laughing his name from her lips, trilled and sing-song as she bid him, “Farewell, Gale…”

Something wet and… furry smacked him in the face, and Captain Gale shot upright. “Bloody hells… Tara!” He groaned, covering his disfigured eye with his hand, even as bodies knelt in the sand beside him. Two pale hands grabbed under his waterlogged arms and dragged him further from the waveline. Astarion, Gale looked up to see that smug smirk in the dying light.

“Where is she?” he managed to say, turning to scan the waters for anything breaking the surface. “The Siren, where is she? She has the Netherstones, the treasure we came to this wretched isle to find.”

A pale face screwed in a taunting smirk of ire leaned into his vision. “Oh… oh good. And here I was worried when we found you unconscious on the beach, we should be worried you lost your mind.” Astarion scoffed, feigning to wipe his brow. “Shows me.”

“Mr. Ancunín. Lay off it and help me get him up.” Tara flapped to rest on her favorite perch of Gale’s shoulder once he was sitting up. “The Siren? You saw her then and she let you live?”

“She saved me, actually.” The Captain replied, looking at them all with his own mismatched eyes. One dark, one white. Not unlike the pair that had greeted him when he had awoken the first time on the beach.

He pressed his lips together, as if he could still taste her lips, sweet and salty. Her kiss. Well… no. Her transfer of some sort of bardic healing magic, he suspected. Not that specifics mattered when she tasted so… good. Gale shook his head to return his thoughts to the present.

“She’s remarkable. I’m almost convinced she can not only understand Common but… I think I heard her speak it.”

His name.

“C-Common, I mean…” his tanned cheeks grew hot, and dammit all to the hells, his Orb faintly flashed.

“Tsk. Gale. I saw that purple glow. Was your mermaid pretty?” The pale elf teased again, giving his captain his dry jacket, helping him to dry off in the setting sun.

Gale held up a single finger, pedantic and authoritative. “Actually, she’s a Siren. Not a mermaid. I’m sure Rose… err, not-Rose wouldn’t appreciate being confused for a lowly mermaid.”

Astarion arched a brow. “Rose?” he gave a biting giggle. “You asked her for a name? My my, so chivalrous.” His face screwed into a devilish look, red eyes glinting with humor. “Bet you got a good look at her. Your Rose. What’s she like?”

Gale fought the urge to tense up, to give a sigh and look wistfully at the sea whence she disappeared. “One eye blue like the sea, the other red like precious rubies… her skin perfectly freckled all over,” he cleared his throat as if he wasn’t also imagining the way even her breasts were bespotted. “A-and her ears were pointed not unlike yours, Astarion. And she must have powerful magic.”

He looked to the high cliff face, the opening still visible from whence he had burst forth. “I washed up in that sea cave, and she pulled me out by opening it wider with her song. And then, she conjured a perfect red rose when I asked her for a name…”

Sighing, he could almost ignore the incredulous looks he was getting from his Tressym and the elf.

It was finally the pragmatic feline that thrust her face in Gale's line of sight. “Pardon me as I interrupt your interspecie reverie, Captain, but did you say she had the… Netherstones? As in the ones we need to unlock the greatest treasure of Karsus’ treasure?”

Her voice was a bit on the shrill side, but chipper from encouragement. So close, or at least one step closer to their cure.

“Indeed,” Gale groaned, bringing himself to his feet with just a little help from his Bosun. “So I have to find her again, the Siren.”

A firm pat on the back, dexterous hands brushing the sand and seaweed off Gale’s shoulders, and Astarion led him back down the beach. “Well, all things considered, you’re lucky you survived one encounter with the monster. Can’t say as much for the ship. She’s run aground something fierce.” A sarcastic giggle punctuated Astarion’s snide if true comments. “Gives you plenty of time to seek your siren out for another near-death experience and to get your Netherstones.

He’d never admit it, but his red eyes scanned his friend, his captain’s face nervously. The lines of the Orb had extended so quickly lately, his companion stood on a precipice over imminent death… blasted curse. His concern for the better of him as he put a hand on Gale’s back between his shoulders. “We will find it, if it’s what can break your curse and bring the Orb under control once and for all…”

Gale’s milky eye opened wide at him, turning to give the elf a look of appreciation and a little bit of shock. “That is surprisingly kind of you, Mr. Ancunín.”

“Yeah well… don’t get used to it. We thought you dead,” his tone returned to sharp and snide, his hand pulling away as if he was disgusted by the intimate moment. “It was your cat that insisted we search the beach this way… current and rip tides something, something.”

They trudged in the gathering dark towards a distant light. The signs of a makeshift camp around a roaring massive bonfire on the beach was a sight for sore eyes, and Gale smiled.

Until his gaze settled on the Tara, his ship not too far off the beach, her hull snug in the sand, unmoving and trapped.

Just like they were.

Trapped, but safe. As if willed to be here, guided by a providential hand, perhaps.

His crew were half-tucked into bedrolls, the other half were three sheets to the wind to toast their survival. Not one soul lost.

All present and accounted for… save now being short what was probably several bottles of Ashkaban Rum.

Ever the dutiful captain, Gale made his rounds, making sure everyone saw him home and hale from his near-drowning.

It wasn’t the fear that kept plaguing his mind. No, no it was his saviour. Those mismatched eyes, he could swear he caught them from the corner of his eyes from the shoreline, from behind the crates of Plum Fizz… even from the clusters of palm trees on the beach.

Little glowing flashes of red or blue.

And then the night settled. Everyone laid wrapped snug in their bedrolls.

But not Gale.

Even if it wasn’t for the way the Siren had already beguiled him, the Orb in his chest ached too much to let him sleep. So close to the Netherstones, the ball of Arcane Hunger in his chest burned too great to grant him any reprieve.

Not to mention the low hum of laughter he could swear carried from the sea the moment he tried to close his eyes. He would really have to do some research on Siren biology: how far away could they see? How far could their magical voice extend? Could their eyes glow? Was their kiss potent enough to bewitch a man?

He turned face down in the leather of his bedroll, if only to muffled the groan… part from the ache in his chest and part from this equally cursed ache in… other places. He knew legends of Sirens walking among men, shedding their tails for a tenday to live as the mortals do.

To love as the mortals do…

He gripped into the leather, hips rolling a little against the warm sand beneath the bedding. Gale sat up, ignoring the burning in his chest and loins. He had to cool this pain, had to sate the hunger before the curse advanced further. He blinked, spying the jolly boat beached in the surf. Just a little jaunt over the very chilling sea water. Yes. That should set him aright for tonight.

Trudging through sand, he swore he could hear a voice on the breeze. But every time he lifted his head and looked, it would fade.

Beguiling Siren.

Hands on the hull, Gale shoved the boat into the sea, the waters unnaturally calm. The winds long abated. As if they had been stilled.

More magic? Gale knew not, only that burning that drove him to get on the water.

Oars in hand, he rowed, a patch of moonlight on the dark waters was his destination.

Sirens love moonlight…

Inwardly, he told himself to stuff it, that this was to cool the hunger his Orb had flaring…

But his heart still skipped a beat when some dark shape swam his way in the very moonlit waters he traversed.

“Gale of Waterdeep…” that voice he knew so well after a day bubbled from the surface just off his port side. “I was wondering when you’d answer your Siren’s call.”

His lips opened to reply before his mind could advise against it. “‘Tis I, precious rose,” he bowed his head, always a gentleman, even to this creature of the sea.

Her red and blue eyes caught the moonlight, giving that otherworldly glow. Her pointy teeth were almost equally bright, which made Gale nervous. But at least she was smiling. “I am not quite called Rose, even if you are close… RoseSong… or in my tongue, I am called Merelind.”

“Merelind…” Gale repeated, the music of her own name sweet like a melody and heady like the fragrance of her namesake. He gaped down in the water, that pretty face emerging from the surface, her hair pulled back to reveal patches of pink scales on her skin that simmered in the moonlight. Still water, clear water, he could see her tail in the moonlight, a pale blue that disappeared into the sundering dark. It undulated in the depths, and Gale couldn’t help but lean over the rail to catch a full glimpse of her beauty… further, and further…

Until a wet, cold hand stayed his descent and pressed on his chest.

The Siren’s hand shoved him back hand right on his Orb, a gasp from her pretty pink lips as a jolt passed between them. Purple light flared from his chest, and the triangular pendant at her neck hummed and glowed in a simultaneous flash. Air warmed and reverberated between them, a rhythmic pulse, almost like a heartbeat pounded against both their chests.

She frowned. “Ah, I was right. You are not like the others,” she murmured as she swam back the distances they had been repelled. “You come for my treasure with part of its magic already in you…” her mismatched eyes scanned the glow of purple under his shirt.

Gale also frowned. “You can sense my curse, can you?

Merelind nodded. “It is why I spared your life… You and your crew that now camps on my beach.” An eerie smile crawled over her berry-pink lips as she bobbed in the waters at his side. “By rights, according to my own curse, your life is mine, forfeit the moment you entered my waters.”

Even as he stared down at her, her skin covered in patches of light pink scales, even as he realized she could pull him body and soul into the depths to drown, Gale could only stare at her pretty, bewitching face. “F-Forfeit?” he finally stammered as her meaning reached past the veil of pining that had fallen on the poor pirate.

“Aye,” she gave a musical laugh, reaching a hand to rest beside him on the wooden rail. “But the magic in your body is like mine. This artifact that holds me cursed and bound to this servitude.” Her mismatched eyes searched his shocked expression. “What lies within you, Gale of Deep Water?”

“Ahem, it’s Waterdee—, nevermind,” he swallowed down his pedantic nature for once to answer her. “The Orb of Netheril. This blight that has infected me with its curse…” The lines of his Orb pulsed a bright purple among the other dark tattooed lines on his neck. “I’ve tried all sorts of magic to be broken from my curse, but the only thing that might free me is…”

“The Crown.” Merelind interjected, even as the same words fell silent on Gale’s tongue. “The very treasure whose keys rest about my neck. The very treasure whose existence binds me body and soul to this wretched island, that keeps these Netherstones, heavy on my neck, as my burden to bear.”

She rose from the water, her breasts bare and glistening in the moonlight, and between them shone that tricolored pendant again. Scowling, she pulled up from the water, crossing both arms on the rail and resting her chin on them. “I spared your life out of instinct, and every thought I have even now is screaming at me to save you from this cursed urge inside me to pull you under and wrap myself around your body until you grow stiff.”

Gale swallowed, the image making him grow stiff alright. He sputtered a moment as he pulled back in the dinghy to give her room. “Umm forgive me, but why resist the urge so much for me?” He couldn’t fight the smile on his bearded face. “Do you find me incomparable? …unparalleled? Inimitable?” His smile turned just a little more haughty and arrogant. “Am I special?

Merelind nodded slowly, even as her eyes locked on his own two-toned eyes. “I suppose one could say so, yes,” she gave a low-toned giggle. “I’ve never managed to resist killing my quarries before, but with you, it’s different.” Tilting her head, she reached for the faintly glowing purple lines at his neck. “Does it hurt you, your cursed Orb of Karsus?”

As her fingers met his skin, she could feel his shudder, could see his pulse jump in that same artery under his pretty tanned skin.

Gale nodded. Somehow, the usual shame that accompanied discussing his affliction didn’t rear its ugly head, not with her. “It needs to be sated. Fed. From time to time, I must consume strands of Weave or else the pain grows to be unbearable.”

His dark eyes flicked to her beside him, the way he skin glistened in the moonlight, the way it bathed each pretty freckle on her skin…. He shook his head, returning to his senses at last. “What will happen if you do not abide by your curse’s rules?” He asked softly, reaching to rest his hand on the wood rail of the vessel. So close to her elbow.

Merelind shrugged, the briefest forlorn flash on her face. “I know not. You are the first I’ve ever spared from my urge.”

“Then let me help you, Merelind,” he replied so quickly, almost speaking over her. “We can break our curses together. Once I have the Crown of Karsus, I’ll set you free from your obligation to guard it. I’ll use the stones to unlock its power, and you will be a free woman… er… free siren.” He spoke so rapidly, thinking out loud as he reached to rest his touch on that arm so close to him. Her skin so soft, if cool and damp, he noticed.

Blue and red eyes flashed up at him, wide and shocked. “You would? You would see me cured and not cursed?” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “You’d see me no longer a monster, a terror of the sea?”

“You aren’t one now, Merelind,” he spoke softly, her name sweet on his tongue, looking down at her as she seemed to creep closer into his vessel. To approach him or to drown him, he wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure he cared. “You are no more a monster than I.” Gale gestured to the lines of purple that marred his cheek and led to his white, milky eye. “If left uncured, who knows how disfigured I could grow, how rotten and veined my body might become…”

Merelind pulled herself to sit on the rail of the boat now, her powdered blue tail dangling into the water. Her simmering fin still caught the moonlight just below the surface. It mesmerized him, making him lean over the water a little…

…a little too far. The skiff rocked and bobbed off balance, and two wet hands gripped into the arms of his jacket to tackle him into the bottom of his vessel. To save him from tumbling into the drink… from drowning. Again.

“Oof!” Gale muttered, inhaling a sweet floral scent so close to his nose as he got his bearings. Opening his eyes, his vision was filled with blonde wet hair and freckled cheeks and mismatched eyes…

And Gale froze, surely blushing. “S-See, you saved me! You’re not a murderer!” He exclaimed a little too loudly as he sat up and shifted to give the Siren some room. “You have no reason to avoid my help and, heh, cast me off…”

The Siren looked at him for his humor, pink lips turning regardless of the pun’s quality into a smile. Another mark in her favor. “Alright. I accept. I free you, you free me or die by my hand.” She nodded perfunctorily as if it was the most logical agreement ever.

Gale’s mouth hung slack, and then shut. “Very well, my word as a gentleman. We will help each other, Merelind, cursed Siren of the sea.”

A smile on her face, and she sat herself up from being sprawled on the deck of his skiff. A burst of rosy pink light, and suddenly… that captivating tail was gone, replaced by a long and freckled pair of legs.

Bare ones. Naked ones.

Gale blushed harder, thanking the night for being dark as he took off his purple wool coat and looked away. “Ahem, for you my lady.” He extended the garment for her, praying to all the gods who would listen that it was hopefully long enough to cover to her thighs.

She took it, shrugging it on and closing it to hang loosely over her lithe frame. “You mortals and your senses of decency are fascinating,” she laughed a little. “But I suppose if I’m to join your crew, I cannot walk on bare legs any more than I can wear my tail aboard your ship.” She snapped her fingers for his attention. And those eyes, one dark and one white, they gazed at her with the briefest flash of intensity, of ardor she had only heard tales of…

The ballads and drinking songs she would listen to for a moment or two on other ships before luring them to their demise.

“Join my crew?” Gale hummed, considering as if he hadn’t been concocting ways to accomplish that very same end. “Well,” he stroked the beard on his chin, a cheeky grin on his lips, “the idea has many merits…”

“Is this is an attempt at mortal humor…” she trailed off, until she gave a wide smile that was all pointy teeth with her musical laugh. “Or are you reneging on your offer to help? Is this the part where I hold my need about dying by my hand?”

“Humor! Humor!” He gave a nervous laugh, grabbing the oars and starting to row them back towards the beach and camp. A little hard and vigorous, as if that slight threat she made against him didn’t only reignite the hunger in his lower reshoots again. “One must always be a gentleman. I would not go back on my word to you. You and I, my siren, we will both be broken of our curses.”

The sloshing of the oars was the only sound for a time as he rowed back to shore. Gale kept his eyes up, watching the shore get closer, except when they would dart over her pretty freckled face every now and then. She looked away from him, those Netherstones resting on her chest just where the lapels of his coat closed around her.

Finally it was her musical voice that broke the silence. “How long have you had your…?” Merelind turned sharply, gesturing to the left side of her face.

“My curse? This blasted Orb? This macabre blight that is determined to make me suffer?” He suddenly pulled harder at the oars, out of irritation. Anger. “It’s been a year I’ve had it in my chest, slowly driving my body into ruin.”

She looked at him, those eyes blinking slowly. “It is curious. I only know of the Crown, and these, of course,” she lifted the pendant from her neck briefly. “How did you come by it? Your cursed Orb, I mean.”

Gale paused his rowing, watching her in the middle of the sea, their boat drifting towards the shore. His tanned face looked stricken, his eyes half-lidded and distraught. “I found an ancient tome, the magic inside it lost, and angry… and hungry. I had only wanted to read to find the location of the Crown to give to my lover… to my Queen.”

He sighed, swearing he caught a flicker of silver eyes and black hair beside him.

No. He chastised himself for imagining Mystra here. Now. No. She’d not be thinking of him, so why should he, her?

“Is that why you seek the Crown now? To give to some mortal Queen?” Merelind stiffened, slightly but perceptibly. Her nostrils flared, and Gale could swear her hand clenched on the fabric of his coat on her pretty body.

“No.” That was his reply. “No, I only wish to be cured now.”

Liar… his mind hissed at him. Had he not been contemplating offering it for his forgiveness and privateering contract back intact just today? Before he had met this beguiling siren. He caught himself staring at her face, just a little too long.

How his life had changed so much in a day. Again.

This time for the better, he hoped. This time, he hoped it was a chance to break his curse, not succumbing to it like last time. His heart was pounding, watching as she leaned in, that scent of a floral perfume in his nose again. Her cool breath, he swore he could feel it on his face as she huffed a laugh and smiled.

“Then I’ll be cured too,” she crossed her legs at the knees, bouncing the top most slowly, bumping his calf. “I’ll be free. I can leave this isle, my soul and sanity intact.”

Regal. Magical. The way she was bathed in the moonlight, how he wanted to stay awhile, to drink her in.

Gods… her lips turned in a hopeful smile, a real one. “Breathtaking,” he barely whispered. “Like a queen.”

“I am no queen, just a sea monster,” she tipped her head to the side, those eyes inexplicably lowering to his mouth.

Gale almost interrupted her self-deprecation. Yes, you are. And trust me, I should know…”

Her pointed ear lowered, her legs stilling, bare foot pressing against the side of his leg. That little bit of innocent contact suddenly feeling oh so less than innocent.

Gale couldn’t bring himself to turn away, even as his Orb burned more as he leaned in closer. A little purple light flickered and glowed from it as he drew barely a breath away from her own lips. Then those Netherstones began to glow too, a wash of rosy colors shining against her own chest. He swallowed, their faces bathed in pink and purples as he… as he leaned…

“Captain,” she whispered. Turning her head away abruptly. The glow of her pendant vanished as quickly as it had illuminated. “Your crew is waiting, and dawn will not be long.” Merelind cleared her throat, pulling back and shifting on the seat.

A disappointed grunt at the back of his throat, and he grabbed the oars once more. “Ah, forgive me. It is not every day one can thank the beautiful Siren that saved their life twice over, arguably thrice now.” He gave an easy laugh, one well practiced from his days in court as the queen’s chosen lover.

“Indeed,” she replied coolly, tucking the hem of his jacket under her ass.

So regal, risen from the beautiful sea itself, he watched the Siren as the boat drew up on the beach. The moment they were shallow, she jumped over the side, strolling with such grace up the beach towards the bonfire. Her figure wrapped in the purples lines of his coat. Her hair bright in the wavering light….

He had only seen two sorts of being with such grace… princesses and predators.

Gale wondered which one she was.

Or if she was both.

🎨 by @deannamb

Thank you for Gale to @redisbetterr

Thank you to @nyx-knox for bouncing the plot and beta’ing

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Cursed Warlords AU Masterpost

This Masterpost is out of date! Go to the new one to continue reading ⬇️

New Cursed Warlords Masterpost

Shadowpeach x Female Reader AU

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque are mated warlords who rule Flower Fruit Mountain. They plunder and destroy anyone who stands in their way, and they don't care about the consequences. Until one day when suddenly, they lose their powers and get stuck in the form of cubs!

Having to find a way home to break the curse, they run into a monkey demoness who is trailing behind a mortal. Unfortunately, the demoness in question is a lone monkey demoness who doesn't know how to speak monkey. So they are stuck with the woman and the demoness as this strange woman travels.

This woman, who is clearly mortal held no fear towards them. Obviously, because they were mere cubs.

Cursed Warlords Art / Character Designs

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque - Sketches

Cursed Warlords Asks

#One - Several

#Two - Reader's knowledge on Lmk

#Three - Language

#Four - Language

#Five - Magic Understanding

#Six - Crushes

#Seven - Reader's Abilities and Hobbies

#Eight - How Reader saved Spirit

#Nine - Bathing + extra scene

#Ten - If someone flirts with Reader

#Eleven - Reader's world

#Twelve- Shadowpeach Arc Notes

#Thirteen - Concerns on Artifacts

#Fourteen - More on the Artifacts Debate and ideas

#Fifteen - Spirit's backstory

#Sixteen - Overheard Crushes!!

#Seventeen - 🔞 NSFW Headcannons

#Eighteen - Singing

#Nineteen - Macaque’s Ears

#Twenty - Are the cubs!?

#Twenty-one - Jttw Arcs Idea

#Twenty-Two - Mk

#Twenty-Three - Before and After the artifacts

#Twenty-Four - Reader's Name in the Book of The Dead

#Twenty-Five - Su, Chu Lin and Spirit's dad.

#Twenty-Six - Reader gets mad

#Twenty-Seven - Immortality

#Twenty-Eight - Lmk World bits and pieces

#Twenty-Nine - Time loops

#Thirty - Post courtnapped grooming

#Thirty-One - Monkey's Heights

#Thirty-Two - Big Spoon Cuddles

#Thirty-Three - Annoying Sister In Law

#Thirty-Four - Crumb Block (Didn't know what to call it)

#Thirty-Five - Wukong and Macaque Zoo

Cursed Arc

Meeting The Mortal

Peaches and Plums

Passing Out - End Credits of Chapter

Boat Ride

The Village

The Forest

Burns

Unofficial Chapters

Anger

Reader and Mk Talk

[veebeeboo109]

The Sanctuary

{The high fantasy prequel to "Cleaning Up the Timeline" Combining all limited myths. Polycule. Reader-centric.}

Read on ao3.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Violence, War, Blood

Chapter One: Orphans

Many years ago, the temple of Eirene was a beautiful place. Erected near the center of the village surrounded by the sharp curve of a river. One could hear the symphony of the people working and traveling just above the soft rush of water. 

The white marble was tarnished and covered in dust. The mosaics floors had been plundered for their shiniest tiles and lie half-ruined, uneven beneath your feet. The rooms which once house priestesses and pilgrims now held children and infants– uprooted from their family trees by this endless, mindless war. 

Funny how that’s one of the first things you remember. War. Fighting. Running. You are aware that the world is dangerous before even knowing your own name, before knowing how to read, write, or even sing you know how to run. How to hide. How to hold your breath long enough to go completely unnoticed. 

You’re not sure how you came to be in the refuge of this temple, only that you are. Another orphan being cared for by what feels like the last compassionate place on this planet. They feed you as much as they are able to, and cloth you in whatever they can find. 

At the age of five, you have seen more than you should, and the world feels small and dark. 

Your only light lies in the eyes of a boy, who crawls in through the window near dawn. A bag he fashioned out of burlap strung across one shoulder that he drops to the floor in front of you, revealing his spoils. 

“Look!” He says quietly, kneeling down to draw out a bruised apple, “I found a barrel of them!”

Your eyes widen, stunned by the beautiful red color of the fruit he offers, but your excitement quickly dims. “Did you steal this?”

Caleb’s brow furrows, “I only took a few. No one will even notice!”

The two of you have been glued to each other’s side for more than a year now. Stuck in this orphanage with little hope of leaving. He’s scrawny for his age, even at seven he’s small. He grew tired of the measly meals the priestesses made and took matters into his own hands, scavenging at night and coming home each morning with whatever he could grab. 

“Someone could see you.” You argue, but bring the apple to your lips anyway. Stomach growling in hunger, you’re not about to refuse fresh fruit like this. Especially not when Caleb’s eyes light up like that when you take a bite. 

“No one will see me.” Caleb replies as he pulls out another apple for himself. He takes a large bite and speaks while he chews, “One day, I’ll be big enough to get a job. Fishing or something. They always have food, and I can bring back the biggest fish for you!”

You giggle, excited by the prospect, “I can fish too! We can go together and fish the big, rainbow fish!”

Caleb nods enthusiastically, plans for the future crafted so easily in the minds of children, “I’ll get us a big boat! We can live on it and I’ll make lots of money, and I can buy those fancy leather shoes I saw.”

In the cool light of dawn, you and Caleb continue building this fantasy. A house boat that floats along the rivers, untouched by raiders and battles. Caleb makes more coin than he can count selling his fish, and you get to collect the beautiful scales. 

It’s easy to laugh when no one but the sun is awake to hear you.

A mere month later, you wake to the smell of smoke. Lifting your head from the few blankets you’ve made into a bed, you sniff at the air. It’s not odd for the sister’s of the temple to burn incense through the night, or even start cooking early in the morning, but this…this doesn’t smell right. 

A crack comes from outside a moment later, a rush of sound that confuses you more than anything. Rising to your feet, you go to the window– nothing more than a square opening in the wall as the glass was pillaged ages ago. 

You have to blink a few times as the bright light nearly blinds you, and when your eyes adjust you feel the floor drop out from under you. 

Fire. The village is on fire. The thatch roofs ablaze with flames reaching high into the sky. The air is thick with smoke, dark and black as it blots out the rising sun. 

Fear lashes through your heart, sending your body into a feeling of freefall. You stumble back away from the window and turn to where Caleb usually slept– but it’s empty. His blankets are pulled back and his bag is gone. 

A high pitched wail escapes you, tears rising to your eyes before you can stop them. You’re terrified and can’t seem to get your feet to move. Even when the thundering sound of hoofbeats crashes by your window. 

You turn, seeing a pair of armored men on horses gallop by. Torches held high in one hand while they held the reins with the other. There are no banners or colors to signify who they might be in liege to, but that hardly matters. Whether by a king’s decree or by a raider’s greed, your village won’t last the night. 

The door to your room crashes open, and you whirl, hoping to see Caleb, but instead see one of the sisters. Her robes of cream and emerald are comforting, but her expression is stricken with fear. Without a word, she grabs ahold of your arm and pulls you with her. Another older child being dragged by her opposite hand. 

You’re a child. A young child at that, and so you cling to her when she drags you to the base of the statue of Eirene– the goddess of peace. The other priestesses have brought all the other children here as well, in varying states of weeping and wailing. 

“Is that all of them?” One of the older women asks. Her face covered by a cloth that she coughs into. “Where are the older ones?”

“They weren’t in their beds.” A younger priestess replies, “They probably fled when they saw the flames.”

One of the more hysterical sister’s cries out, “They won’t come in here, right? They won’t hurt us?”

“If they have any decency.” The eldest replies. “Now children, calm yourselves. The goddess shall protect us. This temple has stood a thousand years, and will stand a thousand more.”

You look around the room, trying desperately to find a familiar mop of dark hair and plum colored eyes. Only, he isn’t there. If he was, he would have found you by now. He would have come to sit by you and made fun of you for crying. 

The sound of the chaos just outside the doors makes you flinch, and you cover your ears. The smell of smoke is so thick it stings the back of your throat, and too vividly can you imagine Caleb out there. Stuck in the carnage. 

It’s easy to sneak away. To slide between the cowering bodies of the other children and hide behind the statue of the goddess supposed to protect you. Your limbs tremble as you walk and you feel every moment closer to collapsing but you can’t stop. 

Caleb’s taken care of you for so long; you can’t just leave him out there. You have to find him. You have to.  

So you crawl out one of the windows. From the darkness of the temple into the orange glow of a village ablaze. 

You’re not sure what direction to take so you just start running. Towards the river and the docks you had dreamed of reaching one day. One day you would have a fancy houseboat and fish fancy rainbow fish. 

You’re nearly trampled by a horse, but quickly hide behind barrels in an alleyway. 

You reach the docks and find them nearly empty. Those with boats have fled down river to escape the raiders, and you whirl around. The bottom of your feet ache. These simple cloth shoes do little to protect you from the cobbled streets. 

“ Caleb !” You cry out desperately. Screaming at the top of your lungs for him, barely audible of the roar of flames. 

It’s hard to see with soot stinging your eyes, and harder still to call out for Caleb as it scorches your throat. You keep moving, down the riverside and hastily past more empty docks. A mill house has just started to catch fire, and the door is open and swinging with the wind. 

You go inside, desperate to be able to catch your breath. You hear more horses outside, and listen to the riders shout at each other. They plan to round up the rest of the people, drag them out of the village. After that…you’re not sure. 

Panic grips you, no– that’s a hand. A leather clad hand that grabs you violently around the upper arm and too easily drags you out of your hiding spot just behind the door. 

The face of the raider who grabs you is violent. Blood splattered across his skin and his eyes filled with rage. Though, when he sees the prey he’s caught, his expression slackens.

“It’s just a child.” He growls out, throwing you down onto the cobbled road in front of you. You crumble into a heap, sobbing hysterically as your body refuses to listen to you. You head cracks against the stone and you see stars, your stomach turns as the world begins to spin.

“Captain said all of them.” One of the other raiders says darkly, but there’s hesitation there.

“I don’t care what the damn captain says,” Your captor snarls, “I’m not killing little girls.”

The brute whose handprint is now bruised to your skin kneels down in front of you. He points towards the forests just beyond the millhouse, “Run, little girl. Don’t stop until you collapse. Run that way and keep going.”

The other raider barks out a name you don’t hear, because you’re already scrambling to your feet. Clawing at the ground in a wretched attempt to save your life. Your mind is nothing but prey-instinct at the moment. Thoughts of Caleb shoved to the side as your heart pounds in your ears. 

The ground beneath your feet turns from stone to mud to grass. Brush and branches from the forest whips at your arms and legs, scratching at you like claws. That final command from the man who could have been your death rings in your head. You don’t stop running. You can’t stop running. 

It was dawn when you woke, and it’s sunset when you collapse. 

Caleb has never tasted blood before now. 

First, it was his own. Biting his own tongue in shock when the hands of raiders grabbed him. They found him running back to the temple. His burlap bag was filled with some hard tack he snatched from one of the boats at the dock, but he’d thrown it to the ground when he’d seen the flames at one edge of the village. 

Most nights, he tells you before he heads out. So, why…tonight of all nights did he not? Why hadn’t he woken you? 

The second time he tastes blood is when he bites down onto the hand of his captor, digging his little teeth as far as they could go. Jerking his head like a dog to do the most amount of damage. 

The man he’s bitten howls in pain, and lands a hard punch to the back of Caleb’s head. The young boy cries out and falls limp, bludgeoned into near unconsciousness by the harsh blow. 

Soft sobs leave Caleb’s limp lips. Sorrow at his predicament and your unknown status making his young body too full to handle such emotions and spilling over. He weeps as he’s dragged out of the village, forced to his knees before a man in fancy armor.

The captain of the raiders talks of putting him out of his misery, and Caleb still can’t find the strength to move. 

It’s not until they mention the temple. 

“The priestesses wailed, like they thought that statue might come to life and smite us.” One of the raiders hollers in laughter. “We let the hounds have at them. Not much left to take in there. Even the windows were gone.”

Caleb sees red. Something in his mind snapping like a silken thread. A string of sanity that prevents someone from doing horrible things. Mortality, perhaps? Or perhaps it was just you. Perhaps you being alive was all that kept Caleb from hurting people, was that it?

Was that why it was so easy to lunge forward? Short and small as he was, they could hardly stop him. From the villain's belt who said such things about the temple, Caleb draws a dagger. Just his size. 

He slides the short blade into the flesh of the raider’s thigh. Sending him careening to the ground, and when they’re nearly the same height, Caleb yanks back and drives it back in– this time through the neck. 

Die. This man deserves to die. It’s easy to find the gaps between his armor, and Caleb isn’t sure how many times he drives that blade into the man– only that he doesn’t stop until the bastard stops moving. 

Caleb tastes blood again, and it’s warm against his face. 

The captain of this band laughs heartily, amused by the display and approaches Caleb. He easily grabs Caleb’s wrist when the young boy tries to stab him too. The captain plucks the dagger from Caleb’s hands and throws it to the side.

“I like this one.” The captain says with a chuckle, squeezing Caleb’s shoulder. “He’s got some promise! Don’t you think?”

A few of the other raiders chime in with their half-hearted agreement, and the captain laughs again. Patting the boy’s head almost paternally, “Impress me some more boy, and you’ll have whatever you desire.”

You don’t find another home. Not for years. 

When you’d hit your head, you hadn’t realized how long it would take to heal. You’d spent days scrounging through the forest, confused and delirious. You’d found a dirt road at some point, and fallen asleep in the ditch beside it. 

Fate must have taken pity on you, because a small group of merchants happened to pass by. One of the women insisted they stop and help you. She was a kind woman– a mother with two children of her own that had been lost to her by the war.

She held you in the back of one of the carts, feeding you stale bread and little sips of water. Traveling miles and miles before you were lucid enough to even look at her. 

Indebted to them, you followed the merchants. When your body was capable of it, you helped tend to the donkeys and keep track of their wares. You learned how to navigate the roads and how to know which areas were safe to travel and which were likely guarded by bandits. 

The woman who took you in, Jenna, taught you how to wield a little knife, and showed you the places on a man that would make him fall. Life started to hurt a little less, and the hole in your heart felt less like a chasm. 

Only, ever since you awoke in the back of the cart, you can’t remember why you ache so. Like you’ve forgotten something so important yet no matter how hard you try, the image of what you desire won’t come. 

You’re a young adult before life starts to hurt again. 

Your group had taken refuge in a small village. Really an inn and a few houses just off the side of the road. Your caretakers sold some salt they’d acquired in exchange for rooms and boarding. 

It had been too easy to fall asleep that night, so you should have known something bad would happen. 

Raiders are like vultures. Finding anything with some meat on their bones and picking them clean. They don’t seem to care about the little peace a village might have, or the fact that they destroy lives with their torches and swords. 

They burned the stables first, and set free the horses and donkeys. Leaving little to no escape for your party. 

You find Jenna too late. A wound to her ribs that bleeds no matter how much you try to keep your hands pressed to it. The sound of hoofbeats behind you is the most frightening thing, and the last thing Jenna finds the strength to do is shove your hands off of her and tell you to run. 

You obey, if only to honor her request. You find some other members of your nomadics group and sprint towards the treeline. The blood on your hands has grown cold and sticky, and you’re so very tired of running. 

Hoofbeats follow behind you, and you try to run harder. But you’re nothing compared to the steed, and the dark chestnut rounds around you, halting your path and making you fall backwards. 

The rider holds a blade in one hand, and you scramble back– though you notice the steel is clean. No blood.

“It’s you.” The rider says softly, barely audible. 

You struggle to your feet and slowly back away, frozen like a rabbit waiting for the opportunity to bolt. 

The man’s face is covered, and he seems to remember this fact as he sheaths his sword and tears the fabric away. 

“Come with me.” The young man urges. He holds out a hand, having to lean down from his horse to reach you. Peering around, you notice the other women you’d escaped with have disappeared.

“I can’t–” You rasp. The smoke from the burning hut you’d been sleeping in has made your voice hoarse, and it takes effort to push words out. “I don’t know you! You’re with them! Those raiders!”

He looks through the trees and back towards where the glow of the village shines with flames. The rest of his band is scavenging the rubble and finishing off any sorry soul who didn’t manage to escape.

Climbing down from his horse, he takes off his helmet, “Please,” He says your name and you startle at the sound of it. “I know you probably don’t remember me, but please…”

There’s something in his quiet plea that rings familiar. Perhaps a look in his eyes that makes him look younger because suddenly you do recognize him. 

You recognize the violet in his eyes. The soft lavender and mauve that you remember in a boy much smaller than this. The man who stands before you is a far cry from that little boy you knew. Huddled together on the dusty mud floor of the convent, avoiding lashing from the priestesses and hoping someday to escape to the river. 

“No…” You whisper, “I do.”

You hadn’t known him for long, and it was so long ago now. An ache in your skull that reminds you of the harsh crack it had taken just after losing him. But you remember him– for his beautiful eyes if nothing else. 

“I can keep you safe.” He says earnestly, taking both of your hands into his. And standing before you clad in the roughened armor of a raider. The cloak at his back is a mustard yellow and trimmed with black. “Come with me. Stay by my side, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. You don’t have to keep running like this.”

The whoops and cheers of the raiders echo through the woods, and a flurry of ash and embers explodes into the night sky as one of the houses from the village collapses.

You squeeze his hands. He seems so earnest, and you trust that he means his words– but you doubt he can follow through.

“Look at this place,” You whisper, “Do you really think you can protect me from them? From the band you swore loyalty to?”

Caleb freezes. You remember his name now. When his eyes widen into that childlike fear, you recognize him more. His hands slowly relax and release you, and you let your touch linger as you slowly draw away. 

“In another life.” You whisper, “I would go with you.”

You don’t regret leaving Caleb behind, at least at first. It’s a full day before your heart aches and you wish you’d chosen to take his hand. It’s getting colder, and you’d lost that last bit of solace you’d found among the merchants. 

The next few months of your life are spent in wretched conditions. Your shoes fall apart and have to be left behind. You scavenge for food and beg for money on the side of the road as you travel aimlessly. 

An icy rain pelts down onto you, but you don’t bother trying to find shelter. You’re in a mountainous region now, and the wind is harsher here. It feels pointless at this point– fighting to survive. 

You’ve long since lost feeling in your feet and toes. The clothing you wear is threadbare, and you know that with winter only a few weeks away, you’d only be staving off the inevitable by struggling. 

A small group passes you by, their heads hanging low and little to nothing held within their single cart. Even their mule looks downtrodden, saddened by the cold, bleak conditions. 

Refugees. 

One of the young men that holds a heavy pack over his shoulder pauses to ask you if you’re alright, but you can’t find the strength to answer. He looks at you pitifully and motions with his head to the rest of their group, “We’re heading to somewhere safe. We heard there’s a place to hide here in the mountains– come with us.”

You do, because you’re not sure what else to do. 

You follow them off the beaten path and through the forest, following a crumpled map that you begin to think might be a trick. It couldn’t be true. A safe place? In this awful world? Impossible. 

Only, you finally come to the craggy side of the mountain, a steep cliff that rises high into the gray clouds. The green of the forest encroaches onto it, hiding away an opening. It’s hard to spot at first, but when the first of your group enters, you blink and it appears. 

The air in the cavern is cold, but still. The wind from outside howls loudly but grows quieter the further you traverse inside. Darker and darker it becomes, until you’re walking with one hand outstretched to prevent bumping into something. 

The narrow passage suddenly opens up into a vast cavern, illuminated with beams of light streaming in through openings in the cave ceiling. The cold rain drips in through those holes, shimmering like little stars. The light is cast onto massive crystal formations, bigger than houses in some cases, and refracts it.

Moss and short stubby grass covers the majority of the cave floor and around a dozen tents are set up near the center. With one little cottage sitting on a ledge overlooking the rest. 

“Oh you bunch look a mess!” A dark haired woman cries as she rushes towards the front of your group. She wears the garb of a healer, and ushers the ten of you inside. “Come, come! There is food and warmth here. You’re safe now.”

A few short hours later and you’re wrapped in a large fur next to a fire. Your toes poking out to better feel the heat. A wooden bowl of stew sits in your now warm palms, and you sigh in relief as you continue to sip at it. 

A small commotion draws your attention away from the blessed warmth of the fire. A tall man walks through the main path of this little settlement of tents. His robes are a deep blue and he nearly blends in with the dim light of this cave.

“Were there any injuries?” The man asks the members of your temporary traveling group. “Make sure all frostbite is treated promptly, and if there’s anything you need please let me know. I will try my best to help.”

Another healer ? Your mind wonders. He walks through this place with such grace. His dark onyx hair and pale skin is striking, and he has an air of wisdom about him that is odd for such a young man. 

You’re staring as he walks by, seeming more elven than man. He must feel your gaze because he pauses, assessing you. 

“Where are your shoes?” He asks, looking to where your toes peek out from beneath the fur. You quickly tuck them back in, and curl up slightly. 

“Don’t have any.” You say shamefully, turning your gaze back to the fire. 

The man doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t leave. He lingers like a heavy shadow at your side, and you’re not sure whether the intensity in his eyes is anger or pity. 

“I will find you some.” Is what he says, firmly before walking away. 

You watch his back as he goes, and see as the few people he greets look at him with admiration and respect. Is he the owner of this place? Or just a popular man?

For this first time since arriving, you look around. Let your gaze wander around the little gathering of people. They look at ease, smiling with abandon in relief for finally finding sanctuary. The stalactites above your head sparkle like stars and the soft sound of rain is soothing. 

It’s hard to let yourself relax, but your body is keen to do it anyway. A tension in your shoulders dissolves, melting from the warmth of the stew so freely offered. You resolve that when you can feel your toes again, you’ll make an effort to repay all the debts of kindness you’d racked up over the years. To make a place here for yourself that you have earned instead of given. 

It’s not home yet, but it will be.

[glassandhoney]

Flowers | Sylus one shot

Flowers grow where dragons take their last breath. It was an unspoken truth of their kind, one passed only in the collective consciousness of the terrible creatures.

The little dragon grew among the endless hills of scarlet, stems of moonflowers swaying in the breeze and rocking him to sleep each night they bloomed, their deceitfully cloying fragrance carrying stories of mighty beasts and devoured souls. He had been spared only because of the otherness that had marked him since the cradle, the frail human body he had been cursed with. For a time, the curse became a blessing in disguise, bestowing on him yet another heartbeat, breath, day bathing in the sun and night lulled by the stars above. He didn’t know each of their mischievous twinkles counted down the moments until the last dragon would lay his garnet gaze upon them one final time. The flowing years took to him much like waves to a jaded bit of glass: they cultivated his softness and nurtured his kindness, polishing any sharp edges there might have been; coaxed him into the world of his kin’s executioners; created an illusion of acceptance.

Alas, there is no escaping the Master of Fate.

Like tender branches, ones he had first hacked off one starless night in his early years to stave off his fate, the basalt horns sprouted from between the white strands of hair. And humans, so blind to their own sin and monstrosity, saw. They revelled in the rare opportunity to give in to their basest, most animalistic desire to hunt – it was of little consequence that he had lived among them for years, well-liked and appreciated by many. They chased him into the flower-filled fields, the wind howling through the crimson valley as countless soldiers thrust weapons at his chest – for this was war, one he had no chance of winning. In the abyss, he was sealed, the adolescent dragon whose wings had never felt the wind’s caress. For aeons, he dreamt of the one that would free him of his shackles, claim the broadsword piercing his heart as his archnemesis and grant him true death.

When the sorceress came, she gifted him with revenge. Oh, but she was greedy. With her by his side, they razed cities, plundered coffers and seized starships, making the lair he claimed for himself a shining nest for them. She wanted a crown – she took it. She wanted a silly windchime her starry gaze spotted in the market – she took it. She wanted his heart – she took it. It would have been the second war declared on him in his life—yet could a conquest be as delicate as the flower petals that had swaddled the young dragon when the others had fallen? Could the spoils be surrendered as naturally as if they were the air escaping his lungs with each breath? He adored her greed, stoked it, even; fed her lacklustre soul with fulfilled desires, until all he could smell was its sweet cherry wine fragrance. Even so, she never let their deal be one-sided: she retaught him compassion and showed him human love, making the dragon think he could live like a human as well. And when she made her next demand—his soul—there was no hesitation in his still-free mind when he grasped her hand and took an oath never to betray her, even when doomsday arrived.

It did, sooner than either of them expected, thrusting them into the blooming datura hills yet again. For the first time, he had denied her – refused to give her the death she begged for when they stood at an impasse, facing an impossible choice, at least to her: kill the dragon as his fated archnemesis or allow him to tear his claws into his beloved’s chest when the dragon’s curse took his mind. But he had tasted humanity, not by devouring their souls, but letting his own be halved and known; by holding it in his embrace each night like the most valuable of treasures in their hoard, whispering bloodiest promises into her ear. He refused to be a dragon again. He forced her hand, vowing to himself never to do so again, letting her take the life she had never wanted with the broadsword she had freed him from. Even then, she had to be greedy, his sorceress: she answered his refusal with her own, taking his death for herself, the privilege of flowers making a home out of his ribcage. He had freed himself of one curse only to be bound by another.

And the once-dragon wouldn’t have had it any other way, even when the 10.5 grams of energy that used to be him barrelled through the cosmos, waiting for the other half of his soul to join him, searching for a place for them to be reborn in. He should have known better than to hope for fate to be merciful to the likes of him. They were a soul separated by thousands of stars that had mocked him through every step of existence. When he finally found her, garnet vortex glimpsing into the vast expanses of the universe and seeing at last, he dared to celebrate, ridiculing them all – thousands of years, yet his childish, innocent hope persevered. How cruel of a long-awaited awakening it was – when half the soul he had dedicated his every gesture, every choice to, didn’t recognise him. She gazed upon him and saw not a sliver beyond the monster his sorceress had never seen. Desperate, he pushed, forcefully tugging at her soul, demanding it accept and accommodate his. It achieved nothing but disgusted looks and baseless accusations thrown at him, giving way to a war. He chose his battles wisely – though never when it came to her. He ceded ground, going against instinct and revealing the soft underbelly. Vulnerability laid bare, the dragon needed to learn anew how to be human – he could only wonder if it would be her again who taught him.

One night, he watched the stars that seemed to blink back with a somewhat warmer light, gone was their malicious intent— or maybe he was getting sentimental, not to his detriment.

“It’s the middle of the night. I thought you’d be doing some shady deals at this time.”

He didn’t look back, having felt her arrival before she had even opened her mouth, but he did lower his head to look over the balcony’s railing and hide his smile from the sky.

“Hm. Took the night off from being the big bad boss.”

“To watch the stars? I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.”

Her voice was now further away, to the left. A thud, then a familiar sweet scent was wrapping him tight in its cloying embrace. A raised eyebrow at the ceramic pot that had suddenly found its way to his balcony and a cock of his head to the side later, she was standing by him, watching the sky like he had been doing just moments earlier.

“And you took me for the type that enjoys flowers?”

He received a shrug. “I wanted to brighten all this gloom you surround yourself with.” She stayed silent for a while. But then, she seemed to change her answer, and her face turned to him, her eyes twinkling like the stars above – soft. “Maybe.”

With the smile she gave him, it seemed she dabbled in her old and forgotten ways again – taking his breath away as she wished. His eyes darted to the moonflowers again, then returned to the dazzling soul that brought them to him, allowing the dragon to rest at last. Maybe flowers grow where hearts live.

[khywren]

❛ pairing: Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 8.6k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, emotional sex, PIV sex, mentions of trauma and abuse, references to Astarion's past, blood, blood drinking

▸ preview: He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

--

OR: Sometimes all it takes is a little darkness to expose the light. AO3 ┊ masterlist

The shadow-cursed lands are easily the most depressing thing Astarion has seen in weeks. Descending into the Underdark had been awful enough (the bioluminescent mushrooms were, after all, a poor substitute for the warmth of the sun), but here, amidst the pervasive scents of death and decay, the darkness is nothing if not suffocating.

There's an unsettling weight to it, the way it bears down upon them all with an almost crushing force, as if it seeks to drag them down into some endless abyss.

Even when he had prowled the streets of the Lower City, he had found some refuge in the stars that dotted the night sky like so many glittering jewels, or the inviting glow of one of the city's many taverns and brothels.

It's hardly strange, then, part of him almost misses it. Here, where all traces of light have been snuffed out. Had he ever truly been content amongst the shadows, or was it just another of the many lies he had told himself over the years?

For this place is naught but shadow, the kind of creeping, carnivorous darkness that devours everything in its path. It's burrowed beneath his skin and made itself at home in his very bones, like an itch he can never hope to scratch. He would tear himself apart before ever hoping to purge it.

He hasn't felt like this since…

In the farthest recesses of his mind, he hears the scrape of stone-on-stone, recalling the hopelessness he'd felt when the last slivers of light he would see for an entire year refused to be sealed away with him.

Astarion shakes his head to rid himself of the memory.

A soft sigh leaves his lips as he swirls the wine in his glass, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem as he lifts it to his mouth and takes another sip. 

He needs a distraction.

His eyes drift lazily across the bar at the back of the Last Light Inn, searching for her as they always seem to these days.

Astarion's only salvation sits no more than fifteen feet away, but even her light has dimmed in this wretched place. It's evident in the way Ysera slumps her shoulders, the weary fatigue she conceals behind a put-together facade. Her tail hangs limply over the back of her barstool, as still and lifeless as his unbeating heart.

The rest of them might be fooled, but Astarion has worn enough masks to know when someone is playing a part. Watching her is like watching some unknown entity puppet her body, guiding her through the motions without any real respect for the craft. To say it unnerves him is an understatement; he'd find more life in a corpse.

As she takes yet another hearty drink of whatever she plundered from behind the counter, Ysera entertains the bard they met back in the grove with a strained smile and a hollow laugh that echoes harshly in his ears. Astarion remembers her name is Alfira, but only because Ysera had greeted her so fondly the moment they were reunited. There's nothing else remarkable enough about her to retain his interest for more than a fleeting moment.

One after another over the course of the evening, he has watched from afar as the tieflings that had survived the journey to Last Light have circled her like vultures, taking what they needed from her – reassurance, hope, a promise to ensure their safety. Alfira is but the latest scavenger, coming to collect the final scraps.

And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.

After all, had he not been the first one to take more from her than he was owed?

The stem of the wine glass cracks beneath his fingers, and Astarion pushes it aside before sliding gracefully from his seat. He hears Ysera echo the same empty promises she'd given the rest of the stragglers from the Grove, vowing to secure them safe passage to Baldur's Gate, as if any of them have any say in the matter. 

Alfira thanks Ysera profusely and excuses herself when she notices Astarion approaching. Lost in her thoughts, Ysera turns back to her drink, and Astarion watches her expression turn grim. She downs the rest of the alcohol in a single swallow, teetering on the barstool as she swipes another bottle and upends half its contents into her glass.

The subtle notes of vanilla, smoke, and cinnamon assault Astarion's senses as he draws nearer to her, but not before Ysera has gulped down most of what he assumes from the way she scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue must be a rather strong batch of whiskey. Hardly his preferred drink, but it's done its job of getting her thoroughly drunk.

When she raises the glass to polish off the rest of it, she only manages to lift it halfway before Astarion intervenes and lays his hand over her wrist to restrain her. She whirls to face him, fire burning in her eyes as he pulls the drink from her hands.

“All right, darling,” he says gently, “that's quite enough of that. I'm not sure what you're hoping to find at the bottom of that glass, but I assure you it's not worth the headache.”

Ysera regards him with sullen fury, and her tail twitches irritability.

“Oh, don't spoil my fun.”

She lurches forwards to steal the drink back from him, but her movements are uncoordinated and slow, and Astarion lets out an amused chuckle as he holds the glass above her head while she swipes helplessly at it. When she finally gives up, he returns it to the counter behind her, well out of reach.

“This is what you consider fun?” he asks incredulously, raising a single brow. “Drowning yourself in cheap spirits? You look positively dreadful. ”

“Thank you for noticing.” Ysera huffs and folds her arms over her chest, and Astarion is quite certain from the look she fixes him with that she's imagining his perfectly arranged curls going up in flames. “Don't act like you're not just as miserable as the rest of us.”

For a moment Astarion hesitates, caught off guard by the truth in her words. But he decides in the end that it's just a lucky guess and shrugs his shoulders dismissively while brushing a stray bit of dirt off of his armor.

“Speak for yourself, my sweet; some of us are flourishing. In fact, I rather find myself quite at home here.”

Shadow, shadow, everything is shadow, he can't get out, there's no way out –

“Liar.” Her voice is slurred but rings in his mind with alarming clarity, ripping him from the memories that refuse to remain buried.

“You haven't come to my tent in days, and I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.”

Ysera's temper flares, red-orange fire licking her palms before she clamps them shut to extinguish the flames. He can't decide if she's worried for him, hurt by his absence, or something else entirely.

“Listen, darling,” he starts, “you're hardly in any state to –”

“To what?” she shouts. “To stand by and watch you starve!?” Her body shakes with what might be a restrained sob, and something about the way she looks at him twists like a knife in his chest.

“You know I can't do that, Astarion! Let me help you.”

‘Please!’ His fists beat mercilessly on the stone, fingers scraped raw and bloody. ‘Someone help me!’ 

No one comes. 

The anger that's been simmering inside him erupts, and his eyes flash in warning. But she meets his ire with determination, either too drunk or too stupid to realize what she's done. The memories she's pulled to the surface, long since locked away.

Only then does he notice the staring. Half a dozen tieflings watch them with bated breath, eyes wide and curious. Even some of their companions have noticed the commotion.

Astarion schools his expression and twists his lips into a bitter smile.

“Fine.”

Ysera opens her mouth immediately, ready to refute his remarks, but she clearly wasn't expecting this.

“Wait… that's it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes as she peers up at him in disbelief. “Seriously? After all that, that's really all it took to convince you?”

Astarion responds with another shrug and a tilt of his head.

“Come now – do I really seem like the kind of person who would lie just to get out of an uncomfortable conversation?”

Ysera snorts audibly.

“Astarion, you are exactly that kind of person.”

A smirk flits across his face, silver brows arched as he leans in towards her. Ysera's back hits the counter as she retreats, and Astarion watches her nostrils flare as she breathes in his scent, caged beneath him with no intention of escaping. 

Her eyes travel to his lips, and there's little more than a hair's breadth between them when his hand closes around the handle of the glass behind her, and he withdraws suddenly from her personal space. 

She masks her disappointment well, but her eyes spark with a passion he hasn't seen in days.

Well, at least there's still some life left in her.

Astarion swirls the rest of the whiskey in her glass and swallows it. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but it's well worth the venomous look she throws his way. He sets the empty glass down beside her and saunters away with a flourish of his hand.

“I'll see you tonight, darling.” ————

The air here is stagnant as ever, but Astarion swears he feels a chill snake its way down his spine as he walks through their camp. There's enough distance between his tent and Ysera's for him to dwell on what she'd said to him earlier that afternoon, and no one around to stop his thoughts from wandering.

‘I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.’

She's right, of course. The first night they’d arrived here, he'd snuck away from camp in the middle of the night and stumbled upon the body of a dead bear, lying peacefully on the side of the road as if in slumber. 

He'd sank his teeth eagerly into its fur, retching when its putrid blood had burned like acid in his throat. The same inky black ichor had oozed from every other creature he had come across, each less appetizing than the last.

By the third day, he was ravenous.

He'd slipped into Ysera's tent well after everyone had gone to sleep, but she'd looked so frail and cold beneath her blankets that the thought of drinking from her had physically repulsed him.

Each time he'd considered asking her again, the treacherous voices in his head had condemned him for his selfishness, filling him with an unfamiliar guilt that he still isn't quite sure what to do with.

Worse still, he feels plagued by that same guilt even now, even after she has all but demanded he come to her tent and feed from her.

Astarion hesitates for only a moment before he thrusts open the flap of Ysera's tent, startling her from where she sits in front of her mirror to brush out the tangles in her hair. It's gotten significantly longer in the month and a half since they've been traveling together, cascading over her shoulders in satiny pink waves as she turns to face him.

Her face falls when she sees his conflicted expression, but she scoots towards him anyway and invites him to sit with a sweep of her hand.

“I was starting to think you were going to stand me up again,” she murmurs quietly, twisting her hands in her lap.

Relying on instinct has gotten him this far; Astarion finds himself settling back into familiar routines, letting a seductive smile play across his lips as he kneels across from her. He cocks his head to the side and clicks his tongue, purposely dragging his gaze over every curve of her body.

“And waste another moment without enjoying that delicious blood of yours? That simply won't do.”

Her heart leaps in her chest, a blush staining her cheeks. It's almost too easy, her concern for him seemingly forgotten in an instant.

He wants to feel proud, confident that he can still get what he wants from her when he wants it.

But the only thing he feels when he looks at her now is shame. It sprouts like creeping, twisting vines, suffocating him from within.

She hasn't bothered to light any candles, and Astarion suddenly finds himself missing the way her golden eyes glimmer like warm amber in the firelight. Ysera crawls towards him and settles comfortably in his lap like she's always belonged there, and Astarion instinctively inhales her scent, swept up in the aroma of roses and springtime that make him yearn for the sun.

He hasn't had the time to remember what it feels like to be cold, but everywhere she touches him breathes new life into his frigid skin, caressing him like the kiss of a nascent flame. She sweeps her hair obediently over her shoulder to expose her throat to him and waits for his instruction.

When Astarion lifts his hands to grip her waist and thread his fingers through her unbound hair, he's trembling.

Not in anticipation, but with anger. 

Astarion holds her more tightly than he should, and Ysera's spine immediately straightens. The racing of her heart suggests that she is afraid, and yet she still does not refuse him. 

How many years had he suffered, trapped in an endless cycle of misery under Cazador's cruel thumb while the buzzards stripped him bare? How hard had he fought to claw back even a modicum of freedom, only to watch her willingly submit to the whims of complete strangers whose lives were ultimately insignificant? To him , when he's done nothing but take and take and take?

With every poor, worthless fool she helps, she makes a mockery of him.

His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning.

He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach. 

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

Ysera yields without protest when Astarion bears down upon her, pushing her roughly onto her bedroll. He pins her beneath him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of her blood as if in a trance. When his fangs dig deeper, she lets out a strangled sob, and the sound of it wrenches him out of his stupor just in time to realize just how close he'd come to losing control of himself completely.

Astarion refuses to look at her when he tears himself away from her throat, pointedly avoiding the ghastly wound he's left behind. The air is thick with the smell of her blood, and the drops that run down his chin bloom red against the white fabric of her nightshirt.

His stomach tightens. All this time, he'd fooled himself into believing he was the one in control.

But no matter what he does, he can't escape the one simple truth that he is weak. The only question now is who gets to hold his leash: Cazador or Ysera?

“Astarion?”

Ysera's voice sounds so fragile, timid and uncertain as she calls out to him. He grimaces when her hand cups his cheek with more tenderness he deserves, compelling him to look at her. He knows what he'll see when he does: revulsion, fear, betrayal.

But when Astarion forces himself to meet her gaze, the look of concern writ across her face fractures something deep within his chest, and he gasps for breath he no longer needs. 

“What's wrong, Astarion? Are you alright?”

The softness of her expression cuts him like a knife, and he pulls himself away as if he's been burned. 

“I should go.”

“What? I don’t – Astarion, wait!”

He's halfway on his feet by the time she reaches for him, hands just brushing past the collar of his shirt. 

Don't look back.

This was a mistake.

You gods-damned fool.

Another sob bubbles in her throat, and he keeps his back to her, certain that looking at her now would ruin him. He doesn't want to know what she looks like, broken and abandoned not by some nameless foe, but by someone else she trusted not to hurt her.

But it's worse than that, because he is afraid to know.

“Please… don't go.”

Astarion clenches his fists and walks away.

Their camp is still quiet as Astarion stalks back to his tent. He's halfway there when he sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see Gale and Shadowheart engaged in a hushed conversation together.

They glance at him from across the campfire, and their expressions grow stern as they survey the state of him. It likely doesn't take them long to piece together what has happened. The hand Astarion wipes across his mouth comes away red, stained with the remnants of Ysera's blood he hadn't had the time to clean up before he left her tent.

Astarion deflects their silent accusations with a scowl, daring either of them to speak. But they say nothing, and Astarion turns up his nose in defiance before returning to his tent.

They don't understand. None of them do.

The moment he returns to the privacy of his tent, Astarion wastes no time peeling his clothes off and throwing them to the far corner. Her scent clings to him anyway, and even after he's cleaned the blood from his mouth, it's all he can think of. 

He pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and makes himself as comfortable as he can, settling into his bedroll. The same one Ysera had insisted he keep once she found out he was trancing on nothing more than an old wooden board.

What must she think of him now, he wonders?

Astarion sighs and closes his eyes. He half expects her to come after him, but with each passing minute, he realizes it's nothing more than wishful thinking.

When he finally slips into an uneasy trance, all he sees is her face, twisted in grief.

————

Isobel's moonshield glows bright white and ethereal as Astarion slips through it like a phantom, his skin prickling as he emerges on the other side of the barrier.

He had been told Ysera had come this way not long after they had returned from their preliminary visit to Moonrise Towers, though he doesn't quite understand why she would choose this of all places until he spots her.

She's sitting on the flat top of the rock that extends over the lakeshore, and Astarion watches as she grabs a loose stone from the spot next to her and throws it as hard as she can into the water. Her tail thumps against the ground, and he can overhear her muttering about the drow they'd met shortly after coming face to face with Ketheric Thorm himself.

She grabs another rock and hurtles it farther than the last. Astarion finds it all rather amusing, and anger certainly looks far better on her than sorrow.

He clears his throat as he approaches, and she makes a noise of surprise when she turns to face him, scarlet coloring her cheeks.

“Astarion! Uh… hi. How long have you been –?”

Astarion gestures to one of his pointed ears and smirks through his fangs. “Long enough.”

Ysera's already buried her face in her hands when he sits next to her, and she inhales sharply before letting out a frustrated groan.

“It’s just – I don't – I can't believe that woman!” she seethes. Her teeth are halfway bared behind her snarl, body bristling with magic. She fixes her gaze on Astarion, expression softening when her eyes rove over his face.

“I can't believe she thought she could speak to you like that.” A string of Infernal curses tumbles from her mouth, and Astarion watches as she opens her palm and ignites a brilliant ball of white-hot flame.

“I still think Gale should have let me incinerate her.”

He hasn't seen her this upset in weeks, and an unexpected thrill of pleasure courses through him at the fact that it's all on his behalf.

“And that, darling, is why we leave diplomacy to the wizard.”

Ysera pouts at him. “Oh, come on. You would have enjoyed it too, and you know it.”

Without Gale's interference, Astarion has no doubt that their encounter with the blood merchant would have gone awry. The look of terror on Araj’s face when Ysera had summoned her magic and threatened her had been extremely entertaining, and he hadn't been the only one to be disappointed when Gale had intervened.

“True,” he says wryly, "but I hardly think the great General Thorm would have appreciated us attacking one of his little minions.”

Ysera snorts and rolls her eyes.

“He might if he knew how much of a bitch she is.”

Astarion throws back his head and laughs. It's the best he's felt in days.

“What?” she mutters indignantly. “We'd have been doing him a favor! Whether or not he deserves it is irrelevant.”

This time, when Astarion fixes her with a mischievous grin, it's completely genuine. His influence on her is evident; even a month ago, she never would have suggested such a thing.

“Well, there's always next time. And if she should happen to find herself in the way of a blade –”

“– or a fireball,” Ysera interjects, tail swishing excitedly back and forth. Astarion simply nods in agreement.

“It would be such a shame, of course, but accidents do happen.”

They look at each other for a moment, and despite the familiar ease Astarion can sense returning between them, her face remains inscrutable.

“In all seriousness, though…” Ysera says after a moment, “I'm sorry about what she said.”

Astarion stares out across the water and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“Don't be. What's done is done.”

What hadn't surprised him was the way Araj had spoken to him, intent on using him to indulge her strange fantasies. It's nothing he isn't already used to, and instead of feeling angry, the only thing he'd felt was numb. 

That Ysera would be against the idea was another given, but it was the ferocity with which she had defended him once he’d expressed his disinterest that he had found the most intriguing. 

Especially considering what had occurred between them only two nights prior to their visit to Moonrise. 

He still doesn't understand her, or why she insists on being so kind to him. Somewhere, some part of him that he thought long dead stirs to life, the part of him that dares to hope that maybe she might actually care for him.

The same way he's been too scared to admit he cares for her. The people he cares about don't survive for very long. She deserves better than that.

He's never really had someone to care for before – someone he could truly call his own. Everything he had had been ripped away from him the night Cazador turned him. Little by little, she had worked her way into his cold, dead heart, so quietly that he hadn't even noticed it until it was already too late.

“That doesn't mean I have to like it,” she's saying now, looking at him with more of that righteous indignation. “I promise I'll never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, no matter what we're offered in return.”

A weight lifts from his shoulders. There's freedom in her words, the closest he's felt to it since waking up on that beach so many days ago. He reaches for it tentatively, as if it will slip through his fingers if he isn't very, very careful.

“Thank you.” 

He lets Ysera lay her hand over his, and together they listen to the waves break against the shore in silence. If they survive this, he vows to himself that he will confess everything to her, before he leaves. He'd thought it would be better to slip away quietly, to pretend like nothing had ever happened between them, but as she leans against his shoulder and strokes the back of his hand with a fondness she reserves only for him, he knows that he can't go through with it.

The best he can do for her now is try to convince her to stand up for herself so this doesn't happen again. Him. The tieflings. All of it.

“You'd do well to heed your own advice, you know.”

Ysera lifts her head from Astarion’s shoulder and looks at him in confusion.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Astarion huffs a dry laugh, and she furrows her brow.

“Only that I haven't seen you smile once since we came to this place,” he says simply.

“I mean… yeah, just look at it. Do you blame me?” she counters, throwing her arms wide. She must expect Astarion to commiserate with her, but he only looks at her sternly.

“I'm talking about the tieflings, darling,” he says sourly. “You don't owe them even half as much as you've given them.”

“I…” Ysera bites her lip and looks away to avoid meeting his gaze. “It's fine.”

“Is it?” he presses.

She draws her legs close to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. For a moment Astarion thinks she won't respond, but she sounds so small when she finally tells him:

“My whole life, all I've ever done is hurt people. My parents are dead because of me.” She traces a hand over the jagged scars that mar her face, and Astarion remembers the sordid tale of how she got them.

“So is the man who gave me this.”

Dead by her own hands, after he'd carved into her face as a punishment for hurting him.

“And you too.” Astarion glances down at his chest, eyes following the path of the mark she'd left seared into his armor the last time her temper had flared, hot as the forge in the Underdark.

“I just…” Ysera sighs and hugs herself tightly, eyes downcast. “I just want to help people, if I can. I don't see anything wrong with that.”

At last, he thinks he understands. In her desperation to feel wanted, to convince herself she isn't just a mistake, she's destroying herself in the process. He sees his own self-loathing mirrored back at him like some vile, twisted shadow, always there, always whispering in his ear that no matter what he does, nothing will change.

“You'd sacrifice your own happiness for people who are more than willing to take advantage of that kindness,” Astarion observes dryly. “Doesn't seem like a fair trade to me.”

He knows she can't refute the truth. The seconds turn into minutes; and there's something deeply sad about the way she smiles as she finally turns to look at him again.

“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “Is that what you're doing, Astarion? Taking advantage of me?”

————

The next evening, Astarion finds himself outside Ysera's tent once again. He tells himself it's the hunger that has brought him to her proverbial doorstep, because it's more convenient to lie than it is to admit he feels the need to set things right between them.

That still doesn't make him any less anxious as he slips quietly into her tent. He finds her tucked under a pile of blankets, thumbing through one of the terribly written romance novels she's picked up from one merchant or another. When she hears him enter, she looks up at him and sets her book aside without a second thought.

Astarion has come to her tent enough times now that they have long since established a routine, and even though his visits have been infrequent as of late, she still seems more than eager to accommodate him.

Neither of them speak about what happened the last time he paid her a nighttime visit.

He leaves his boots by the entrance and makes himself comfortable amidst the pile of blankets she's used to line the floor of her tent.

“Back so soon, Astarion?”

“What can I say? I've missed you, darling.”

The truth slips through his lips like water through a sieve, even though he hides it behind a well-placed smirk.

Ysera combs her hands through her hair, tying it back and out of the way. Astarion's eyes follow the shape of her jaw before reluctantly settling on the bite marks on her throat. They've healed since their previous encounter, but it doesn't stop the memory of her, bloodstained and trembling, from resurfacing in his mind like a festering wound.

Yet when she crawls out from beneath her blankets and into his lap again, she does so without hesitation. There is no trace of fear in her golden eyes, and although her smile is hollow, she holds his face in her hands with a gentleness that cannot be anything but sincere.

Blazing heat follows the path of her fingers beneath his chin. Under her direction, Astarion lifts his head to meet her gaze. There is an emptiness there now, a cold detachment made all the more haunting in the flickering light within her tent that casts her face in shadows. The tenderness of her hands as they sink into his hair sends a chill down his spine, and despite himself he leans into her touch.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know,” she says, twirling a stray lock of his hair around her finger. He hums thoughtfully in response.

“Do you want to know what I really want, Astarion?”

The shadow-cursed lands have stolen something from each of them, but they have taken the most from Ysera. Gone is all her reckless optimism and carefree laughter, her last and only defense against the darkness that dwells within her own mind. The woman in his lap may wear her face and speak with her voice, but it isn't her.

Astarion swallows thickly and nods.

“I want to think about something other than this place, or these worms in our heads,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Or why can't I sleep without these godsdamned nightmares.”

The dam breaks, and her body shudders with a quiet sob as she presses his face against her neck in a silent plea.

“You're the only one who’s ever made it all disappear,” she whimpers. “Help me forget, Astarion.”

He knows it is an impossible request. He's been trying to forget for two hundred years, long enough to know the weight of what she's asking of him. But he presses his fangs into her flesh like a balm all the same, soothing her as she sags against him and rakes her nails across his scalp.

He cannot make her forget, but he can distract her. He owes her at least that much. And for the first time in a long time, when he sinks his fangs into her neck and lets his hands slip beneath her nightgown, everything feels right.

Astarion’s hands drink in her warmth with the same eagerness he swallows her blood, roving over her curves and dragging his nails against her bare skin. She shudders at the contact and moans softly, pressing his face even more firmly into the curve of her neck.

“Astarion…”

When Ysera accidentally brushes her hand over the shell of his ear, Astarion groans into her throat, grabbing her by the hips and positioning her over the growing bulge in his pants to let her feel the hardening outline of his cock as he rocks his hips against her. She responds beautifully, grinding down against him the moment he pulls away. His tongue swirls around the puncture wounds on her neck, coaxing more delicious sounds from her before he pauses to admire his handiwork.

When he unlatches from her and sits back on his calves, a trickle of wine-dark blood spills over her collarbones, staining her skin with crimson as it disappears beneath her nightgown. Astarion’s fingers glide smoothly up her torso, yanking the garment down as her breasts spill into his hands. Her hips jerk forward again as he brushes over her nipples, pinching the taut buds between his thumbs and forefingers.

Ysera sighs softly when he presses his nose against her chest, and she tastes just as heavenly as he remembers as he runs the flat of his tongue across her flushed skin, following the trail of her blood. The marks on her neck entice him to drink more, but instead he nips a teasing path along her throat and across her jaw, breath fanning out against her ear as he drops his voice to a pleasing growl.

“You've told me all about what you want – now tell me what you need .”

“I–”

Her breath hitches as Astarion’s fangs press into her skin, and her hands fumble blindly for his laces.

“I need you,” she whines. “I need this .”

A laugh rumbles low in his throat, and Astarion rewards her with another nip. “Very good. You need my cock, darling? It's all yours.”

As Ysera works at his laces with trembling hands, Astarion braces himself for the familiar sense of dread that has been his constant companion during their nights together. But her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as she frees him from his trousers, and he finds that he doesn't hate the feeling of her hands on him perhaps as much as he should.

But Astarion smothers the thought as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, smouldering like golden embers beneath her lashes. 

At last, she's come back to him.

With one hand braced against her back, Astarion steadies Ysera as she lifts her hips, maintaining eye contact with her as she watches him expectantly. He pulls aside her underwear, exposing her quivering cunt as he lines his cock up with her entrance. 

“Are you ready for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers.

Astarion understands the language of pain – what it means to finally feel something after feeling nothing for so long. He can see it now in her eyes, pleading for something she doesn't quite know how to ask for.

So with a quick snap of his hips, Astarion sheathes himself inside her in a single, harsh thrust. At the same time, his fangs pierce her neck again, blood running thick and warm down his throat. Ysera cries out and whimpers his name, but the way she throws her arms around his shoulders and clings to him tells him everything he needs to know.

Ysera rolls her hips each time he drives his cock inside her, letting him bottom out with each thrust. She's tight, pulsing around his cock as he works her open, and even though it must hurt she begs for more, more, more . 

Kneading her breasts in his hands, Astarion encourages her to keep moving, whispering words of praise into her ear when he's taken his fill of her blood.

“That's it. Good girl. Focus on me.”

Sparks ignite between them when their eyes meet, and even through her half-lidded gaze he can feel the intensity with which she watches him, devoting herself to memorizing every detail of his face, the way he holds her, and the fullness of his cock, warmed by her body and her blood as he maintains a steady pace inside her.

“More,” she sobs, bucking her hips and throwing her head back on a broken moan. “Please, Astarion…”

As much as he finds he enjoys the intimacy of having her in his lap, it makes things unnecessarily complicated. He misses the warmth of her body and the scent of her skin the moment he lays her back against the blankets, reaching for the nightgown bunched around her torso and pulling it over her head. Ysera waits patiently for him to reach for her underwear next, smooth fingers hooking beneath the waistband before he slides them down her legs and tosses them into the darkness.

She looks up at him, pupils blown, swallowing as Astarion gently spreads her legs and seats himself between her knees. Slicking his hand over his cock, he takes in the sight of her, pleased by the gentle curve of her mouth and the way her heart flutters beneath her ribs. He slides his length through her slick folds, gathering her arousal.

“Wait.”

Astarion pauses, confusion coloring his expression as he wonders what's gone wrong.

“I…”

Even in the darkness, he can see the flush that stains her cheeks, plush lips parted as she pants softly.

“I want to see you too.”

She smiles sheepishly when he rolls his eyes, and he huffs dramatically before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The rest of his clothes join hers in the same half-forgotten pile, and Astarion quickly returns to his place between her legs.

“Better, darling?”

“Uh-huh.”

It's difficult for him not to preen beneath her attention as he eyes travel over the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders, but Ysera anchors her gaze instead on his face, studying him as though it's the first time she's seen it. 

He wonders what she sees when she looks at him, what she's searching for with those brilliant golden eyes. Ysera's breath hitches when he enters her again, hands on her waist as he seats himself fully inside her. He pulls almost completely out of her and pauses, waiting for her to whine in frustration before he slams home again. He does it again, snapping his hips forward with enough force that it nearly lifts her off the blankets.

The sound of her languid moans sounds like a symphony as he sets a feverish pace, grunting through gritted teeth as he fucks her hard and deep. Hands tucked beneath her knees, he gives her everything she'd asked for, taking pride in every whimper and moan that tumbles from her mouth.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asks. The lewd sound of their bodies moving together fills the silence between them while Ysera struggles to find an answer to his question, and she barely gets out a single word before her eyes slam shut and she buries her fists in the blankets.

“You.” 

He hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her and she cries out in pleasure, gasping for breath. “You, Astarion. Always you, always, always…”

The admission pleases him more than he cares to admit. He's seen the way some of the others look at her, and with every thrust of his hips he makes sure there will never be room for anyone but him.

The thought of her sharing this kind of intimacy with anyone but him is nearly enough to drive him mad. Her secrets, her hopes, her fears, all of them are his and his alone.

But what, then, does that make her?

Yours.

His mind rejects the obvious answer.

It's strange, he realizes, that even as his mind wanders, it remains fixated on her. He wants to remember the way she looks beneath him, trying so hard to keep her eyes focused on his face. He wants to remember the feel of her in his hands, the way she moans and whimpers only for him.

He wants to remember, because for the first time in so many years, he finally feels like more of a man than a monster.

Astarion adjusts his position and leans over her, and Ysera takes the invitation to gather his hands in her own. Their fingers lace together and she squeezes tightly. He can feel her magic brimming just beneath her palms, undulating in time with the steady drumming of her heart. Her eyes shine with the ferocity of a supernova, a dying star scattered into the cosmos.

He feels the tether on her power snap taut, and her body trembles with the effort it takes to restrain it. Ysera's throat constricts with a sharp gasp as Astarion drives his hips forward again and again, coaxing her closer and closer to the sweet oblivion he knows she needs with each delicious thrust.

The air crackles with magic when Astarion pins Ysera's arms above her head, lightning dancing between her outstretched fingers. She arches her back and writhes each time he thrusts into her, his pace unfaltering as he banishes any lingering doubts from her mind.

Her fingers flex and she looks away, a frightened animal in flight. Astarion grabs her chin between his fingers and tilts her head towards him to capture her mouth in a tender kiss. His tongue slides across the seam of her lips and she yields to him without hesitation. He greedily devours every delightful little sound she makes for him, kissing her in just the right way he knows will produce the exact response he wants from her.

“Don't run from me,” he says softly. It's more of a request than a demand, but she complies all the same. 

Her gaze returns to his face, albeit reluctantly, and Astarion doesn't know what comes over him when he smooths his thumb across her cheek and cradles her head in his hand. “I’ve got you.” 

The gentleness of his own voice surprises even himself.

Ysera has always been afraid of herself, but never of him. He can't understand why. He's hurt her. He can't be certain he won't do it again, before everything is over. Whatever monster dwells within her must be truly terrible if it would convince her to seek solace in someone like him, no matter how much he's come to crave her affection.

She clings to him like so many others before her, legs lifting to encircle his back to keep him close, tail coiling tightly around his leg. An instinct to beg for more of the only thing he has to offer her. 

But what he can't dismiss as instinct is the way she looks at him, bright and warm as the first rays of the sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. Mere inches separate them, and Astarion can feel her breath fanning out over his lips with each sigh and gasp she makes beneath him.

“Astarion…”

His name sounds like honey on her tongue. Despite himself, Astarion recoils from the longing in her voice, his expression impassive despite the terror that takes hold within him and encircles his unbeating heart like a fist.

He remembers so few of his victims, but there is one he will never be able to forget. The man he had refused to condemn, the one and only time he had rebelled against his master’s orders. He had looked at Astarion the same way Ysera does now, had spoken his name with the same yearning that it had doomed him to a year of starvation and suffering.

No , he wants to scream, don't say it.

This isn't what he wanted.

But it's no use. He watches, helpless, as her mouth falls open and her hand raises to brush a stray curl behind his ear.

“Astarion, I lo –”

He crushes his mouth against hers, swallowing her confession with a desperation he hopes she will mistake for affection.

Astarion understands love the way a scholar understands facts and figures – from a distance and with cold indifference. He's grown adept at mimicking its trademarks, the mannerisms of genuine devotion, to be used as a means to an end but never to be indulged in.

Because allowing himself to hope for anything more would be to invite his destruction.

And yet, as Ysera kisses him back and murmurs the words against his lips again and again, Astarion can't stop himself from reveling in how good they sound. If he must be weak, let it be for something worthwhile.

I love you, Astarion. I love you. I love you.

He doesn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of contradictions. If it bothers her, Ysera doesn't let him see it. Instead, she winds her arms behind his back, touch featherlight as she traces the scars carved into his flesh. With each pass of her fingers, she erases the pain he'd been made to feel when he'd received them, if only for a fleeting moment.

Astarion doubts she's even aware of what she's done to him, that each time she touches him with such gentleness it makes him want to abandon centuries of habit and believe that they might actually have a future together. Tonight was supposed to be about her, but in everything she does, somehow she still prioritizes him.

“Ysera.”

He tests the feel of her name in his mouth, spoken with the same devotion she's given him. Her entire body shudders in response, and Astarion finds that he rather likes it. The need to please her becomes an all-consuming thought in his mind and he lowers his head, taking the peak of her breast into his mouth as he continues to roll his hips into hers at a pace that brings them both immense satisfaction.

Ysera lets out a keening whine when Astarion pinches her nipple between his teeth and flicks it with his tongue, mirroring the gesture on her other breast with his hand. The hands on his back instinctively tighten, nails pressed into his skin.

“I wonder if I could make you come for me like this,” he groans, voice low. “Would you like that, Ysera?”

She murmurs something immediately that sounds like “yes”, but Astarion considers his options. She'd probably agree to anything he said now, if she thinks it would bring her the relief she seeks. And he can give her so much better than that.

“Perhaps some other time,” he says, chuckling when she whines in protest and writhes beneath him.

One hand slips beneath her, cupping the base of her tail while the other drags a torturously slow path down her stomach towards the place their bodies are joined. Ysera sucks in a breath, trembling in anticipation. She lets it out on a strangled shout when Astarion circles her clit with his thumb; at the same time he caresses the underside of her tail, sending tremors of pleasure throughout her body. 

Her eyes fly open, hazy with arousal. “Again,” she pleads, canting her hips to press herself against the hand on her clit.

A single fang gleams behind Astarion’s lips.

“I thought so,” he purrs. He alternates his strokes, teasing both her tail and her clit between every thrust of his cock inside her. Her cunt tightens around him and he bites back a moan, watching her fall to pieces in his hands. 

“Astarion. Astarion. ” She says his name like a mantra, clinging desperately to him as he guides her to the edge, keeping her just on the precipice. He knows her body well, enough to build her pleasure to a roaring crescendo, and only once she begs for release one final time does he finally give it to her. With one last pass of his hands and thrust of his cock, Ysera finally lets go, gnashing her teeth and arching her back off the blankets as she shatters beneath him. Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, riding the cresting wave of her orgasm as Astarion increases the pace of his thrusts and follows her quickly over the edge.

His hand comes away from her cunt slick with her arousal, and Ysera watches him slowly lick his fingers clean, enraptured by the sight of it. Astarion pulls out of her with a sigh, fixing his hair and bushing away the curls that have fallen over his eyes.

Ysera glances between Astarion and the entrance of her tent; he can tell that she's afraid he will leave. On any other night he would collect his clothes and go, but he can't bear the thought of abandoning her again, not after everything that has occurred between them.

He feels her relax the moment he takes the liberty of laying down beside her, and although his back is turned he can still hear the way her heart skips a beat as she sighs in relief. She settles in beside him, and they slip into a comfortable silence.

Is this what it would be like if they were together? Enjoying one another's company without obligation or expectations? The emptiness he feels now has nothing to do with what just transpired between them and everything to do with the fact that she isn't still in his arms, sharing her warmth with him.

Astarion feels her hand hovering over him, hears her reconsider before rolling over onto her other side and drawing the blankets up to her chin. They lay together in the darkness, but the silence soon becomes suffocating.

Astarion’s mind races, a thousand different thoughts waging war within him. Guilt wraps its way around his heart like strangling vines, each pricking thorn gnawing away at his already fractured composure. He moves before his brain has time to remind him it's a bad idea, rolling over to face her.

Ysera makes a muffled noise of surprise when Astarion slips his arm over her torso, tucking her tightly against his chest. He holds her close enough to calm the tempest raging inside him, indulging more than he should by burying his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling the scent of her. 

She deserves to know the truth. And tomorrow, he will tell her everything. But for now, he grants himself this small mercy, entertaining the fantasy that this could be forever, that he could be the one to bring back her smile. Because when she finally lets him go – and she will, once she learns of his deception – at least he won't have to wonder what it might have been like to be hers.

————

Astarion has been awake for hours by the time he sees Ysera emerge from her tent, hair disheveled as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. He'd been loathe to extract himself from her arms earlier that morning, but the longer he let it carry on the harder he knew it would have been to go through with what needs to be done.

Ysera smiles softly at him as Gale passes a plate of food into her hands, and she brushes Shadowheart off as the cleric fusses over the fresh bite marks on her neck. Shadowheart skewers him with an accusatory scowl, but her temper cools when she notices the soberness of his expression. Whatever she thinks happened between them, she doesn't press any further.

When breakfast is finished and the plates have been cleared away, Astarion grabs Ysera's attention and leads her away from the others.

He doesn't want an audience – not for this.

She follows him quietly to the edge of camp, and they come to a stop just before the barrier of the moonshield. She seems to pick up on his stiff posture, and her reaction to his expression when he finally turns to face her seems to confirm her worst fears.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks. “I… I think we need to talk.”

[starkenobi]

The White Wolf | Bucky Barnes x reader

masterlist — warnings: fantasy; romance; werewolf!bucky; pirate!reader; prince!bucky; stark!reader; soulmates.

Summary: She's one of the greatest pirates of her time, bringing chaos throughout the human kingdoms... Until an unfortunate event changes her life completely. And the white wolf makes sure to be definitive.

The salty breeze of a typical hot day, the clear blue sky mixing with the deep blue ocean as they meet on the horizon, the sun at its peak illuminating and guiding the way. A moment of calm that Y/N wouldn't trade for anything, the feeling of belonging that only the sea could provide her.

Of course, things weren't always easy, the life she chose constantly provided an adrenaline rush, the need to fight to conquer what she wanted. Gaining fame early on, she rarely needed to worry about surviving. Not when the supernatural was on the same side, being the biggest client for her services. Dealing with other humans was one of the least of her concerns and for the Phantom crew.

There was some truth to the rumors circulating on land. Y/N Stark had renounced the golden spoon in which she was born, preferring to take possession of a ship and embrace the title of pirate. With her money, power and influence, she became one of the worst nightmares of the entire kingdom, making sure to leave her mark of chaos while plundering the rulers and their court. The pirates of Phantom enjoyed destroying the royal plans, getting in the way, especially when the royalty pursued the supernatural.

To further fuel the rumors, a new commander - from the royal guard of the largest kingdom to declare war on Y/N - was chosen for the mission to arrest the pirate. Tony Stark, her twin.

This should have been the sign that she should be more careful and prepare for the time when she'd have to face her brother. However, Y/N still had a fondness for him and memories of their youth were her weak point. But, certainly, no one expected that the always fair commander Tony Stark would attack during a storm, with no intention of taking the Phantom crew members to prison or alive, especially his own twin. 'You are a disgrace' were the only words the male Stark said before shooting the pirate he once called sister. The commander's cold, emotionless face was the last thing Y/N saw before she was swallowed by the dark waters of the sea.

"Man overboard! Attention, starboard!"

What should have been a calm routine patrol, with all the peace agreements between the four empires, quickly became a day of uncertainties. Under the watchful eyes of Captain Natasha, the crew members quickly moved to save whoever was overboard, placing the body on the deck. A woman. Natasha frowned, watching Clint - her faithful second-in-command - approach to see if the woman was dead or not.

"What is it, Clint?" The redhead arched an eyebrow, taking a few steps closer when she noticed the paleness on her companion's face. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes, she’ll need care for dehydration, maybe she was at sea for a couple of days..." Clint swallowed hard, raising the arm he was holding and showing the unconscious woman's wrist "She has the mark, Tasha."

The big white wolf appeared on the deserted beach, its paws leaving a trail in the sand. However, what caught Y/N's attention the most were its teeth bared in threat. James Buchanan Barnes was angry and didn't seem to want to talk. The pirate rolled her eyes, soaked from head to toe and exhausted from the effort she had made to get there. She couldn't believe that the so-called prince of the beautiful lupine kingdom was so temperamental.

Sure, Y/N stole a small boat and tried to leave, but, in her defense, she had unfinished business to resolve outside of that island of wolves. It wouldn't be a mark she had since birth, which the wolves say is the symbol of a soulmate, that’d make her lower her head and accept orders. Y/N was a pirate, the greatest pirate at that time, it was her obligation to maintain her status and avenge her crew.

“No, that’s absurd!” The pirate grumbled in disbelief as she felt Bucky grab her clothes and drag her across the sand. “Bad boy!”

However, the pirate's complaints were ignored no matter how much she screamed and struggled, the wolf being much stronger than the human. Crossing her arms, Y/N stopped screaming but continued to complain, determined to maintain her dissatisfaction even as she began to be dragged through the soft grass that led towards the castle. Bucky only released her when they were close enough to the prince's two best friends, Steve and Sam, who were waiting for them with a huge smile on their faces.

“Of course you’d find this all amusing.” Y/N rolled her eyes, hating how easily the two helped her up from the ground. Breaking away from them, the pirate tried to maintain what little dignity she had left, trying to clean her clothes from the salt water, sand and grass in vain. “I can’t believe I’m a prisoner in this place.”

A growl interrupted her chatter, Y/N didn’t need to look up to know who it was. “So being my soulmate is the same thing as being a prisoner, Stark?”

The pirate's ears turned red, quickly turning on her heels to face Bucky, she exclaimed in a high-pitched tone. "That's not what I meant!"

The prince rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore it, taking one of her hands and walking in silence. The two friends fell behind when they realized that Bucky had followed the path to the secret garden, knowing that the couple needed privacy at the moment.

It wasn't the first time Y/N had tried to leave, with a series of failed attempts, all of them looking like the clear act of a lost person. And that was what the pirate could be classified as, it was never easy to suddenly recover part of one's memory. When she was taken to the hospital wing, she remained in a coma for weeks, causing a commotion even when she was unconscious. Because, as if it wasn't enough that the prince's soulmate was a pirate, she was also human.

But it didn't matter to Bucky, who made visits late at night in the hope that she’d wake up and finally meet him. The news of who the unconscious woman was arrived like a meteor, or rather, it arrived through a messenger from the aquatic people who - with a certain delay - warned about the great pirate who chose to protect the magical world from others of her own kind. Bucky felt his chest fill with pride, knowing that his soulmate was a good person despite so many atrocities collected under her belt.

However, Y/N woke up with no memories, amnesia even stealing her name. Each day was a new discovery, of what she liked, what she knew, what she couldn't stand. Bucky was always by her side, the days turned into weeks, which turned into months, the two of them naturally drew closer like magnets. Almost eight months had passed when Bucky was abruptly woken from his sleep, Y/N tossing and crying in the middle of a nightmare, the memories returning like a terrible storm.

From then on, the pirate had changed drastically, somewhat confused because of her personality from when she had no memory clashing with the past. She seemed to fight against the feelings she had developed for Bucky, in a stupid attempt to return to the pirate life and get revenge on her own brother. But, at the same time, Y/N seemed not to want to complete such a thought, always leaving clues about her escape plans.

“You need to leave the past in the past, sweetheart.” The wolf finally broke the silence, both of them sitting on a bench that overlooked the beach in the distance. “I already told you, I don’t want to keep you here, we can organize for you to continue your mission to help the supernatural… But in the right way.”

“Do you think humans will leave it behind too when they find out I’m alive?” She replied, but without aggression, staring at the horizon with a certain sadness.

Bucky sighed, resting his forehead on her shoulder, squeezing their still intertwined hands lightly. "We are connected, they will respect you. Even if I have to make them kneel again."

Y/N didn't answer, she knew the prince would fulfill any promise he made, he’d use the power he had in his hands without thinking twice. And that was what Y/N feared, she didn't want Bucky risking himself and putting the island in danger because of her. She needed to make a definitive choice.

The famous pirate Stark was truly dead. Two years later, Y/N lived happily as the wife of Prince James Barnes, proudly bearing the mark of her soulmate on her arm. Secretly working with Natasha, Clint and Steve to continue the mission of protecting the supernatural, the magical kingdoms united to also fight against human laws - with the help and knowledge of Y/N. Things were going well, they were gradually gaining more security and strength, conquering space in human territory. Of course, far from the big cities it was still extremely difficult, but everyone had hope that everything would improve.

Everything was going well, until Y/N made a mistake.

“So you’re alive!” the great commander Tony Stark growled in disbelief, the revolver in his hand pointed at the ex-pirate, who refused to pick up her own weapon. “I should have known you were behind all this.”

“Tony, please, I have nothing to do with this mess.” Y/N muttered, raising her hands slightly in a sign of surrender. Her eyes calculated a possible escape, but she was once again cornered by her brother. “I’m not that woman you killed anymore.”

Tony laughed mockingly, without any humor, and without saying anything, pulled the trigger, hitting one of Y/N’s arms. She let out a grunt of pain and surprise, her body crashing against the railing of the huge bench. “Do you want me to believe that you didn’t kill these people? You didn’t plan on stealing important files and scriptures for personal gain? Wasn't it enough to have stolen everything from our family?”

“Damn it, Anthony! I was in a secret meeting with these people, until a traitor from the current human government attacked us!” Y/N said, feeling sadness mix with pain, her eyes unfocusing for a moment.

“Once a traitor, always a traitor.” Tony spat the words, ignoring what she was trying to say.

“Shit, can’t you see that this was an ambush to create a war between humans and the supernatural?”

Y/N screamed. Tony aimed the revolver again, but what neither of them expected was an aggressive growl to break the moment and a huge white wolf to appear, jumping on Tony without thinking twice.

The royal commander swore, trying to defend himself from the attack with his own fists. In the midst of the fight, the man managed to retrieve the revolver despite the wolf’s bites and scratches. Y/N, who had frozen in shock, moved without realizing it, throwing herself to protect the wolf from the new shot.

A howl of pure despair and then Y/N saw nothing but darkness.

The sky blended with the blue of the ocean, the salty breeze caressing her face and messing up her hair, the sun illuminating and leaving a certain glow on everything it touched, the scent of the flowers that took over the entire garden. A smile took over Y/N’s lips, closing her eyes to enjoy that moment of plenitude. Of peace. The feeling of being on solid ground was soothing, the sea became just a second home.

“For a moment I thought you had run away.” Bucky’s voice sounded beside her, making Y/N open her eyes to look at her beloved.

Y/N smiled knowingly, sighing when the wolf pulled her body into a tight hug. “That’d be ridiculous, James, you have that wolf radar that would locate me in an instant.”

“Right.” Placing a kiss on his wife’s neck, Bucky took a deep breath before murmuring. “Your brother woke up.”

“How is he?”

Bucky shrugged. “So far he has accepted that he’s no longer fully human.”

Y/N wanted to cry in relief, but she only allowed herself to turn around and kiss him on the lips. “Thank you for saving him.”

The truth is that Bucky, at first, never imagined that one day he would save Tony, not after the way he met him and the second attempt to kill his own sister. However, it was impossible to deny his beloved's request, especially when she woke up in tears begging to give Tony a chance and that it had all been just a communication error. Well, besides the fact that Steve had taken an interest in the human. Something about soulmates too.

That night of the ambush, Bucky didn't attack the commander to kill him, he wanted to capture him to get answers. It was months of turmoil until Y/N recovered, but any family fight they had to resolve was interrupted by a war between humans and the supernatural.

Unfortunately, Y/N decided that she’d settle the war with her own hands before it really started, something about pirate honor - even though she hadn't been one for years. Bucky thought he would lose her forever. Until Tony showed up almost dead with a Y/N in a similar state, the Stark brothers went together to fix the mess they claimed to have caused. Everyone disagreed, but something the Starks had in common was stubbornness. The result was the fall of the human royalty and the Stark brothers receiving the bite to survive their injuries.

“Anything for you, my moon.” Bucky smiled mischievously, making Y/N roll her eyes despite her blushing face.

“Bad dog as always.” Y/N retorted to hide how much her beloved’s words affected her.

With a growl of false irritation, the wolf pulled her in for another kiss, full of affection and whispered against Y/N’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my sun.”

The two remained there, enjoying each other’s presence, and Y/N for a moment felt grateful for all the choices she had made, even the wrong ones. Because everything led her to James.

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