#elze'ith sylrel oc

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

You mentioned shadow tendrils in the recent piece of writing-- have you written anything with Lord Denholm using those to fuck Altair?

I would use them to pull his cute little pussy open and force him to take those and Lord Denholm's cock at the same time.

Listen we're just going to pretend that you didn't send this like 9 months ago lmao

But anyway I uh. Hope this is what you wanted? idk there ended up being more emotions than I was expecting lmao

Contains: explicit noncon, weird tentacle(ish) sex, vampires, intimate whump, wing whump, captivity, begging

~~~

The shadows coiled around his wings, sliding between feathers in a way that made Altair’s very soul recoil with revulsion. The smoky, inky magic dripped with such malice and envy that Altair was practically choking on it. The harder he struggled, the more securely the tendrils held him, unyielding in their loving, covetous embrace.

Those same shadows held his wrists in place, held his legs spread open, kept him firmly in place on the bed as Lord Denholm knelt over him, eyes ravenously roaming over Altair’s bare form.

“I can hear your heartbeat, my little ruin,” Lord Denholm purred, cold fingers tracing across Altair’s chest. “Tell me, what has you so afraid?”

Hatred roiled through him as fierce as any tidal wave. But with the corrupted magic intertwined with his feathers, he couldn’t stop the words from pouring from his mouth. “You- you’re going to rape me. Again. And it won’t be the last time, either, for me or for Elze’ith, because I can’t figure out how to stop you.”

A wave of delight cascaded over Altair as Lord Denholm smiled. “Oh, it gladdens me to hear that.” Altair choked on a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob as the shadows caressed further into the spaces between his feathers. “It should put your mind at ease, then, to know that you cannot stop me. I am going to do as I please, and you are going to take what I have to give. You do not have to fret about how to escape your fate, because I have already claimed you. All that will change is how you understand and appreciate your role here, my ruinous little angel.”

“You-” Virulent hatred threatened to choke Altair, but he still coughed up the words. “You’re wrong. I’m never going to stop fighting. I’m never going to accept any of this. You’re never going to break me.”

“Oh, my ruinous little angel.” Lord Denholm’s dark eyes glinted with malice. “The cracks in you will are already forming. And I have plenty of time to see how you fall apart.”

Slow and deliberate, a tendril curled up his leg and pressed lightly at his folds. Though insubstantial, like thick smoke or sleet or cold oil, it was solid and probing enough that Altair immediately tensed and tried to pull away. There was nowhere to go, however, not with the magical binds that held him so firmly in place, that spread his legs even wider in response to his struggles. Just as he knew he would be, he was helpless to stop the tendril as it teased and taunted at his entrance.

“No, wait— stop—”

He didn’t want to beg, but he couldn’t manage to stop himself. He wasn’t in control. He wasn’t in control of anything that was happening, not his words or the situation or his fear or the strangled, panicked sound he let out as the tendril pushed its way inside of him.

Nothing had ever felt quite this unnatural. It seemed to slither inside of him, eager to caress every part of him it could access. The sensation made his skin crawl, made him writhe instinctively, made his breath catch in his chest. Cold and oily and slick and wrong. He wanted it out, wanted to burn it away until it could never touch him again, but it just kept feeding into him, slow and methodical and joyous.

An eternity passed just like that, with the perverse, foul tendril sliding its way into his core until it could go no further. Its counterparts in his wings continued to slowly shift and coil, inexorable and inescapable. Any coherent thought was lost beyond the sickening dread in his stomach and the desperation to somehow get this to stop.

So lost he was in the overwhelming, defiling sensation that he almost didn’t notice the second tendril that brushed his entrance. It was impossible to escape the feeling of it slipping inside, though, right alongside the first, twisting and twirling and filling him up even more. Lips parted in a silent gasp, he strained and tensed in his bonds, but every movement only made him more aware of the magic around him, inside him, claiming him.

And then, the tendrils went still. The ones in his wings retracted, not leaving entirely, but withdrawing enough to allow him to breathe. The twin shadows inside him stiffened and pulled apart, making him groan from the stretch, but they too paused in their ministrations. Blinking, Altair tried to take the moment to gather himself, to reclaim some shred of his dignity, though he knew that his violation was far from over.

After all, the tendrils were still inside him. Lord Denholm was still watching. It wasn’t over yet.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Lord Denholm leaned down to press a kiss to his collarbone, eyes gleaming with covetous desire. Altair shivered, forcing his breath to stay even. “My beautiful, ruinous little angel. So open and ready for me,” Lord Denholm purred. His hand drifted lower, to Altair’s hip, tracing the outline of his burn scar before thumbing over Altair’s clit. “Don’t worry; I’ll give you what you need.”

It hit Altair, all at once, why the tendrils were holding him open. “No— wait— don’t—!”

His begging morphed into a scream of terror and pain as Lord Denholm sank into him, between the tendrils already inside. He clenched his eyes shut, tears gathering on his eyelashes, his lungs shaking and unable to capture any air. The stretch was excruciating, inconceivable, unbearable, and yet he was vaguely aware of Lord Denholm bottoming out inside of him as though he was made to take this much. A sob rippled through him, of pain and humiliation and anger, and then another, because

Lips brushed against his eyelids; Altair tensed, but didn’t have the strength to recoil. Though Lord Denholm’s voice washed over him, he couldn’t quite parse the words over the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. Good, some desperate, fervent part of him thought. He didn’t want to hear what the bastard had to say anyway.

He wasn’t sure if Lord Denholm or his shadows started moving first. There was just sensation, the push and pull, the steady cadence and the unnatural twisting within him. All he could do was close his eyes and try to endure and do whatever he could not to give Lord Denholm any more of what he wanted.

He didn’t think he was very successful. Nothing had ever felt like this, felt this much, felt so familiar and strange and unwanted and tainted and wrong.His entire body thrummed with revulsion with every thrust, shivered and shuddered as perverse magic shifted around and within him. He couldn’t manage to tamp down on those instinctual, involuntary reactions. He knew Lord Denholm, with his magic tangled up in his wings, would be able to feel it even if he did. Altair could certainly feel Lord Denholm’s delight, just as he knew Lord Denholm wanted him to.

Distantly, through his horror, Altair realized that the tendrils were pleasuring Lord Denholm inside of him, coiling around his cock and stroking both of them in tandem. His stomach turned; it was worse than if they were just defiling him.The notion was enough for him to try, futile as he knew it was, to summon his magic so that he might burn the foul things away. It didn’t work, and the attempt only made him more exhausted, made him want to cry even more than he already was. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Lord Denholm was jerking himself off inside of Altair, and he couldn’t stop it.

How much further would this go? How many more ways would Lord Denholm find to violate him, defile him, take him apart and lay claim to the pieces? How long could Altair withstand the assault? He already felt ready to come apart at the seams, and every waking moment seemed to bring a new horror.

What would even be left of him when this was done?

Through his cascade of emotions, through the disgust and despair, a tentative but warm pulse emanated from the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to recoil, sure that this was some trick of Lord Denholm’s, but Lord Denholm could never replicate how Elze’ith made him feel, could never fake this warmth. And even if he never wanted Elze’ith to know him when he was like this… he needed to know he wasn’t alone.

Just as softly, just as tentatively, he reached back through his mind. Brushed up against that small presence, that sliver of connection. It didn’t stop the inexorable stretch or the unbearable thrusting or the sudden intense pressure on his clit. But it was enough to keep him from drowning in it all.

Sharp pain in his neck yanked him out of his mind and slammed him back into his body. The pain was no less horrible for how familiar it was; moreso now, even, because Lord Denholm had gone still, begun to spill inside him, even if the tendrils still danced in the thin space between them. The whimper that broke free from his chest seemed to get swallowed by the shadows that still endlessly coiled around him, as eager as their master to drink in his suffering.

The brief connection with Elze’ith was gone. Even as Altair mourned the loss, he was glad for it. He shouldn’t have even reached out. Elze’ith had suffered enough. He deserved better than to bear witness to what Altair was being forced to endure.

After a short eternity, the tendrils settled, though Altair could still feel them slowly shifting. Lord Denholm pulled away from his neck, smiling down at him with blood-stained fangs and dark, insatiable eyes. Altair tried to muster a glare; in response, Lord Denholm only hummed, and leaned down to kiss him. The taste of his own blood made Altair wince, feeling sick as Lord Denholm smiled against him before pulling away.

“You feel better every time we do this, my little ruin,” Lord Denholm said, licking the last of the blood from his lips. “Just as I knew you would.”

Altair scowled, the only response he could muster. The shadows within him coiled tighter, as did the ones still furled in his wings, making his back arch.

“Please—!” The word slipped from him unbidden, a raspy, desperate cry for relief he knew would not come. As soon as he said it he tensed, eyes clenching shut; he knew what he was asking for, and he knew what Lord Denholm would give him.

“Oh?” Something cold and slick circled his clit as the tendrils within moved more insistently. “Tell me what you want, my little ruin. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

“Please—“ he gasped, feeling the unwanted tension mount. “I can’t— Enough—!”

The shadows inside him pulsed. Orgasm ripped through him, violent and calamitous, and for a moment he didn’t know whether he hated himself or Lord Denholm more.

But it was over. He sagged against the bed, limp and panting, as Lord Denholm finally withdrew. First his cock, making Altair groan as the overwhelming fullness left him. The tendrils within took a last moment to twist and twine before sliding out as well, and though Altair had to bite back a whine, he was finally, blissfully empty.

It was over. He hated how grateful he was that it was over.

Later, when Lord Denholm had returned him to his cell and he was curled against the wall trying not to feel, the soft warmth in his mind reached out once again. Altair couldn’t find the strength in himself to reach back. But neither did he push it away, even though part of him wanted to. He just let Elze’ith radiate what little solace he could, let the echoes of it wrap around him like a blanket, let his partner help hold him together when he felt like he was going to fall apart. He just hoped Elze’ith knew how much it meant.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Tender

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Tender is the flesh that yields so easily. Tender is the flesh that refuses to yield at all.

Contains: Intimate whump, vivisection, gore, vampire whumper, captivity/gilded cage, mind control

~~~

“Stay with me, my light. I want us both to experience this.”

A shuddery, pained breath was his only response. The deep, vacuous agony that had swept over him made anything else seem inconceivable. All he could do was follow his Lord’s orders— keep breathing, cling desperately to consciousness, and maintain a steady outpouring of healing magic to weather the storm as his Lord cut deeper into his chest and pulled his skin aside.

It wasn’t enough to soothe the agony that ripped through him as his ribs met the cold air of the castle. It wasn’t enough to stop his blood from pouring out over his Lord’s fingers. It wasn’t enough to stop tears from gathering at the corners of his unseeing eyes. But his Lord wanting him alive, wanted him present, so he would keep his magic pulsing through him to deter the hungry jaws of oblivion.

“Beautiful.” There was something akin to reverence in his Lord’s voice as he trailed his fingers delicately along exposed ribs. A whine escape him; each touch sent panic and pain through his body, a feeling of distress and discord that had been muffled when his Lord had used magic to caress him in this way. His Lord merely chuckled, a dark sound that chilled his bones more than the open air. “Relax, my light. There is no need to be afraid. This is a wonderful thing, another way for us to be intimate. I’ve felt every part of you; now I’m going to see you, laid bare before me.”

The gentle touch turned firm, insistent, as clawed hands found their way to his sternum. The rush of fear had him closing his eyes; through the pain, he couldn’t see much anyway. A soft yet haunting scraping sound rang through the air as his Lord’s claws searched for purchase on his breast bone. His back arched at the sensation, almost bucking into those grasping hands as they found their grip and pulled. The sound of cracking bone was only drowned out by the scream of sheer uncomprehending agony that ripped through his rupturing chest.

Cold, comforting darkness surged forward to envelop him. There was no fighting it. His magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell back into oblivion.

Somewhere, someone was screaming. There was no sound, no voice, but he felt it, deep in his soul, a scream of rage and grief and terror so fundamental he almost thought the emotions were his own. If he could have shrank back from the force of it, he would have, but there was nowhere to flee to in the gentle, calm nothingness broken by the scream, nothing to do but absorb the torrent of love and fear that threatened to overwhelm him, and in his not-awareness try to decide what he could possibly feel about it.

“My light, wake up. You’re not done yet.”

His Lord’s voice was a lifeline, a shackle, a tether that wrapped around him and pulled him right back into awareness. He gasped like he was drowning, struggling to force his lungs to work through the pain that his chest had become. His fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically, a tortured body’s desperate attempt for some sort of control or release. Healing magic shuddered erratically through him; it was all he could do to keep himself conscious as his Lord wished, despite the wounds he had sustained, despite the agony, despite how little strength he had left.

A hand warm and slick with blood cradled his cheek. The sensation pulled a whine from him, even as he leaned desperately into the touch. “There you are, my light. I knew you could handle this. And it is glorious, is it not?”

Maybe it was, if glory was profound and all-consuming agony. That didn’t seem right, but he didn’t have the strength to deny it, to question it, to think much of anything at all.

The next weak, trembling breath he took was met by another hand pressing lightly against his lungs. There wasn’t enough force to prevent his inhale, but it still made his fluttering heart clench with fear, made his stomach churn with disgust and dread and despair. Lungs weren’t meant to be touched like this, even so reverently. They weren’t meant to be exposed to the same air that they breathed. They weren’t built to deal with clawed fingers tracing trails of blood down their lengths, leaving the body surrounding choking and spasming with distress.

And yet. Was any of his life really meant to be like this, when he was under the care of a being so dedicated to corruption?

“How wonderful. Even now, you are enduring beautifully, my light. A lesser man would have perished. But you are truly worthy of this, aren’t you? You’ve proven that time and time again. I chose well in making you my beloved.”

The words slid off of him like water off of glass as he struggled to just keep breathing under the gentle pressure of his Lord’s hand. The instinctual writhing of his body had already weakened, his strength having dissipated as rapidly as he had found it. All for the better; moving hurt, and risked damaging himself further. He couldn’t have that. Not when he was already struggling to keep himself together and whole enough to please his Lord’s will.

The hand on his cheek caressed him tenderly as it pulled away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Did he feel better or worse now that it was gone? He couldn’t tell, at least not until that hand came to cup his heart with the same reverence it had held his face, as though it were the most precious thing in all of creation. The muscle quivered weakly, each beat an effort of magnitude, and he could feel how his heart strained to keep pumping blood that was spilling out against fingers that could very well push his body into stillness.

Heartbeat and breath. With barely a thought, his Lord could take away the very things that kept him alive. And yet, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead his Lord let him balance on the precipice, had him put everything into maintaining his grip on mortality, so that…

Why? For what end? Had there ever been a reason? Did he ever know, and just not remember? Or…

“What trust you give to me, my light, to put your heart in my hands.” His Lord’s words washed over him, mixing with the excruciating desolation that enveloped him to steal away all thought. “And who am I to waste this gift?”

He couldn’t quite see what his Lord did next; pain had overtaken his vision, leaving it blurry and incomprehensible. But he felt something new tenderly brush against his trembling heart— something he had felt countless times before, but never like this. The semblance of affection his Lord offered was just as chilling as the contact from the lips that kissed his heart, chastely at first, but then more insistently, more greedily. His lips parted in a silent gasp, his entire body rigid with horror.

How could he handle this? What could he do in the face of something this grisly and dreadful and perverse? If not for his Lord’s power continue to pull the puppet strings of his magic, he was sure he would have lost consciousness once again. He almost wished to; if this had to happen (and it didn’t, some part of him howled),he didn’t want to bear witness, be aware of being subject to something so uniquely violating in its intimacy.

At least his Lord wasn’t—

Teeth scraped against the soft exterior of his heart, sharp and probing, and despite how utterly empty and drained he was, he still found the strength to scream. Somewhere in the depths of his soul, someone screamed with him. And his Lord’s pleasure filled the room and his mind and the spaces between his ribs as his Lord drank and drank and drank from his frantically beating heart until it threatened to give out entirely.

And though his heart kept pumping that which his Lord loved so much, unable to fight the tethers of control, the tangled and thorny knots of emotion that encompassed it did begin to shrivel. As he lay there in utter devastation, listening to the screams in his soul, Elze’ith began to call back, crying out in agony and despair and determination, having realized that Lord Denholm would never offer him the tender mercy he so craved.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Inkwell

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Oops! Have another snippet c:

Contains: Blood as ink, captivity/gilded cage, intimate whump

~~~

The iridescent, glimmering golden feather dipped once again into the gaping wound between Elze’ith’s ribs.

The touch was light, almost imperceptible, but even that small disturbance was enough to send pain shooting deep into his core and pull a groan from his chest. He couldn’t remember how long he had lain here, his skin carefully parted to coax out the precious blood beneath. Realistically, it couldn’t have been long; he hadn’t needed to heal himself, even despite the severity of his wound. But he had lost track of the number of times that quill had dipped into him as carefully and casually as any inkwell, lost as he was in the haze of pain and the endless sound of deliberate and measured writing.

Having his blood used this way was nothing short of an honor, Lord Denholm had told him. Elze’ith wished he could believe that. At this point, he wasn’t sure if he knew what honor felt like anymore.

The sound of the scratching quill was the only distraction Elze’ith had. He wondered what Lord Denholm was writing. He wondered if he cared. It didn’t matter; chances were he wouldn’t get to read it anyway. No matter how curious he was, this thing that he bled for was almost certainly not meant for him to enjoy.

The sight of the golden quill approaching him again made his heart clench, even beyond the anticipation of more pain. He had only seen it once, but he knew that feather. He knew that feather he knew that feather he knew that feather—

But his fear couldn’t stop the descent of more pain, couldn’t stop the corruption of something so sacred and personal. It never could. Nothing could.

Eventually, the golden quill, tinged red with blood and no longer glowing, was placed down on the table, and Lord Denholm helped Elze’ith sit upright. Elze’ith wasted no time in trying to heal himself, and was wretchedly grateful that Lord Denholm didn’t stop him.

“Look, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured instead, and Elze’ith’s eyes were drawn down towards the desk, and the outcome of his suffering. “I thought it fitting that you have a chance to see yourself as I see you.”

It was a portrait, carefully drawn in deliberate, flowing lines of red. The expression on the face was almost serene, if not for the tinge of uncertainty and pain. Long, flowing hair seemed to be streaked with blood from the deep red lines that marked their presence. Twin drops of ink-blood on the neck were small, gaping wounds. Every detail was rendered with such care, and yet the blood seemed ready to spread and engulf the entire image. It was beautiful, and it was horrific. Elze’ith stared down at his own face, a face he hadn’t seen in months, and found he barely recognized what he saw.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Lament

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith doesn't know why he's crying. Lord Denholm comforts him anyway.

Contains: Intimate whump, manipulation

~~~

“Shhh. It’s alright, my light. There’s no need to cry. I’ve got you.”

Lord Denholm’s words washed over Elze’ith, but did little to assuage the tangled knot in his chest. He wasn’t sure that anything could, not when the origin of it was utterly unknown to him, senseless and sourceless but no less potent in rending his heart. His lack of understanding of his emotions didn’t matter, only that they were there, and the only thing to be done was weep into Lord Denholm’s chest and cling to him as though he were the only thing keeping him stable.

“Shhh. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The motion of Lord Denholm’s hand rubbing his back was almost soothing. It was steady, at least, even as Elze’ith hiccuped and sobbed with little control. Lord Denholm was solid and certain when nothing else was. There was a comfort in that, even if he couldn’t find it.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing had even happened today. And yet for some reason, he couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t find a way out from the oppressive weight of his own ineffable emotions.

“I’m here, my light. I’m here.”

The comfort only made Elze’ith sob harder. The sob only made Lord Denholm hold him closer, his hold as inescapable as the emotions that had prompted it. “Shhh. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to worry, my light. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

AAAAAAAAAAAA

THEM!!!!

Secret Santa Gift: @just-a-silly-little-whumper

This is a Secret Santa event so there will be a blanket trigger warning for all entries, so read at your own risk! Potential trigger warnings may include nsfw themes as well as gore and possible squicks.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Rinse and Repeat

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Even moments of reprieve are no release at all. The cycle continues, endless and circling ever tighter.

Thank you so much to @whump-kin and @inscrutable-shadow for beta-ing this for me! 🥰

Contains: Explicit noncon, intimate whump, bathing, aftermath of torture, mind/emotion control, mind reading, dissociation, shame, manipulation, cockwarming

~~~

The feeling of being dipped into warm water pulled Elze’ith ever so slightly out of the haze of agonized semi-consciousness.

An instinctual part of him almost expected the water to sting, to lap at his flesh and scour his bones. But there were no open wounds to bring fresh pain; the aches and anguish that radiated from his core were just a visceral memory, the sticky blood on his skin having long stopped its flow.

He didn’t remember healing himself. And yet his body was intact once again. Once, that might have been calming, comforting. It wasn’t now.

The air smelled of iron and lavender, of steam and smeared gore. Though his eyelids weighed as much as anchors, he still tried to force them open, only managing a weak flutter. It wasn’t enough to see anything beyond vague blurry shapes; giving up, he let them close once again. The steady, solid hands that had lowered him into the water didn’t leave him as he settled into what he distantly recognized as the tub, instead holding him upright even as his head spun and his body sagged.

“I know, my light. One moment, and then you can relax.”

Lord Denholm’s voice surrounded him, filled his senses and his mind with reassurance and dread. The promise of rest was tantalizing, but he had long since learned that such comforts were not given freely. Maybe once Elze’ith would have been willing and eager to pay that price; now, he wasn’t so sure. For a moment Elze’ith was left to linger in that hope-uncertainty-dread, held in place by Lord Denholm’s unwavering grip, before the water around him shifted, and a cold body slipped into the tub behind him.

“There we are. Isn’t that better, light?” Joy and contentment radiated off of Lord Denholm, even as Elze’ith’s weary heart clenched in numb, exhausted fear. Groaning, he tried to shift, tried to extricate himself from his position against Lord Denholm’s chest, but Lord Denholm only hummed and folded his arms around him to hold him securely in place. “Shh, light, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Of that, Elze’ith had no doubt. It was what came next that worried him. He could feel every inch of Lord Denholm’s bare skin, the bulk of his muscles, the bulge between his legs. They were naked together; there was only one thing that could lead to. Even through the haze of exhaustion closing in on his mind, the prospect was still enough to horrify him. After all he had already endured, even his Lord’s careful ministrations would surely break him.

A soft whine escaped his parted lips as he once again tried to squirm, hoping beyond hope that he might avoid the inevitable. But Lord Denholm’s strength and his own fatigue won out, and he collapsed back against his Lord within moments. A torrent of emotions threatened to swell up and drown him, only to be whisked away as Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to the top of his head. The compelled calm was not unfamiliar, and not entirely unwelcome, even as part of him yearned for the briefest moment to be granted the dignity of resistance.

Elze’ith drifted in that docility as deceptively gentle hands caressed him with a soft cloth, letting all of the blood and sweat of the day run into the water. Each brush was done with such care, as much care as the subtle but overwhelming influence on his mind.He was afraid, and yet he couldn’t be. He was angry, and yet he couldn’t be. He was grateful, and yet he shouldn’t be.

Every tender swipe of the cloth had more and more blood removed from his skin, had more and more tension leaking out of him. There was something sincerely, uncomplicatedly relaxing about it; after so much turmoil, he was being treated gently. The blood and gore was being washed away. He didn’t have to do anything but let himself be taken care of. The more time passed, the less he was sure how much of the calm he felt was imposed, and how much of it was genuine.

A sigh left his weary lungs. Would it be so bad to just let himself enjoy this moment of peace? They seemed so few and far between, and he needed as many of them as he could get.

“My beautiful, precious light,” Lord Denholm murmured, almost absentmindedly. “So magnificent. So strong. And all mine.”

The water shifted. The cloth and its gentle, caring, undemanding caresses vanished. Elze’ith whimpered; dull, echoing agony still resonated through his bones, through his soul, and he wasn’t ready for the soft touches to leave in favor of something more insistent. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It never did.

Was his Lord’s love truly worthwhile if knowing it made him feel as though he were drowning?

The thought threatened to slip through his fingers, to be tugged away from him, but he clung to it. He clung to it as Lord Denholm gripped his hips and grasped at the juncture between his legs, making him gasp in dread and desperation. There was no strength left in Elze’ith to struggle or squirm or try to wordlessly ask for mercy. All he could do, as he felt the soft warmth in the back of his mind pulse with uncertainty, was cling to the knowledge that Lord Denholm had tried to erase from him, even as the conscious thought was finally pried from him and only the deep, instinctual understanding remained.

This was no kindness. This was violation. And it was wrong.

Lord Denholm pushed inside him with a slowness that might have been tender, but was nevertheless nothing short of agonizing. Though his voice was raw and ragged from screaming, Elze’ith still let out a hoarse cry as he was made to part around his Lord once again. His exhaustion and the arms cradling him didn’t let him try to escape the intrusion; all he could do was arch his back and accept what Lord Denholm wanted for him.

For a moment, Lord Denholm went still, as though basking in the feeling of Elze’ith encompassing him. His satisfaction and joy was thicker than the steam that suffused the air, almost thick enough to choke on. And it was getting harder to breathe, though that might have been tied to the panic constricting his chest, the heat gathering behind his eyes.

Lord Denholm had never wanted to take him to bed so soon after something so intense. The agony of being pried open by Lord Denholm’s careful hands and seeking teeth still hadn’t left him, even after his wounds had been healed and the blood had been tenderly washed away. Elze’ith knew, he knew, that this would only make him feel so much worse, on every possible level.He wasn’t ready for this.

(He was never going to be ready.)

The light in his mind called to him, sang something that he couldn’t identify. And Elze’ith, coward that he was, shrank away, tried to shut it out, because he didn’t want Altair to witness him like this, even as distantly as whatever this connection allowed him.

The rhythm started, that steady cadence of movement and sensation that Elze’ith knew far more intimately than he had ever, ever wanted to. The water sloshed around them, barely louder than the almost-silent whimpers Elze’ith couldn’t hold back. Each thrust sent pulses of anguish through him as his muscles futilely twitched and his bones quaked in protest. He yearned for the peace of when Lord Denholm had been bathing him, for the comfort of it, because as awful as having his thoughts suppressed was, being ravished like this was simply unbearable.

“You’re perfect, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear, making him tremble despite the fading warmth of the water. “Perfect just like this.”

Perfect. Always perfect. His Lord was the only one to ever call him perfect. To always want him, no matter his faults or mistakes or transgressions. Elze’ith didn’t know who he would be without that love. It almost made everything else worthwhile.

Almost.

Because he didn’t want to be perfect. Not anymore. Not when this was the price of perfection. Not when he could never be sure how much the affection would hurt. Not when there might be something better waiting for him, even despite all his failings.

Lord Denholm’s hand between Elze’ith’s legs came to grasp his dick, and all thought shattered once again. There was only his Lord, and his Lord’s desires, and the overwhelming sensations and emotions and intent that threatened to smother Elze’ith in the process.

“Let go, light. I’m right here. Just let me take care of you.”

Elze’ith shook his head, but there was no resisting his Lord. He had never been able to, especially not in this. There was no pleasure, only misery, as Lord Denholm drew his release from him. Even if his body had not hurt so much, the violation of it would have been awful enough. At least now, with his hand no longer paying attention to Elze’ith’s cock, Lord Denholm could wipe away the tears that were starting to gather at his eyes.

The water was still warm when Lord Denholm stilled inside of him, holding him close with a groan as he spilled into Elze’ith like the vessel he was. Lord Denholm tucked his face into the crook of Elze’ith’s neck as he came, and though the contact made Elze’ith’s blood turn to ice, there were no piercing teeth. Just Lord Denholm’s arms, wrapped around so tight they threatened to bruise. The smallest of mercies, and Elze’ith didn’t even know how he felt about it anymore.

Awful. Relieved. Ashamed. Too many emotions warring for dominance in his mind, none of which he wanted to examine too closely, even if he thought he could.

But it was over now. It had been quick. He could put on his robe and crawl into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep until his Lord called upon him again.

And yet, Lord Denholm made no move to pull out. Though he relaxed his grip, his arms remained securely around Elze’ith. His aura thinned, though his delight still rang out through the air as strong as any cathedral bell.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” he sighed, pressing a kiss to Elze’ith’s neck. “You are always so wonderful to be around, light. And we so rarely get to relax like this. I think we should indulge a bit, don’t you?”

All Elze’ith could do was whimper. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted to sleep. But his wants never mattered. What Lord Denholm wanted was to soak in the bath, the two of them inextricably linked in body and mind, and Elze’ith could not refuse. He was but a vessel to be filled by his Lord’s desires.

Lord Denholm rubbed Elze’ith’s arm in a soothing gesture. “There we go, that’s it. Just relax and enjoy this. You don’t need to worry. I’m right here. I’ve got you. And there is no one who cares for you like I do.”

Elze’ith knew his Lord spoke the truth. And that was the entire problem.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Elegy

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith reads a poem.

For Whumptober Day 18: Loss of Identity. Poem by Emily Dickinson.

Contains: Captivity/gilded cage, depression, dissociation, loss of identity

~~~

There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

The words on the page were familiar, achingly so. How many times had he read them over the many years? How many times had he recited them, without even needing to look at a page, etched into his mind and heart as they had become? This poem was a favorite of his, something he always carried with him, but looking at it now…

He recognized it. Of course he did. But the words and the cadence didn’t resonate in the way that they should have. He read the lines, over and over and over again, expecting to feel the same sense of warm melancholy and gentle yearning that he always did with this poem, but there was just nothing.

Just emptiness.

The same emptiness that he always felt, these days.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,

But internal difference

Where the meanings are.

How long had it been since he had even opened one of these books? There was once a time where he spent hours each day absorbed in the pages of literature and poetry he had been allowed to pull from the castle’s library. Though his collection was small, far smaller than he would have liked it to be, both in size and breadth of contents, it was still precious. Every page and story and spun phrase was an indispensable gift, a way to connect, a reminder of what else could be.

An escape. A memorial of better days.

When had that stopped? When did others’ words cease being a source of comfort? When did his bookshelf start gathering dust?

He couldn’t remember. There was a lot he couldn’t remember these days. Like the warmth of the sun, or the sight of his own reflection, or the sound of Altair’s laugh. Gone, ephemeral as the morning frost, leaving…

What? What was left?

Just a shell, perhaps. Words with no meaning. Ideas with no emotion. A body with no soul. An echoing refrain, once powerful and substantial, now too indistinct to have any impact at all.

None may teach it anything,

'Tis the seal, despair,-

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the air.

He stared at the words on the page in front of him and felt nothing. He was nothing. Might not have ever been anything at all; maybe he had only ever been fooling himself, thinking he was worth something beyond this almost-existence. Shouldn’t have even tried to be or feel or do anything at all.

Didn’t even have a name worth calling. The only person out there who still knew him was…

(The warmth in his mind pulsed, but he was too cold to feel it.)

And even those thoughts, that realization which should have sparked despair or alarm or horror, made him feel nothing at all. Nothing beyond a hollowness and a vague sense of grief.

He closed the book of poetry. There was no point in trying to reclaim these old solaces. There just wasn’t enough left.

When it comes, the landscape listens,

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Shame

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

After so long, Elze'ith has learned how to take care of himself, though that doesn't make it easy.

For @whumpril Day 3: Shame

Contains: Aftermath of noncon, captivity/gilded cage, dissociation/depersonalization, isolation, briefly mentioned desire to self-harm

~~~

It always happened the same way. Lord Denholm would take him to bed. He would stay for a while. And then he would leave, and Elze’ith would try to bind the fragments of his soul back together.

It never seemed to work. It always felt like there was something missing, every single time. Something he could never get back, no matter how hard he tried. Pieces of him lost to the ether, and ultimately he wasn’t sure if anything resembling himself would remain.

Occasionally, Lord Denholm would take him to the bath himself. Even more rarely still, they would bathe together. Elze’ith found himself craving those moments, where he wouldn’t have to think, where he wouldn’t have to force his attention onto his wretched body. But more often than not, Lord Denholm departed straight from his bedroom, or his study, or wherever he had decided they would be coupling that day, and Elze’ith would have to painstakingly gather his strength and carry himself to the bath all on his own. It was never easy. But the idea of lingering in the sweat and blood and other remnants of Lord Denholm’s ministrations was far, far worse. And if he went early enough, the distance his mind tended to keep could carry through to his time in the water, and he could get himself washed without his thoughts dwelling on why.

Not that it was always easy. Just the mere act of being in the bath, no matter how scalding he made the water, could be enough to send chills down his spine. Even when he was alone he could sometimes feel Lord Denholm’s hands on him, sickeningly gentle, mapping out every inch of his skin. Those times were the hardest, when not even the quiet fog in his mind was enough to keep him safe, and he had to hurry to finish and get back to his room before the urge to claw into his own skin grew overwhelming.

Though there was a linen closet not far from his chambers, he started keeping a fresh set of bedding in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As much as he rarely wanted to go through the effort of actually changing his linens, of being faced with the aftermath of his encounters with Lord Denholm, he wanted even less for that evidence to remain. So he kept fresh sets close as hand, to accommodate for the frequency at which he couldn’t muster the willpower to venture back out into the castle halls to fetch something. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough; sometimes his sense of mortification and disgust and the fog that clouded his mind left him feeling immobilized for ages, and he would sleep in one of the chairs in his room rather than face what he and Lord Denholm had done together. But sometimes he could collapse onto a bed that felt cleaner than he ever would, and he knew to appreciate that.

As he appreciated the fact that he could set his laundry outside his door, and one of the servants would take care of it for him. At times like this, he didn’t even care that no one would talk to him, that he couldn’t speak to anyone even if he wanted to, that the halls were always achingly empty when he picked himself up from what he could not refuse. He didn’t want anyone else looking at him, talking to him, knowing him, out of some thorny mix of fear and shame and other emotions he dare not name. It didn’t matter how much part of him yearned for comfort, how much he didn’t want to deal with this alone, how the brambles in his heart felt like they were going to cut him open every time this happened. No, best that he be left alone. There was no helping him anyway.

It was all he could do to help himself. Go through the motions. Heal any outstanding wounds, the pain both grounding and disorienting but never pleasant. Put on clean clothes, so that he might feel more like a person and less like some monstrous, wretched thing. Brush his hair; it always seemed to get tangled. The routine of it was almost soothing in its own right, simple tasks he had completed thousands of times before and that he knew by heart. It was almost enough for him to forget what had just happened, to pretend that he was anywhere else. He never could, but maybe someday that blissful ignorance would come.

But now even what scraps of comfort he tried to stitch together were warped by how much of himself he had traded away. He drifted through a home that wasn’t his, dressed in clothes he would never choose and sleeping on a too-soft bed. There was no solace to be found in these frigid halls, no matter where he looked, and whatever he tried to cobble together was inevitably tainted. He felt like a ghost in his own body, haunting a life that was no longer his. He found himself glad that Lord Denholm had forbidden him access to a mirror. He didn’t think he could look at himself. Not anymore.

And yet he kept living. Day after day. He simply had no other choice. Such luxuries had been taken from him long, long ago.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Captivation

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Soren considers his new guest.

For @augusnippets Day 25: Intimate Whumper

Contains: Intimate whumper, non-consensual touching, general creepy behavior

~~~

In a moment of indulgence, Soren allowed himself to lightly trace the contours of the stranger’s face.

The man’s gentle, delicate features gave him a look of dignity and serenity as he lay unconscious on the guest bed. His skin was soft as Soren caressed it, marred only by a single, long-faded scar across his cheek. And despite his veneer of fragility, Soren could smell magic in his blood, rich and potent and utterly alluring.

Were he an impulsive man, Soren would have taken the stranger’s wrist and sampled the delicacy that had all but stumbled into his lap. But many long centuries had taught Soren the value of patience. There was no need to be so hasty.

It wasn’t often, after all, that the Valley got visitors during winter. Even more rare did visitors carry such intriguing hints of the depths they concealed. There was a story to this man, and to his companion, that Soren was keen to unravel. And he had all the time in the world to learn everything there was to know about them.

As the man began to stir, Soren pulled his hand away. A smile settled on his face; he had a feeling that whoever this stranger was, Soren was going to like him very, very much.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Gentle

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A gentle touch is all Prince Elze'ith needs.

For @augusnippets Day 23: Gentle Touch

Contains: Royalty, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort

~~~

“Are you alright, my prince?”

Was he? Elze’ith was shaking. Part of him wanted to hide away until an eon had passed and no one remained knew him. He felt afraid. And yet, he had no reason to be. Lord Denholm was his betrothed; they were to be partners, to unite their kingdoms and bring peace and prosperity. With that came certain obligations, duties that Elze’ith had long understood, even if he did not care for them. So why did Lord Denholm leave him wanting to crawl out of his skin?

“Prince Elze’ith?”

He startled at Altair’s voice, gentle and careful though it was. The concern in his knight’s eyes made his heart twist, even as he forced a smile.

“I am alright, Sir Altair. You need not worry about me.”

“My prince.”

Slowly, giving Elze’ith time to pull away, Altair took his hand. Elze’ith found himself grateful for the touch, even as he wished to take both of their gloves off, so that he might feel the warmth of Altair’s hands.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Altair squeezed Elze’ith’s hand, ever so gently, as he bent to kiss his knuckles. The tenderness in the gesture was punctuated by the certainty in his voice as he looked up at his prince. “Anyone.”

Elze’ith’s face softened, his smile becoming just a bit more genuine. “Thank you, my knight. I know you will.”

Luckily, they were alone, so no one had to see how long their hands remained joined as the apprehension slowly left Elze’ith’s blood.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Hair Care

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thank you to @whump-kin for letting me borrow Calamine! This is for @augusnippets Day 2.

A moment between two mirror images.

Contains: Platonic hair brushing/braiding, fluff

~~~

Elze’ith couldn’t remember the last time he brushed someone else’s hair like this.

Well— no. Perhaps he could. He just didn’t want to look at the memories. Didn’t want to face the fact that he and Altair were so far apart, that he might never see his partner again.

But it was easy to keep those thoughts bottled away right now. There was a new face, a new voice, a new kindness. Calamine was soft-spoken, and curious, and young and old all at once. And he was a vampire, and that made Elze’ith uneasy, even as he felt bad for the response. But above all, Calamine showed Elze’ith kindness. Elze’ith would have wanted to do the same regardless, but there was new meaning to it now, a desire to strengthen that connection, a desire to repay what had been offered.

He was as gentle as he could be as he ran the brush through Calamine’s hair, and he didn’t think about anyone else he had done this for. When all of the tangles were gone, he set the brush aside, and began to braid a small section on the side. It wasn’t much; Calamine’s hair was too short to do anything elaborate. But it was a token of appreciation, a signal that Calamine was cared for in the same way he had cared for Elze’ith.

When he was done, Calamine smiled at him. Elze’ith smiled back, knowing he would do a lot more to see that simple joy again.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Homemade

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

All Altair ever wanted is right here.

Thanks as always to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump and @that-one-thespian for letting me borrow their guys! For @augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal

Contains: Pure domestic fluff

~~~

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of all sorts of delightful things. Vegetables and meat and spices all brought together under Fletcher’s expert hand. Altair took a moment just to watch him. He loved Fletcher’s cooking. It tasted like the home he had always longed for.

Fletcher turned to him, a soft smile on his face. “It- it should be almost done. Just a few more minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Altair couldn’t resist taking a few steps closer to press a kiss to Fletcher’s temple. The small embarrassed squeak he let out made Altair chuckle. “Mariano and Bastian have set the table. We should be just about ready to eat.”

He could see them from here, just beyond the kitchen. The salad and rolls Elze’ith had made were already out on the table, a table set for all of the people he loved. Their boys were waiting for them, chattering quietly about someone Mariano and Bastian had met in the market that day and the new book Archer was reading and how Elze’ith’s plants were doing in the garden. The simple domesticity was one of the most beautiful things Altair had ever seen. They just needed Altair and Fletcher and the main course for everything to be complete.

A soft blush had spread across Fletcher’s face. “I- I hope it’s good.”

“Knowing you?” Altair smiled. “It’ll be amazing.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Nightmare

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Altair dreams of the worst case scenario.

Contains: Nightmares, explicit noncon, (believed) character death, mental link, vampires

~~~

Shadows constricted him so tightly he couldn’t even twitch. They strangled him, choked him, embraced him until he wasn’t sure where he ended and they began. There was no pain, just the crushing weight of shadows and expectations and memories ever tightening around him.

If that were all, Altair could have handled it. But he wasn’t alone.

A bed filled his vision, the only thing he could see through the roiling darkness. It was close enough to touch and yet far enough away that he was certain he could crawl across the ground for hours and never reach it. The shadows enshrouded it just as thoroughly as they had captured him, and yet it was the only spot of light in the sea of nothingness.

Elze’ith was there. He was there, on the bed. If Altair had any air in his lungs he would have screamed for him, but instead he was left in the deafening silence.

Lord Denholm was there, too. There was no escaping him, no fighting him. He loomed over Elze’ith like a hungry predator, made up the shadows that threatened to consume them both. Hatred and fear surged within Altair in tandem, utterly intertwined and indistinguishable, yet the fear was far stronger than anything else.

For he could do nothing as hands and shadows roamed across Elze’ith’s limp, bare, shivering form. All he could do was watch as Lord Denholm kissed Elze’ith as though he wanted to steal the breath from his lungs. Any desperate cries he might have tried to make were drowned out by the shadows in his lungs and the sweet, poisonous promises that Lord Denholm murmured against Elze’ith’s skin.

There was nothing he could do. There was never anything he could do.

His despair mounted as Lord Denholm inexorably and wickedly pressed inside. Elze’ith’s back arched in some horrid mix of revulsion and forced pleasure, a combination Altair fervently wished neither of them were so intimately familiar with. Each gentle thrust made him shake like he was about to fall apart. But it was Elze’ith’s eyes that Altair couldn’t look away from, that filled him with horror. They were empty, utterly empty, with none of the light or hope or resolve that Altair had come to love.

A moment and an eternity later, Lord Denholm joined their hips together. They both shuddered and went still. Ice-white fangs sunk into Elze’ith’s neck.

Elze’ith’s eyes closed.

Altair couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He knew, he knew all-too well, what it meant to be fed from like this. He knew how much blood one could stand to lose. And Lord Denholm was taking too much.

Elze’ith’s eyes were closed. Lord Denholm pulled away, but Elze’ith was utterly still. Not even his chest rose and fell.

Lord Denholm had taken everything Elze’ith had to give. Now there was nothing left.

Altair’s scream could have shaken the very heavens. Every fiber of his being was flooded with anguish, a weight bearing down on him stronger than any of the shadows trying to suffocate him. He was hot with rage and cold with grief and it was all too much. His heart could have been ripped from his chest in that moment and it would have hurt less. His wings could have been torn from his back and the result would have been the same.

The only thing that mattered was Elze’ith was limp and cold and drained and dead in front of him. He hadn’t been able to stop it. He would never see his beloved again.

There was no dance of victory from the shadows. No song of exaltation from Lord Denholm. There was only Altair, and his grief, and what once was Elze’ith.

It couldn’t get any worse. Altair was certain it couldn’t get any worse. Elze’ith was gone, and everything worth fighting for was gone with him. But then Elze’ith’s body began to shimmer and fade in front of him; even as he lurched forward to try to grab on, to keep hold of his partner, Elze’ith vanished before his eyes. Somehow, the grief hit him even harder then, squeezing the air from his lungs and turning his bones into lead. Elze’ith was gone, gone, gone—!

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, so tentative and uncertain. It was warm, warm in a way Altair barely remembered and yet could never forget. Warm and gentle and familiar; even through the maelstrom of tears and grief and regret Altair knew that hand and presence and soul as well as he knew his own, and turned around before he could even think twice.

Elze’ith gently pulled his hand away, but only to open his arms to offer a hug. His face looked as it often did, full of concern and tenderness and love. And his eyes were full of that same love, full of light, full of life.

It was him. Elze’ith.

With a sob of joy instead of anguish, Altair threw himself forward into Elze’ith’s arms. Elze’ith let out the smallest whuff of breath, but caught Altair easily, pulling him in impossibly close. Altair buried his face into the crook of Elze’ith’s neck, just to breathe him in. Wrapped his wings around Elze’ith, just to shield him from any oncoming harm.

“You’re here,” Altair murmured, voice thick with relief. “You’re alive.”

Elze’ith nodded against him. This close, he could feel Elze’ith’s heartbeat. Steady and sure and strong.

“You’re here. I’m here. It’s gonna be okay,” Altair said, as though he were the one comforting Elze’ith. “I won’t let that happen to you. We’re both gonna be okay. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Fever

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith takes care of his partners, even in the throes of magical exhaustion.

Thank you to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow Mariano and Bastian! This was done for Day 5 of @augusnippets

Contains: Magical exhaustion, fever, dizziness, blood, caretaking

~~~

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood. It hung in the air like smoke, a lingering reminder of what they had done to escape. The sheer potency of it made Elze’ith dizzy, but his own fever might have also contributed to that.

He couldn’t rest, though. Not even as blood filled his lungs and his vision swam. Because Mariano and Altair were laid out on the bed, entangled with each other, trembling as their bodies fought to be rid of rotten magic. Elze’ith was able to stand, was able to wipe the blood from their mouths and lay wet cloths on their heads to mitigate the fevers that ravaged them. He couldn’t let his failing body fail them.

Bastian would be back soon. He would bring water and supplies and comfort. Elze’ith held that knowledge close as his shaking hands collected bloody feathers and dabbed at crimson tears. He just had to look after his beloveds until Bastian arrived.

He almost crumpled, a few times, as he stumbled to and from their closet for more spare rags to keep his partners clean. He had to brace himself against the bed when the dizziness threatened to overtake him. He had to be so, so careful not to cough into the clean water he was using, because Mariano and Altair didn’t need to be wiped clean with Elze’ith’s blood. But he was willing to do all of that and more, if it meant that they were taken care of. He just wished this was something his magic could fix.

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood and desperation when Bastian finally burst through the front door. Elze’ith only had a moment to be happy before he finally let himself collapse into strong, supportive arms.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Hypnosis

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There's comfort in the loss of control. Sometimes, there shouldn't be.

An AU where Lord Denholm's control over Elze'ith is a bit of a more traditional vampiric thrall. For @augusnippets Day 1: Hypnosis

Contains: Mind control, nonconsensual kissing

~~~

Arms wrapped around him as a fog enveloped his mind, strong and heavy and inescapable. Once, he would have tried to fight it; now there was a comfort to the unending, dreamy haze. Here, like this, he didn’t have to worry about anything at all. Couldn’t, even if he had wanted to.

And why would he want to?

His Lord pulled him closer, pulled him into a kiss, so lovely and tender. His lips kissed back before he knew how he felt about it. Flickers of emotion were quickly smothered by the thick fog of compliance, until all that was left was the subsuming embrace of his Lord’s will. And that was fine— was wonderful, even. Surely it couldn’t be so bad to just let this happen, could it?

He didn’t understand why Altair looked so scared. Everything was wonderful. He was just as he was meant to be, just what his Lord wanted him to be.

Didn’t Altair want that, too?

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Blizzard

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A chance meeting that sparks a lifetime of devotion.

For @augusnippets Day 3: Blizzard.

Contains: Blizzard, hypothermia, blood, caretaking

~~~

It was a small miracle that Elze’ith stumbled across the man collapsed in the snow.

The howling winds and swirling snow made it night impossible to see; everything was just an expanse of white and cold. Somehow, inexplicably, there was still enough crimson visible against the snow to catch Elze’ith’s eye. He rushed over as quickly as he could, shielding himself with his magic against the worst of the storm, though the freezing wind still sapped the heat from his core.

The man was already half-buried by snow and ice when Elze’ith knelt down beside him. The furs he was wrapped in, haphazard as they were, were likely the only reason he was still even shallowly breathing. And a quick examination revealed the source of the bright blood against the snow; a wound on his temple, another in his shoulder, bleeding his life away sluggishly but unceasingly.

Elze’ith didn’t know who this man was. He didn’t know why he was out here. But he knew he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t bear to watch this man die.

The cold air stung against his skin as he took off his glove, but he needed direct contact to heal the man’s wounds. Luckily, they weren’t deep, and it didn’t take too much magic to seal them over. The man groaned as he did; he was strong, Elze’ith realized. Even after all he had clearly been through, he wasn’t fading. Not yet.

As gently as he could manage, Elze’ith bundled him into his arms. His camp was nearby, and he needed to get this man warm if he was to survive. And Elze’ith had no intentions on letting him die now.