#mywritingprompts

[redwritinghood]

Hi! If you're still taking prompts, u would love outsider pov of laurent and damen during kings rising and right after!! From any citizen if vere or akielos, nikandros, makedon, council or anyone else

Opening the word doc for this was like getting out a ouija board and hoping someone would speak to me. 

Lazaar-

Several feet of green grass was the only barrier between the Akielons and Veretians. Jord and Huet stood at the edge of the gap with folded arms and watched as the Akielons set up camp. Lazaar joined them leaning against a post. Jord glared silently. He hadn’t been the same since Ravenel. No one blamed him, but he was far less easy-going and there was a much more palpable disdain directed towards the Akelons. Or maybe just one in particular.

Lazaar had never been this close to so many. The prince’s slave was the most time any of them had spent with an Akielon. If he had decided to turn on them it may have taken ten or fifteen of them to hold the giant down, but eventually, they would have managed. Now there were hundreds of the barbarians. 

Was there a cloth shortage in Akielos? There was little left to the imagination. A younger one walked by, his chest bare, only a small wrapping around his hips. Lazaar, with fingers between his teeth, whistled a catcall. The Akielon turned, his large puppy-dog eyes found Lazaar. He blushed. The dark skin turned ruddy. He quickly looked away and hurried off. Huet laughed at the response and shouted after the young Akielon. Lazaar was surprised. It hadn’t been the reaction he expected and he watched the Akielon until he was no longer in sight.

Nikandros-

“If Theomedes were still here— we wouldn’t be— this would never—” Makedon trailed off and peered into his empty chalice. He groped for the wine pitcher. “Prince.” He slurred his words, “Pale and puny. Looks more like a bed slave. Bet he can’t even lift a sword.”

“I wouldn’t want him in my bed. He’d probably bite someone’s cock off.” Nikandros wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as Makedon but wished he was. He had lived with the idea that his best friend, Akielon’s rightful ruler, was dead. Finding him alive had been a short-lived relief. The Veretians had made the prince of Akielon a slave and instead of wanting revenge, Damianos had formed an alliance with them. Nikandros was certain he’d lost his mind. He even still wore the slave cuff on his wrist, as if proud. It was an insult. Nikandros’ confusion over Damen’s insanity had been quickly cleared when he’d seen the Veretian prince. Another blue-eyed blond, of course. Typically the infatuation didn’t last long. A few hours in bed, and Damen would move on. Jokaste had lasted the longest, but even she hadn’t kept Damen’s exclusive attention.

“He needs a good fucking,” Makedon slurred his words, “He’s as stiff as a statue.”

“I’ve heard he’s celibate.” Nikandros knew enough of the Veretian language that he understood what was being said about the icy prince. He hoped that was false. If Damen couldn’t bed the Veretian prince the entire Akielon nation may be doomed. There had been some satisfaction when Damen had placed a matching slave cuff on the arrogant prince during the day’s ceremony.

“Shoulda just taken the prince hostage and controlled the Veretian dogs that way.”

“You’re drunk,” Nikandros said, but privately agreed.

Pallas-

After years of training, Pallas had thought this opportunity had been taken away from him. The first time he’d seen Prince Damianos was as a young boy, too young to catch the prince’s eye. He became a soldier with the hopes of getting close to the prince. The news of his death had been heartbreaking, all of Pallas’ dreams had been swept away. Now was his chance to prove himself and make Damianos notice him.

The ceremonial games were starting soon and Pallas prepared, making his body was warm and ready. The others were excited to take out some aggression on the Veretians, all certain they stood no chance in the Akielon games. Pallas only wanted to win three times. Just three times and he could challenge Damianos. 

The whistle made him turn. He should have known better, days of the catcall and he was still gullible enough to look. Of course, it was that lanky Veretian with lecherous grin in place. Pallas turned away feeling his face warm. This was not a day to be distracted, his king was watching. 

Everything was going as planned, he had won two competitions and was stepping onto the field for the long sword competition and realized his opponent was the lanky Veretian. He looked at Pallas approached, an obvious up and down glance over his body. Pallas’ heart rate picked up. Why did this happen? It was the closest they had been. The man had a roguish handsome face, wearing scars of old battles and a confident grin. Pallas had been surprised by his opponent but was still confident in his ability.

He lost. 

It had been grueling. The Veretian barely seemed winded and had bested Pallas effortlessly, his technique was masterful and unique. He seemed to know exactly what Pallas would do while all of his attacks had been unpredictable. A different Veretian won the long sword competition. 

Despite the setback, Pallas won three events and was given the honor of challenging Damianos himself. He was no match for the raw power. Ultimately he didn’t mind the loss, he was pleased he’d been noticed and that Akielon’s ruler was so mighty. Secretly he couldn’t deny his pleasure at just being in contact with Damianos. It was a sport, but it was also, almost, something else. Something Pallas had yearned for since first seeing his future king.

Jord-

Laurent had always been difficult to read, hiding his emotions and frequently speaking in a cold sharp tone. Over the years, Jord had slowly gotten better at understanding his distant prince and could notice the subtle differences in his moods and expressions. With everything going on it was understandable that Laurent would be inconsistent. Jord had noticed the difference after Ravenel and Damen had told him that he had taken the prince to bed. He didn’t consider himself a quick-tempered man and if Laurent had shown any signs of displeasure, Jord would have been honor-bound to try and slay the Akielon.

It was after Charcy that Laurent’s temperament changed, suddenly cold towards Damen, or rather, king Damianos. Jord gritted his teeth at the thought of having to formally address the prince killer. The alliance shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Laurent would make any necessary arrangements in order to retake his throne. The ceremony, however, had made Jord’s blood boil. His prince now wore a slave cuff. The matching one to Damianos', who had lied to all of them, but more importantly had lied to Laurent. 

It was clear Laurent was unhappy. When there wasn’t some issue to take care of or some other princely duty, he remained in his tent. Alone. Jord had seen him begin to open up to the slave, they had spent a lot of time together and the prince had seemed comfortable, if not amicable. Jord was sorry Laurent was hurt, and more sorry that he possibly could have prevented it from happening. Maybe he should have told Laurent right away of his slave’s true identity, even if that meant Damen might have lost his life. 

After keeping an especially vigilant eye on the prince it became clear what was happening.  Laurent was not just lonely, he was pining. It was only obvious in the way he blatantly ignored Damen, not sparing him a glance. It made sense, in a convoluted way, that this would be Laurent’s approach. He liked to exercise his willpower, and resolutely avoiding something he wanted was an excellent way to achieve that. Damen was the opposite, nearly always watching the prince.

Everything changed at Karthas. It was obvious what had happened, but not so much why. Whether good or bad, the prince seemed happy. It was almost out of character. Jord only hoped it would last.

Paschal-

Paschal had never expected that he would need to tell Laurent to get out of another man’s bed. Ever since Damen had been wounded by his brother, Laurent hadn’t left his side, choosing to take all of his meetings, meals, and rest in the king’s bedroom. It hindered Damen’s healing process as Laurent's presence was too much of a distraction. Paschal expected this behavior from Damen, but Laurent had more self-control, or so he had thought. Months of ignoring Damen and now he wouldn’t leave him for more than a few minutes. Laurent may not have purposefully initiated anything physical but had to be aware of the temptation he posed.

One early morning, an apologetic Laurent had woken Paschal saying sheepishly that Damen’s stitches had been torn. 

They were more careful after that incident. Paschal was still unfortunate enough to frequently find them in some state of intimacy. While it didn’t bother Laurent, Damen barely had enough blood for a blush, let alone other things. Still, it warmed him to find them wrapped in the other's arms while they slept. They both deserved the rest and happiness.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

45 Summertime Prompts

 1.Whoops—accidentally stumbling onto a nude beach.

2.Whoops—getting caught skinny dipping.

3.Wearing sunglasses . . . and never taking them off.

4.Watching and/or catching fireflies.

5.Uh oh--a swimming suit mishap.

6.Staying at a strange, old motel.

7.Start-of-Summer: Walking in on someone packing a bag for a surprise vacation.

8.Something nearby gets struck with lightening.

9.Someone is startled by a loud clap of thunder.

10.Someone gets a sunburn and needs TLC.

11.So hot. So sweaty. Must cool down.

12.Sleeping under the stars.

13.Skinny dipping--ocean or bay.

14.Skinny dipping--pool.

15.Skinny dipping--lake.

16.Sitting on the porch and watching an early-evening thunderstorm.

17.Reading on the beach . . . and being distracted by someone/something.

18.Outdoor concert (or other event) that gets disrupted by a downpour.

19.Meeting in an ice cream parlor.

20.Meeting during a beach vacation.

21.Meeting at an outdoor music festival.

22.Making margaritas.

23.Making a wish by blowing on a dandelion puff.

24.Late night talks around a bonfire--getting-to-know-you, light chit-chat.

25.Late night talks around a bonfire--drunken ramblings.

26.Late night talks around a bonfire--sweet declarations.

27.Late night talks around a bonfire--confessions.

28.Late night talks around a bonfire--serious musings.

29.Late night conversation with the buzz of cicadas or chirping of crickets in the background.

30.Late afternoons in the swimming pool, floating, drinking, talking.

31.Hiking and stumbling upon a gorgeous waterfall or crystal-clear mini lake.

32.Going fishing … and pulling out something that is totally not a fish.

33.Going to a you-pick orchard or walking through a field and picking berries.

34.End-of-Summer: Walking in on someone packing a bag because they were going to leave without saying good-bye.

35.Something goes wrong during a vacation.

36.Driving with the car windows down, singing loudly to a favorite song.

37.Driving late at night with the music up and with no particular destination.

38.Camping in a tent and being startled awake . . . by something.

39.Battling pests—mosquitos, hornets, or wasps; a creature eating the garden; a creature in the swimming pool that should not be in the swimming pool, etc.

40.Arguing over who has to clean the swimming pool.

41.A lazy stroll through the farmer’s market.

42.Standing naked in front of the fridge or freezer to cool down and getting caught.

43.While kayaking, someone flips their boat.

44.Evenings walking along the beach, holding hands.

45.Seeing the ocean for the first time.

[ahalal-uralma]

Writing Prompt /

Music Playlist

I am curious, if you could create a film to any plot and theme you want—what would it be about? Use your imagination. Describe to me your ideal movie and I will create the soundtrack that would accompany your creation.

Send your story to my ask inbox (only) or I can’t organize your playlist properly. I will limit themed lists to 10 songs. If you have a genre of preference just let me know beforehand. 

[for example, here’s my plot]

A young girl discovers and explores a parallel world. A world through a mirror. 

It is an impossibly beautiful opposite of our reality with large forests that stretch across countries. There is no crime or pollution. No wars. Humanity is at harmony with nature. Time seems to move more slowly. Or is it more quickly? 

At the center of this world is a Crystal Palace. Here, the nobility dresses in all-white with luminous accents. To walk among them is to feel like a gray pebble within a deep sea of iridescent diamonds.

Except, the servants.

They wear red.

She meets the King that rules this realm and he is the pinnacle of human perfection—polite, generous and wonderfully charismatic. He is adored with a reverence. He walks with the confident stride of a God.

His eyes are black with lashes as long and dark as the feathers of a crow. He has a smile that cradles the heart in unseen talons. His hair is silk against the sharp contours of his clothes. He never makes the slightest rustle as he walks. He is so disarmingly quiet and soft in his movements, that she can’t help envisioning the procession of a funeral.

When she catches his smile entering the palace, her whole world freezes. Something passes between them that she can not define...not yet.

He invites her to a royal dinner, but no one eats during her arrival. No food is brought to any tables. People talk in whispers as if afraid to awaken the dead from their graves. The dinner party continues like this for hours—silent chatter on empty bellies. No one seems to notice. Or perhaps, they do not mind the absence. 

How do people survive in this world? Or is it simply against custom to eat at royal functions? She sees the King leave for the kitchens and decides to follow him. She had to know.

What she discovers as she sneaks between passageways stops her cold. She finds the King gnawing on the throat of a servant. He holds the servant delicately so the blood only runs down the red of her dress. Oh.

She slips away quietly before she can be seen, but a butler in a tailored ruby-red suit counters her retreat. He redirects her to a better hiding location. “You’re not from here.” It wasn’t a question.

“Does he always....eat people?”

“We all do. Is it not custom in your country to devour the living?” He asks this with the same air as someone inquiring about the weather. 

“No...I mean, yes. We do, but—what we eat is birds, fish, animals of all kinds. We do not eat people where I come from. Humans do not consume humans. It is seen as a perversion. Taboo. We have laws against it.” She resists the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

“How strange. We don’t have those creatures you describe here. We do not have these birds or fish. No animals, but ourselves. It makes the diet simple I think. I can’t imagine anything else, but the taste of human skin. Do these animals have skin like us? I guess it doesn’t matter. Your people have your way. We have ours. Our way is what you saw: you are either one of the nobility or you are their meal.”

“What do the poor eat?”

“Whatever is left over by the rich.”

“It appears obvious when you are looking at the King, but can you always tell the rank of others around you? Everyone dresses so finely in your country, even the servants. They look exquisite and cut like gemstones. How can you tell who is poor?”

He raises an eyebrow like that was the most ridiculous question in the world and smirks, “We are the only ones wearing red.”

She felt struck and began to peer down at her own attire, the dress the servants gifted her earlier that evening. A new glaze came into her eyes. Something hot and feral. She was dressed in a fiery ball gown. A crimson so dark it looked like wine...or blood set ablaze.

The King had told her “you look ravishing” just hours before he went to consume the servant girl. Oh, is that so? She thought.

She heard stories of this world where replicas of the self existed: a world where you can make anyone disappear for eternity. It was a mirror copy to the physical realm. What your mirror self did dictated your physical world experiences. How it exactly did so remained obscure; but here, you knew you were either predator or prey. If you were lucky—you got to be the predator. Predators had better outcomes in both worlds. Survival of the fittest, or something to that effect.

However, she knew the King better than he knew herself. It didn’t surprise her he was the predator. After all, they were paramours in the physical world. He was used to playing with women’s hearts where she came from, so it appeared fitting to find him consuming their organs here.

It explained why every relationship failed, but he survived the damages. You can’t keep what you destroy. She escaped before she could become his next plaything.

She wondered how long it would take before his two selves caught onto her great scheme: how long it would be before they both realized and comprehended that all along she was not their prey, but hunter? He wasn’t the only predator in this story. She was a wolf circling another wolf.

His appetite was boundless and so was hers. If she couldn’t have the man of her dreams than no woman would. He could dress her up in any shade he wanted, but she knew what needed to be done to destroy the funerary-silence. She knew the peace he designed was a veiled threat. 

She would make him disappear from the other side. No one would know where he went. It would be her darkest secret. Her greatest sin. She would go to Hell for a single bite. Red? She knew exactly how to wear red. It suited her just fine that it would be the last color he saw on her; because, she would eat him, skin and bone, before anyone else could.

[and a few sample songs I would use for my soundtrack]

Gunboat - Vixtrola // Savages - Kerli // Nightmare - Nyxx // 

[ahalal-uralma]

Above in the crystal-black palace

is where he drinks from loves red chalice

and below in the stone-white mountains

is where she bathes in heartbreak’s fountains

but, beyond desert-moons and forest-clouds

within a peak of oceanic-suns, earth enshrouds

light-naught masquerade of stolen kisses

shadow-caressed dances of healing wishes

their wordless-limbs, undone in fleshy-threads

unsewn by their songs upon feathery beds

when they break the chainmail-provenance

to each other’s dagger-locked entrance

may their souls unlock, nary ill-weathered

to become one heart, fairly even-tempered

no will too grandiose, no gesture to deplete

their bleeding-love wholly bitter then sweet.

Poetry challenge #11

Compose a poem with several personally invented word-pairs, as for example, moon-drunk, dream-whisperings, soul-achings, etc...

[redwritinghood]

for a lamen writing prompt maybe something like enenmy secret agents or assassins

YES. ngl though kinda gets soft rather than action/adventure-y 

��

A shadow fell over Damen’s desk and he knew he was about to get bad news. Nikandros never loomed behind him to ask what bar they were going to after work.

“What’s up?” Damen turned in his chair and looked up at Nik’s dark expression.

“You’re being taken off field duty,” he said and folded his arms, guarding against Damen’s objections.

“Why?” Damen asked standing.

“Intel has discovered a hit was put out on you and an assassin has already accepted the job.”

“That doesn’t mean I should be taken off field duty,” Damen said.

“Yes,” Nik emphasized his words, “it does.”

“That’s what the person who put the hit out wants. I’m obviously on to something with my case. Besides, I have to go outside at some point, you can’t keep me locked away in the building.”

Nikandros stood firm in his decision, staring Damen down with no chance of relenting.

“Nik—” Damen began.

“Don’t even start.”

“Just let me—”

“No. Desk duty.” Nik ended the conversation by marching away.

The threat was bothersome but Damen determinedly went about his daily schedule. Only under scrutiny did he realize how predictable his routine was. Particularly the mornings. After the gym, he went to the same cafe and made an excellent target when he sat outside to eat his breakfast. There were even tall buildings across the street, an ideal place for a sniper to nest and take him out. This was where Damen would set his trap.

“Damn it, Damen, you aren’t even trying to be careful.” Nikandros’s shadow loomed over Damen’s desk and he turned in his chair to look up at the grumpy expression.

“You said desk duty and I’ve been here, at my desk, for over a week.”

“That doesn’t matter if you’re just going to walk around the city unprotected.” 

“Exactly,” Damen agreed, “I’m more likely to be shot outside of work, so you should probably just let me back on my case.”

For a moment, Nikandros was speechless. “You’re unbelievable. I’ll start having you escorted to and from work in an armored vehicle if that’s what it takes.”

“No thanks, I’ll handle this myself,” Damen said.

“Handle what yourself?” Nikandros asked. His face was darkening to an unhealthy color.

“My assassin,” Damen said. Nikandros opened his mouth then closed it, a vein prominent on his forehead. Damen had mercy, and said, “As in I think after Friday I’ll be working from home.”

Nikandros recovered enough to say, “Fine,” before he stormed off.

Damen had been certain to follow his same routine for a week, most importantly taking his breakfast outside the cafe. Everything else he let vary to be certain the assassin considered the cafe was the best place to strike. Now he just had to force the date and time. Only two days until Friday and Damen continued his morning routine, but was careful when he visited the cafe. One morning he’d been purposefully late so his breakfast went with him to the office, the next day he was fortunate the forecast had been reliable and ate inside to avoid the rain. 

His assassin had to know Friday would be their last chance. The night before, Damen prepared, packing his gym bag differently than normal. His body thrummed with nervous energy. He was excited.

At the cafe, Damen had to plan his moves carefully. His pulse was loud in his ears as he stepped outside claiming his usual table. After setting his breakfast down he re-entered the building hoping it appeared like he planned on returning to his meal and the sniper would wait. Instead, Damen went out the back, pulling his hood over his head he bolted across the street far enough from the cafe to go unnoticed. The schematics for the buildings had been obtained through work and he had used them to memorize the quickest path to the place a sniper would likely set up camp.

The gun came out of the shoulder holster when he was close to where he predicted the sniper would be. The top two floors were empty, closed off for construction until someone bought the office space. The area was plywood walls, with multiple trip hazards, and plastic flapping in the breeze. It was exactly where a movie or tv show would depict a waiting assassin. 

He turned the corner and aimed the handgun at nothing. The space was empty. Damen could barely hear over his heartbeat. His stomach had dropped with disappointment. Carefully he approached one of the open windows where the hot summer air blew in uninhibited. The cafe was easily visible, he could even see a pigeon attacking his breakfast sandwich. This was the best vantage point for a sniper. 

Unless. 

Unless the person he was looking for never did the expected. Damen thought quickly. Where would there be another vantage point? 

There was another spot. The adjacent building had its large industrial AC units on the roof. They would hide a person easily, but the line of sight would be a different angle. Even an experienced marksman would have some difficulty lining up the shot. 

It was loud. The flat rooftop vibrated. The large units and giant exhaust pipes created a maze. Gun still in hand, he approached the probable sniper spot. There wasn’t a clear view, he couldn’t tell if an assassin waited only a few feet away. 

A sharp beam of sunlight reflected into his eyes. He threw up a hand seeing a singular bright spot near the ledge. It was a small mirror. 

Damen’s heart was in his throat. The assassin had been able to see him coming. He turned in time. A figure dressed entirely in black rolled out from behind a vent pipe, rifle braced to the shoulder. Damen dove for cover barely fitting between the metal units. The assassin was swift and nimble, leaping onto the platform above Damen. He grabbed the attacker’s ankle and the body hit with a metallic hollow thump. On his back, he aimed the rifle at Damen’s face. Only a foot away, Damen was able to catch the barrel and redirect it away from his body. Black boots kicked off Damen’s chest, he slid backward off the unit and ripped the rifle from Damen’s grasp. 

There was a glimpse of the figure as the assassin disappeared into another row. Smaller than Damen, he hid easily. Whereas Damen had to crouch down to keep from being seen. The motors from the ACs masked most sounds and unable to rely on sound or vision, Damen had to trust his instincts. 

Just a flash of black was seen from his peripheral, but it gave him enough time to turn and block an assault. Too close to use the rifle like a gun, the assassin had swung it as a club. The blow had landed on Damen’s forearm. It stung but he reached out to catch the black figure. He would undoubtedly have the upper hand in wrestling or hand-to-hand combat. 

His arm was kicked aside, the movement grounded in a martial arts stance. Damen squared-off, a balanced position. The assassin’s face was hidden beneath a black hood so Damen wouldn’t be able to read the expressions and interpret the next move. It came with speed and agility, using the rifle like a bo staff. Damen had to block both the gun and another kick. He tried to snatch the rifle but still held his own gun and only had the one free hand. The assassin was skilled, more acrobatic, using the varying heights of the units to his advantage. It made Damen have to evade spinning kicks at head height. 

It was very impressive. The ninja-like skill of the assassin was a contrast to Damen’s sturdy defense. The only advantage was speed, there wasn’t enough power to do serious harm, and Damen was mostly concerned with the rifle. The enemy was smart, knowing to stay out of reach and use the gun like two separate weapons. It had to be blocked when used as a club and avoided when the barrel pointed at him. All of this was done while fending off the distracting barrage of attacks. 

Damen moved backward, careful of tripping hazards, and eventually stepped into a clearing where he thought he would have the advantage. Damen took the offensive, also experienced in martial arts. His opponent was skilled even without the help of the varying terrain. He moved deftly, skirting the edge of Damen’s reach. He caught the rifle and only had the one hand to hold on with. The assassin tried turning the gun to dislodge Damen’s grip, but he held on. Quickly, he pushed forward, walking the assassin back into a corner, and trapped him against the brick. Damen’s body held him there, unable to escape, the rifle a hard line between them. 

Damen ripped off the hood. Blond hair spilled out into piercing blue eyes. The pale face flushed from exertion. Their bodies pressed together, Damen could feel him trying to catch his breath.

A golden brow lifted, “You’re getting slow.”

“You put a hit out on me?” Damen asked.

“Now you look more important. How many agents can boast an assassination attempt?”

“Laurent,” Damen groaned.

“If I were actually here to kill you, you’d be dead. I know I’m the best but you should be more careful.”

“I was fairly certain it was you.”

“And what if it wasn’t? What were you going to do with that unloaded pistol?”

“You’re carrying around a paintball gun.” Damen released the rifle and so did Laurent. It fell and there were only clothes between them. “There’s a clip in my pocket,” Damen stated.

“That’s something I suppose. Now about your schedule—”

“I know,” Damen said, “I’ll work on that. What else am I doing wrong?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” Laurent said, blue eyes bright.

The handgun clattered to the ground. Damen pulled him close with a strong grip on the slim waist. Laurent’s lips parted and eyelashes dipped in anticipation of the kiss. Damen stroked a thumb along his jaw, briefly cementing the moment in his mind before he leaned in to take Laurent’s mouth. Laurent went to his toes, hands traveled up Damen’s arms to circle his neck and bring him closer. 

There was an urgency. A need. It had been too long. Damen couldn’t seem to hold Laurent close enough. He pressed him back into the wall and lifted him with hands beneath his thighs, bouncing him once for a steadier hold. Laurent assisted by wrapping legs around his waist. Damen reclaimed his mouth and Laurent made a soft sound, body arching into Damen’s.  

“I’ve missed you,” Damen breathed, his face turned into the slender neck. 

Laurent’s hands tangled in his hair, the grip almost painful with his fierce hold. “Fuck me,” he said.

“Here? On a rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“We can go to the apartment—”

“Now,” Laurent said, desperation roughening his voice.

“What about—”

Laurent moved his hips, just so, and the air escaped Damen. Leaning in with mouth against his ear he said, “I’ve already prepared.”

Damen nearly fell over. “Okay,” he choked.

—

As an internationally wanted assassin and government secret agent, they tried to not be seen together. Damen took a cab to the apartment. Laurent got there somehow. He was climbing through the window as Damen unlocked the door.

“Perhaps we should hire a maid.” Laurent swiped his fingers across the dusty desk. The apartment was only used when they were both in town, which wasn’t often, it could be a financial drain but was a more reliable hiding place than a hotel.

“Hey, get over here,” Damen said, throwing the blankets off the bed. Laurent complied, smiling as Damen pulled him down into the sheets. It was clumsy at first, with the same rushed need as the rooftop, but this time clothes were coming off. Laurent’s outfit was convoluted and frustrating like always.

“Do you think you’re Batman or something?” Damen grumbled after struggling with knee and elbow pads only to discover wrist sheaths complete with six-inch blades.

“I’d probably look good in a cape,” Laurent said, watching with amusement as Damen fought the buckles and straps. 

There was a pile of weapons when they were finished. Damen knew they would have to sort through them later. It would be very hard to explain how his government-issued firearms had ended up in the hands of an assassin.

—

“I missed you too.” Laurent languidly rolled onto his back, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“How long are you staying?” Damen asked, moving to kiss his bare shoulder.

“I have a plane tomorrow night.”

“That’s not long enough,” Damen groaned, dropping his head into Laurent’s neck.

“I know,” Laurent said, stroking Damen’s hair. “We have Paris in two months.”

“You’re not going to forget?”

“I didn’t forget about New York, I couldn’t make it and I’ve apologized a hundred times. Besides this is our anniversary.” Laurent lifted his hand into the sunlight filtering in through the window. He wore the gold woven band shaped to look like a laurel wreath. Damen's matching ring was worn on a chain around his neck. He wished he could wear it on his hand but no one knew he was married. 

“What’s the gift for five years?” Damen asked.

“Wood,” Laurent replied, still admiring his ring.

“I have that now,” Damen said, rolling over on top of him. 

Laurent snorted, unamused, “While I envy your stamina, you are lacking in wit.” He sat up pushing Damen off. “I need food.”

Once dinner was ordered and delivered, Laurent explained the new pink scar on his bicep and told of his recent adventure in Iceland. Damen suspected he downplayed the violence and danger.

“Where are you going after this?” Damen had settled in behind Laurent, hugging him to his chest face resting against the back of the blond head.

“Home. Briefly.”

“I haven’t been to France since—”

“Since you arrested me?”

“I was going to say since we met,” Damen said. “I didn’t technically arrest you.”

“No, you just cuffed me to a bed.”

“You were being a pain in the ass,” Damen laughed, absently running his knuckles along the naked pale thigh. 

Five years ago, Damen had been given the task of gathering evidence against a corrupt politician, only to constantly have Laurent in his way, even appearing as a waiter at a fundraising event. Threats of incarceration hadn’t frightened him away. At the time if Damen had known who Laurent really was he wouldn’t have simply used threats, but instead thought he was a lackey being used to distract Damen from his case. At the party, the mini-feud had escalated to Damen tying Laurent to a bed, which had escalated to something else. Laurent then shared a partial truth that the corrupt politician was his uncle and he was after him for personal vengeance. A tentative partnership had been formed and from there the chaos had only escalated, ending in a marriage.

For the agency, it was still an open case, and for Laurent, it was his main mission. He had even claimed he would retire afterward and made a joke about becoming a trophy wife. Damen wasn’t optimistic, Laurent liked his adventures and he secretly worried he couldn’t keep him entertained. 

They had fallen into a comfortable silence. While Damen petted Laurent, he removed the chain from Damen’s neck and slipped the ring onto his finger where it belonged. Laurent held his hand next to Damen’s comparing the bands while on the appropriate finger. Endeared by the quiet reverie, Damen held him a little closer.

Laurent turned in his arms, kneeling, face above Damen’s. The cool hands held his face, thumb caressing cheekbones. He looked into Damen’s face the same way he had admired the rings together. Gently he pressed a kiss to Damen’s forehead. The tenderness and adoration of it made Damen’s heart ache.

“I love you,” Laurent said it in his language before he kissed him.

Neither wanted to sleep when they’re time together was so brief, but it went by too quickly anyway and Laurent left the next evening.

—

Damen was sure he remembered there being a newspaper stand near the Eiffel Tower. When he found it, he bought the day's paper and flipped to the story he wanted. A few weeks ago it had been on the front page around the continent. Plane crash over the Meditteranean. Twenty-one dead, thirty-four survivors, six missing. Pictures of the six had made it into the media. After a time, three had been found alive, one dead, with two still missing. The images were still in circulation and Damen found them on page seven. He put a finger over the blond head printed in black and white. 

The face next to Laurent’s was also recognizable. It had been over five years now but Damen knew the flat-nose face of Govart, one of the uncle’s henchmen. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Two months ago, 4am, and wrapped in Damen’s arms Laurent had told him it was almost over, that he was close to finding his vengeance.

When the news first came out and Damen had seen the headline and photo of Laurent on the front page he had quit his job. Laurent was alive. Damen was certain and he would find him.

[redwritinghood]

Omg first of all you wrote enemy of my enemy??? I loved it so much omggg!!! Second of all, if you're still taking prompts i would love an au where marlas didnt happen and damen is officially courting laurent so they always need chaperons but they always escape them to be alone and aleron and theomedes are NOT happy about this

Technically still writing The Enemy of My Enemy but thank you, always enjoy being appreciated :)

Writing this with that “shy bookish boy” in mind where Laurent has wonderfully not had to face the book tragedies.

Damen saw the large willow tree that matched the description he’d been given and swung off the horse to land in knee high grass next to the river bank. He dropped the reins, allowing the horse to freely graze. Inside the natural tent of the willow branches was a private space. The shade was a relief, but the summer day was still too hot to be fully clothed. Fumbling with the excessive lacing, Damen loosened the sweat dampened shirt. The servant assigned to help him dress had been scandalized when Damen rejected the undershirt. One was already excessive. 

Somewhat freed of the oppressive garment he proceeded to remove his boots and collapsed into the grass. It was a relief to be outside of the palace, away from the over-attentive servants and curious nobility. Arles felt stuffy and confining, unlike Ios that was open to the outside with balconies and outdoor walkways. This excursion to the outdoors was needed almost more than Damen had realized. 

A patch of wildflowers mingled in the grass next to him and he collected a handful to begin weaving the stems together. This part of the river was more sedated than the frothing white rapids where Damen had accidentally rescued the crown prince of Vere. 

It had been several years but was still something Damen frequently thought on, back when the war between Vere and Akielos had seemed inevitable. While on a scouting trip, a fierce storm had arisen, separating Damen and Nikandros from the rest of their party and driven them into the forest for shelter. Somewhere during the midst of the violent tempest they unknowingly crossed the border into Vere. In the aftermath, they emerged on the Northern side, stumbling upon a raider camp next to the river. Realizing they had followed the river in the wrong direction the intent was to turn around without altercation but Damen had seen the raider’s blond prisoner.

Nikandros had protested vehemently but ultimately followed Damen on his rescue mission. They had the advantage of surprise but were greatly outnumbered. The fight could have gone badly, but once the blond prisoner was released and obtained a weapon the fight quickly shifted in their favor. 

Once the battle was won, the prisoner revealed himself as Prince Auguste. Similarly, Damen candidly introduced himself despite Nikandros’ elbow in his ribs.

There was a moment of uncertainty as they faced each other with swords still drawn. Then, surprisingly, Auguste laughed and sheathed the weapon. The two sanguine princes recognized each other as kindred spirits and agreed that this was an opportunity. Auguste wanted to introduce Damen to King Aleron, perhaps forging the beginnings of an alliance or to at least assuage the impending war. The royal family was in Marlas and only half a day's ride away. Nikandros continued to speak his objections but followed Damen, preferring to die with him than because of him.

Once hearing of the rescue and how close he had been to losing Auguste, King Aleron accepted Damen almost too graciously. Eager to offer him a reward for saving his eldest son. 

“I would offer you Auguste’s hand if he weren’t already betrothed and needed to continue the line,” Aleron said.

“I don’t need a reward,” Damen said uncomfortably. It wasn’t his reason for meeting the king and Auguste was perhaps equally surprised how well the enemy Akielon prince had been received. 

“I have a younger son,” Aleron said.

“Father.” Auguste objected, obviously disagreeing with this idea. 

Damen’s side was going to be bruised from Nikandros’ elbow. This time he agreed with him and was looking for a polite way to escape.

“That’s really alright—” Damen began.

“Someone fetch Laurent,” Aleron ordered, and servants hurried to do his bidding.

“You’re bruising me,” Damen whispered. That insistent elbow still poking his side.

“We need to leave before you’re engaged,” Nikandros hissed.

“I’m trying,” Damen said under his breath. It would be impossible to explain the arrangement to his father.

“Ah, here he is,” Aleron gestured when the doors to the court were opened.

Damen turned as he heard Nikandros say, “Oh no.”

Hoofbeats pulled Damen from the recollection. He sat up only to be knocked back down by a body colliding with his. 

“You know,” Damen said when he caught his breath, “your brother thinks I’m the one corrupting his shy little brother.” 

“Auguste still sees me as a child.” Laurent unwrapped his arms from Damen’s neck and pulled back to see his face. “Hi,” he blushed.

“Hi,” Damen smiled.

“May I?” he asked. Damen looked into the blue eyes, so unbearably close, and nodded.

This was his third visit to Arles to see his fiance. Laurent had been barely thirteen when he was suddenly and unwillfully promised to the former enemy. Understandably, he had been unhappy. When Damen returned to Ios, he wrote several letters hoping to learn more about him. It was several months before he received a short response answering questions in a brusque dismissive fashion that impressively relayed little information. Damen suspected Auguste or someone else had forced Laurent to respond. Despite the discouraging reply Damen persisted. 

During the first visit, Laurent had been predictably detached, and Damen spent most of his time with Auguste. But because Laurent was Auguste’s second shadow, they consequently spent time together. He typically opted out of any sport or game that Damen and Auguste would partake in but always stood as witness. Damen hadn’t expected much interaction from Laurent, he was still young, and unfairly betrothed. However, by the end of that stay Laurent was noticeably less callous.  

The next visit Laurent had altered from the suspicious aloofness to a timid interest now trailing Damen, even without Auguste’s presence. With a hesitant eagerness Laurent shared his favorite scrolls, his thoughts on the recent philosophy debates, and introduced Damen to his horse. The shy sincerity was incredibly endearing and Damen suspected there weren’t many people Laurent was comfortable sharing his thoughts with. He loved that Laurent was slowly opening up to him and Damen hoped he did nothing to dissuade him. 

Written communication increased significantly. The letters used to be a burden, something Damen forced himself to do. When Laurent began to open up, the conversation surpassed interesting to exciting. Damen was almost intimidated by the intelligent penpal and his fascinating perspective.

This was the first visit since Laurent had turned eighteen. As if to demonstrate this Laurent had physically matured and it was impossible not to notice. The guard detail had been instructed to be in constant attendance. The two princes were not allowed to be alone together. Because of this, they had not even kissed. The building anticipation had become nearly suffocating. To Damen, even holding hands had become an illicit act. Laurent sliding closer on benches or couches until their knees touched had nearly driven Damen mad. And it was Laurent initiating most contact, exasperating his guards when they had to find a way to respectfully peel the prince off the Akielon visitor. 

This was the moment, and Damen felt it with an ache through his entire body. He slipped a hand into the blond hair, holding the beautiful face. Shyly, Laurent leaned in, eyelashes dipping. Damen pressed forward, carefully, restraining himself against rushing Laurent. Lips met tentatively, just a ticklish brush. It wasn’t enough, but Laurent had drifted back, eyes still closed. 

“Laurent,” Damen whispered, and felt Laurent’s breath against his cheek. He resisted the desire to pull him in and take his mouth. The quiet hesitation evoked one of Damen’s fears that after all of this Laurent wouldn’t find him appealing. Being forced to sit still and endure the silence was torture.

Having Vere’s beloved younger prince in a compromising position above him made Damen equally excited and nervous. The peace between their countries was tentative and they were constantly observed so there was no slight or breach in protocol. What had been an expression of gratitude had turned political and restrictive. Theomedes saw the engagement as another war to be won and constantly warned Damen against any affection. This attitude had bled over into Vere and Aleron had become of a similar mindset. It may have even been his initial mindset when proposing the engagement. Having his offspring rulers of two seperate countries was a good tactical maneuver. Meanwhile, Theomedes searched for candidates that would produce an heir. This hung over Damen’s head, he wanted to tell Laurent, but it was a private matter, not something he wanted to share with the Veretian and Akielon guards. They could be bigger gossips than kitchen maids. 

That thought was silenced when Laurent’s eyes opened, the blue so bright it was almost startling, then miraculously, he smiled and Damen stopped breathing.

“Again?” Laurent asked. It took Damen a moment to realize he was asking for another kiss. 

“You want to?”

“Yes,” he breathed. 

Damen’s heart sang as he grinned, “You don’t have to ask with me.”

In response, Laurent’s arms slid around his neck and this kiss was the one Damen had needed. Deeper and longer. Laurent opened his mouth, hands sliding into Damen’s hair. He moved closer bodies now pressed together. Damen held him, arms around his waist.

“Was that— alright?” Laurent asked once they had separated and he had caught his breath.

Damen held Laurent’s face between his hands, “Yes, it was more than alright.” He kissed Laurent’s forehead, the timid innocence was so endearing he thought his heart would burst.

“You were also— adequate,” Laurent said with a blush.

Damen laughed, “Thanks.”

“I brought my favorite poetry scroll,” Laurent said scrambling up to retrieve the scroll from his horse’s saddlebag. 

While Laurent read lounging in the grass, Damen continued the flower crown and when finished placed it on top of the golden head. The blue and white flowers remained in his hair through another interlude of kissing.

After some persuasion Damen recited Akielon poems and epics in his native tongue. Laurent settled in next to him, head on his shoulder to look up at the sun filtering through the twisted branching. The flowers still in his hair.

“Are they all about war and conquering?” he asked.

“The most popular ones are. Warriors are highly regarded.”

“Were you ever disappointed that our engagement averted a war?”

“No,” Damen said. “I would be nervous to fight Auguste in serious combat, he’s very skilled.”

“I initially comforted myself by realizing that the engagement would essentially end all wars between our countries. And with Auguste as king of Vere I was certain I could manipulate you and mediate some hundred year treaty.”

The confession made Damen laugh, “You wouldn’t have to manipulate me. Whatever archaic dispute that led our elders to war no longer applies to us.”

“Is that a promise?” Laurent asked sitting up to look down at Damen.

“A promise that while we’re alive there will be no war between our countries?” Damen asked.

“Yes.”

“I promise,” he said and was surprised when Laurent dropped down to cup his face and fervently kiss him.

In the thick heat of the summer afternoon, Laurent was persuaded to remove his boots and step into the river.  Damen knew removing his clothes to bathe in the river would be an affliction on the tender Veretian sensibilities. As if to prove this Laurent had turned red when Damen removed his outer garment wearing only pants. Damen frequently caught him staring and would watch him blush and turn away. Not much coaxing was needed to bring Laurent into an embrace and kiss him while they stood waist-deep in the river. The cool pale hands traveled up his biceps to his shoulders almost reverently. 

“Laurent.” Auguste’s voice was a baritone traveling forcefully over the water. They had been discovered. 

Damen pulled on his boots as the brother’s argued. So far Damen had witnessed Laurent win every argument against anyone who dared oppose him, with the exception of Auguste who seemed to be more of a blind spot than a master debater. The two sets of guards were not far behind and with the older brother’s instruction the younger was whisked away.

Damen took his time as he dreaded redressing in the complicated jacket and lacing it by himself.

“I trust our agreement still stands.” Auguste sat next to Damen in the grass while he tried to reassemble his shirt.

“I haven’t fucked your brother.” The agreement to not sleep with Laurent until their wedding night had been easy to make when Laurent was thirteen.

“I don’t blame you for your efforts, I bedded my wife before our consummation. But he’s my little brother, I still feel— protective.”

This confession only further irritated Damen and he briefly imagined shattering the innocent image Auguste held of Laurent. It wasn’t Damen initiating physical contact and arranging secret dates.

“I won’t start anything,” Damen said. It was a little dishonest considering Auguste was blind to his younger brother’s burgeoning sexuality. 

“I appreciate it,” Auguste said, then reached over to help Damen with his laces.

Dinner that evening was uncomfortable. Laurent, with the flower crown still in his hair, was unremorseful and the two brothers had not reconciled. It was clear they had never been at odds before and the court was unsure how to react to the feuding siblings. 

After retiring to his chambers, Damen was settling in for the night when a noise outside his balcony disturbed him. Laurent dropped down out of the night but the more surprising part was how he was dressed.

“Where did— where did you get that?”

“I had it made. Is it accurate?” Laurent did a little twirl to show off the chiton and the fabric lifted revealing even more thigh.

Damen had to sit down, he had never seen more than hands and feet. “Not bad. Did you have the sandals made also?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Damen asked, he was having trouble breathing. Not only was the flower crown still present on the blond head but the chiton was especially short and the knee-high sandals drew special attention to the bare thighs.

“Isn’t this the fashion in Ios?” Laurent asked. “Am I expected to dress strictly as a Veretian once we’re married?” 

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Damen said, “We still have over a year.”

“I like to be prepared,” Laurent said and adjusted the white cloth. Damen looked away, there had been the slight glimpse of pink nipple. If he was going to uphold his promise to Auguste he would have to make Laurent leave. But he really didn’t want that, any of their time together was precious.

“What’s wrong?” Laurent asked.

“You can’t be here.” Damen had averted his eyes. “We aren’t supposed to be alone together.”

“That didn’t bother you this afternoon,” Laurent said and stood still observing Damen. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Damen said and reached out. Laurent accepted the offered hand and allowed Damen to pull him down into the seat next to him. The damn chiton was even shorter sitting down. “If we weren’t already engaged I would be on my knee in front of your father asking for your hand.” 

Laurent’s blue eyes hadn’t softened, “Then what is it?”

Damen knew there shouldn’t be any secrets between them, “I made a promise to your brother that I would wait until our wedding night for— you know.”

With an exhale Laurent slid onto Damen’s lap. “My brother has no say or control over my body. If I decide I’m ready now isn’t that my decision?”

“Of course,” Damen nearly choked. His hands came up automatically to hold Laurent’s waist. “Unless you find me unappealing,” Laurent said. 

“No one finds you unappealing,” Damen said and helplessly tugged Laurent closer. 

“I realize now that your hesitation was trying to respect your promise. It’s an honorable trait.” Laurent smoothed a hand into Damen’s hair, the cool palm cupping his face. “However, any further decisions regarding my body are to be made by me.”

“Understood,” Damen grinned. 

“My current decision is to allow you to take me to bed.” The coy smile almost physically hurt.

“Laurent,” Damen groaned. His head dropped onto the bare shoulder. “I want you so badly.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to risk offense. We’re not even supposed to be alone together. I can’t lose you.” Damen spoke against Laurent’s shoulder noticing how goosebumps blossomed across the pale skin.

Laurent was quiet briefly, stroking Damen’s hair, “The engagement was not my decision, but as the younger prince I expected it was my fate to be traded for some political or financial gain. The bids even began before I turned twelve.” Laurent watched Damen’s hair slip between his fingers. “I thought I was prepared, but I didn’t expect to be— happy. I don’t intend to lose you either.” 

Damen’s heart swelled as he lifted his head to look into the beautiful face. “May I?” he asked, smiling.

“You don’t need to ask.” Laurent also smiled as he leaned in. It was still new, each kiss better than the last. This time Laurent took more control, his head above Damen’s and with both hands smoothing through his hair. Boldly Damen traced a hand up the bare thigh feeling Laurent’s reaction with his body so close. 

“What is this?” Damen asked when his fingers ran into a slice of unknown fabric.

“I didn’t know what was typically worn beneath these so I fashioned something myself.” Laurent lifted the skirt revealing cloth crudely made to fit between his legs and around his hips. “Why are you laughing?”

Any other time Laurent’s unconscious reveal of so much flesh would have almost stopped Damen’s heart but the strange little modest piece of clothing was so ridiculous and unexpected

“There’s nothing worn beneath them?” Laurent asked, more fascinated than scandalized. 

“No,” Damen said, he had barely managed to explain through the laughter.

“It must be very warm there.”

“Compared to here, yes. I can’t wait to show you,” Damen said using his mouth to find the pulse point in Laurent’s neck. The soft sigh reminded him where they had been going before Laurent’s reveal. The kissing continued softly, Laurent tenderly exploring the act with lips and tongue. He pressed closer, their bodies together. Damen detoured to the slender neck, recalling that initial reaction with that soft sound. He wasn’t disappointed, the reaction was innocent and genuine. The quiet moan of pleasure would have brought Damen to his knees. Unconsciously, Laurent’s head tipped back allowing Damen more access. His hands traveled beneath the chiton he held Laurent at the natural dip in his waist, the skin warm. This startled him and he flinched before exhaling with a nervous laugh. 

“I suppose that is one advantage to wearing so little clothing.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Damen asked.

“Yes, I’ve just never— it’s my first time.”

“I’m a little more experienced than that,” Damen said, his thumbs stroking the smooth skin of his stomach.

“Yes, that is apparent,” Laurent said, his face had warmed slightly, responding to Damen’s touch. 

“Really?” Damen asked, pleased. Laurent made a sound of affirmation before resuming the kiss. He unthinkingly reacted to the caress against his abdomen with a movement of his hips that ground against Damen. He was going to flip Laurent onto his back and escalate the encounter when the door to his chambers opened. 

Damen was frustrated and horrified to find not only the prince’s guards invading his quarters but also Auguste and King Aleron. Laurent stood up with a sigh straightening the chiton with no self-consciousness or embarrassment. The blue eyes lifted towards the invaders, prepared for battle. He couldn’t have been more intimidating with a sword in hand.

“What are you wearing?” Aleron asked, looking over the exposed limbs of his son with disgust.

“Do you like it?” Laurent repeated his little twirl to show off the garment. 

“This is not a game, Laurent,” Aleron said. “You have deliberately disobeyed me.”

“You have implemented nonsensical rules for only me,” Laurent stated.

“They’re to protect you,” Auguste stated.

“Protect me from what?” Laurent asked, turning his icy gaze towards his older brother. 

Auguste glanced uncertainly at Damen where he stood off to the side. “Protect your innocence,” he said.

“No,” Laurent said, “The only thing you’ve been protecting is your idea of me. For years I’ve endured visiting dignitaries whisper in my ear of what they would like to do to me. The insipid and specific gossip of pets is impossible to ignore. Especially those that have involved my own brother who has taken numerous candidates to bed or an empty hallway, whichever is closer.”

“Laurent, stop talking.” Aleron’s face was red.

“There are also scrolls and illustrated manuscripts of any erotic position you might wish to master available in certain temples.”

“Laurent.” A vein bulged on Aleron’s forehead. “Escort the prince back to his chambers.” The red faced guards stepped forward to take Laurent by the arm. 

“Auguste was hardly chaste even before being engaged and yet you impose these rules on me for what reason?” Laurent asked, still talking as he was led from the room. 

“Damianos, I must request that you pack your belongings and be prepared to leave by morning,” Aleron said. “I will have a ship ready to depart for Ios at dawn.”

“Father, we should talk about this before acting, we don’t want to risk offending Theomedes.”

“You are not the king yet, Auguste. My orders are still to be obeyed. Perhaps you should go talk some sense into your brother.”

Auguste’s face had hardened and the resemblance between brothers was clear. “Yes, my king.” He said turning on his heel.

Aleron and Damen were alone. The king cleared his throat before speaking, “I recognize how Laurent can be a— temptation. So I’m not going to place the blame entirely on either of you. But I don’t like the  brazen and reckless way my son behaves when you’re around.”

“If that’s the case, I’m proud my presence gives him the courage to speak his mind. I’ve enjoyed watching him grow into a confident young man,” Damen stated.

“I see,” Aleron said, his eyes traveled over Damen in consideration. “There will be a guard escort waiting to take you to your ship in the morning. The details of the engagement will be discussed when everything has settled down.” This final blow statement Damen and he failed to notice when Aleron left. The oblique political speak could be interpreted in a myriad of ways, but it made Damen worry. The night went by without sleep and the restless anxiety that his fear would come to fruition. A blue flower that had come free of the crown now rested on the couch where they had been. Damen tucked it into a fold of his robes.

The knock came before the sun was up. Damen did a head count of his guard escort and knew there weren’t enough, and that if he really wanted to, he could fight them off. 

“I want to say goodbye to Laurent,” Damen said.

“Our orders are to take you directly to the docks.”

Damen could have taken them, fought his way to a goodbye but couldn’t further jeopardize the engagement and went peacefully. In the stables he searched for a blond head and any chance that Laurent would make it in time. On horseback with the little entourage surrounding him, Damen continued to look over his shoulder. Even on the ship while sailors continued last minute preparations Damen clung to the railing, staring over the sandy hill hoping for even just a messenger with a letter. Ropes were cast off and Damen’s heart sank as the anchor was raised. 

He half turned to retire to his cabin when a horse crested the rise. Laurent rode onto the docks without slowing, the horse pushed into a merciless sprint. The coarse wood rattled beneath the hooves. Sailors shouted at him and the guards from Damen’s escort chased him down or attempted to startle the horse into stopping. The ship had pulled away from the dock. Damen didn’t know what Laurent intended to do as he charged towards the end. 

His heart was in his throat when Laurent leapt from the back of the horse into empty air. Damen reached for him, catching him with an arm around his waist, and pulled him over the rail into the solid safety of the deck.

Laurent was laughing while Damen worried his heart had stopped.

“You’re insane,” Damen said breathing a relieved laugh. His brain becoming preoccupied with the realization Laurent was beneath him. 

“You tried to leave without saying goodbye,” Laurent breathed.

“Sorry,” Damen said and unable to resist, kissed him, deep and heartfelt. Around them the ship had broken into chaos. The anchor dropped and the sailors tried to go backwards to the dock despite the tide ready to take them out to sea. Damen sat up pulling Laurent along with him. He knelt on the rough hardwood deck, still wearing the ridiculous chiton that caught in the salt breeze taking it, and his golden hair, in every direction. Damen pulled Laurent up off the rough deck, and arms circled his waist.

Laurent pressed a cold hand against Damen’s face. “This isn’t really goodbye. We’ll fix this.” He leaned in folding his arms around Damen’s neck in a loose embrace. With hands holding the slender waist, Damen pulled him back into a kiss, desperate to keep him close for a little longer. The blond hair blew into his face. 

Laurent pulled back, “Quit distracting me, I can’t think and we have to plan.”

Damen had to tell him now. It wouldn’t feel right to do it in a letter. “I wanted to tell you in a better way, but now with everything happening I need you to know that my father has been looking for other candidates. Specifically, ones capable of producing an heir.”

“Is that what you want?” Laurent asked calmly.

“No,” Damen said, and took the cold hand from his face to hold between both of his, “It will only ever be you.”

Laurent’s expression was still carefully neutral, looking down at their clasped hands.

Damen took the flower from his pocket, “Since neither of us was given a choice. I’ll ask now.” Damen went to a knee and tied the flower around Laurent’s slim finger. “Will you marry me?”

Laurent nodded, expression solemn. “Yes,” he said, then made a small sound of surprise when Damen pulled him down for a desperate kiss holding the slender body as close as he could.

Laurent pulled away to breathe, petting Damen’s hair. “You’re behaving like we’ll never see each other again,” he said.

“I’m not sure we will.” 

“We will,” Laurent said. “I spoke with Auguste through the night. We were able to reconcile. The current rulers can choose to keep us apart but their time is almost over and you will be better.” 

Damen captured the wayward blond strands of hair and smoothed them out of Laurent’s face to see the bright eyes. “We will be better,” Damen told him. “But no matter what happens I will keep my promise.”

“Good.” Laurent smiled before Damen pulled him in for a final kiss.

[ahalal-uralma]

𝔈𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔶𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰

You can not see the darkness no more than you can see through it. Darkness is the absence of mere mortal sight; a pure absence of light, and in by being so, is the absence of the physical perceptions created for the human mind; as it is the absorption and disappearance of the physical, as you may come to perceive and understand it.

Can one truly understand the Darkness? How can one come to understand the absence of the physical? It can not be touched; and yet, somehow, it touches much.

In the absence of chandeliers and sconces, it fills the empty halls of abandoned structures, shrouding itself within the likes of mansions and castles; during the absence of moonlight, it may seek to empty itself out and creep along moss covered floors, through wooded regions, or expansive forests; and there are no barriers or boundaries for what darkness will touch, it will consume the depths of deepest oceans or it will reign over the vastness of starless skies.

Despite it’s impartial grasp of the physical, Darkness has eluded the understanding of man—most of man—for many a century, as the mind of man craves the understanding of that which can be illuminated for him.

You see, what can be illuminated for man can then be physically grasped by man—it can be controlled, and there is nothing more seductive than control to man: control equals power; power equals dominance; and man seeks dominance over nature.

You can not control nature, however, it is a futile and empty ambition. Nature, in itself, is the defiance of control. Nature is a constantly shifting, changing and evolving phenomena of the physical world. It may have elements of existence that can be grasped, and therefore controlled, but such achievements bare ephemeral results.

It is moreover futile for man to think himself in control of Darkness through the understanding of Nature—Darkness touches Nature, but it is not possessed by it. Darkness is a possession onto itself. It is a possession that lies even further beyond the understanding of man’s desire to control Nature.

How does one learn to understand the Darkness? Man understands that of which can be illuminated for him—so does one understand Darkness by seeking to illuminate it?

You can not illuminate the Darkness; or rather, you can, but not without the compromise of Darkness for what it is—to illuminate Darkness is to remove it’s very essence. Imagine it for a moment: it is night, you have chosen to lie naked of flesh within the confines of your bedroom—do you remain wholly shrouded within the Darkness upon the lit wick of a candle? Alas, you do not! You have compromised the essence of Darkness in favor of light’s caress upon your skin.

To understand and grasp Darkness, one must understand one can not compromise and hold Darkness—

Darkness holds you.

[ahalal-uralma]

The Summoning

(Of Lord Night)

writing prompt by: @thedarkkingofmelancholy

She enters the woods at dusk to call him by his name, but he does not arrive. Where is he and where is here? She wonders every evening a little lost. She wanders always a little farther, hoping he is there. But he is not.

In the wake of dreams, his obsidian eyes appear, her face reflecting within them like a mirror. They seem to be absorbing her as much as they are reflecting. Every night he appears to whisper his secrets to her, his voice soft like silk and laugh like tinkling bells.

His beauty is something entirely of another world: moonlight shines from within him, as if his very bones are set alight; and above all of this, appears a nebula rotating upon his lunar skin. A brilliant cloak shields away all of his midnight black hair in a starry guise. She finds herself dreaming of the king of night.

When he bestows her his name, it’s like the dewdrops of a fresh summer rain. She opens herself to his voice like a starving rose in an abandoned garden; every syllable uttered is replenishing her, reviving her deep through the stems and petals.

Every nightfall, before she sleeps, it is the same. She goes to the woods to call out his name. What more might she say? She whispers till she starts to sing. And every night she does not see her luminary king. Was he only in the woods within her dreams? Was he ever real?

In the morning she is awake and wonders: What might summon this king and prove that he is real? What was it, that made the human’s voice feel so contrary? A bell! A bell! She suddenly thought with a wave of delight. A bell! A bell! It would summon the great king of night!

At dusk, she brings the bell and rings it times seven. She did not know why seven. Or why the bell. It was all worth the effort, she reasoned. Some happenings existed beyond explanation. Do we ever ask why the seasons? They exist and that’s enough. So would be her love. So she hoped, so she prayed. Let it be enough.

So she brought the bell every dusk, remembering the tinkling of his voice—how it sounded like heaven, his laugh the chime of a bell. His enchanting voice, how it rung upon her very own heart; ringing there till she felt the need to clutch at her chest, wishing she clung plunge her hand in and remove the instrument. Why did it pleasure and torment her so?

One night passes to no avail. Two more. Then three. Soon the sixth arrives and retreats. On the seventh dusk, is when he finally appears. Her heart leaps into her throat at the very sight of him. In dreams, he was beautiful—but oh, nothing could prepare her for the true apparition. He stood before her, expanding great wings of galaxies; entire solar systems moved and burst within his appendages, planets and black holes adorning him like jewels.

Before she could conjure an answer, he swiftly took a hold of her hands: “Come away with me,” he speaks in a gentle lilt. “Come away with me and forget this world. I will offer you sweet pomegranates and the richest wines. Adorn you with pearls no mortal man can find. You will reside in my castle, it is so very fine. I promise to make all aspects of your life sublime. Come away with me, forget this awful place! You have summoned me is that not true? You have gifted me with your loyalty every morning and night. Who am I not to offer you my love, too?”

[ahalal-uralma]

“If today was your last day on earth, what would you write?”

writing prompt from: @cashh-lovee

I would confess to him everything.

All that I was, am and would be. It would be lying bare before him. All of him would have all of me—every word, every thought, every sound, feeling, sensation...it would be his to keep.

On my last day, I would not resist his inquiries. I would not resist his interpretations. I would not resist him—for this charade would have to end.

I could not resist him for to do so is to deny his potential. I know I would lose him by denying his potential. I could never bare to lose him, for even a moment, even if I had to leave him. I would offer him all of me or nothing. And I would much rather give him everything.

Between us, there would remain no secrets. I would not hoard them and take them to the grave. It would be a waste of my mystery. I am the question and he would finally possess the answers. I am his to savor and devour. I would be the reason for his voice and his silence: his chaos and harmony.

And in exposing myself, I will have created new depths within him. I would become his secret from existence—for he would never expose all that I am to all that I abhorred. He would talk of me, but never about me. Only he would be found worthy of my concealments.

Yesterday he would know he had my heart, but today he would understand he holds my soul. My words would be in his hands. My voice would be entwined with his heart. My touch embedded in his mind. It would be all as he wished it to be. I would live on as a memory in movement. I am not still. I would not become still. I would breathe within him. I can’t think of a sweeter demise than to be the reason that he finally believes in eternity.

[ahalal-uralma]

The Sigh Of Darkness

Darkness gazed upon the nearest tree, and glided to it to further stare upon the emerald-tinted gems that adorned it’s leaves edges—glistening they were, under the pale light peaking through the canopy above, and suspended in a stasis that only Darkness understood.

Rain....

It was a strange, but familiar phenomenon to the Darkness. It could not feel, hear nor speak to the rain, but it could see it. Taste remained completely out of the question and would not be entertained. Sight was all Darkness could truly possess of rain.

How strange it was to watch rain fall to the earth, imbedding itself into the soil to never be seen again; and yet, remain so visible to the world around it. Birds could touch it, deer could hear it and the world could speak to it; although, Darkness supposed there was a touch of madness to accomplish the latter. Anything with a tongue or root could easily taste the rain. Darkness did not have a tongue—it had tendrils.

These tendrils allowed Darkness to do many things—it could stretch itself out to surfaces as it long and wide as it pleased—but, they did not allow Darkness to feel what it could touch. It did not have the receptors to experience touch.

Darkness sighed a sound only it could hear as it went to reach a tendril out to one of the rain drops. Something hollow filled the depths of darkness. Many times Darkness observed in it’s distant solitude as the beak of a swallow penetrated the sky’s tears and sent them bursting across surfaces of shuddering plants. How could the world impact rain, but Darkness could not?

How it would like to feel the rain, if only for a passing moment in it’s existence. What could such a wonder be like? Darkness could not fathom the beauty of it.

And just as the trepidation filled the heart of Darkness, the moment came to them when a tendril would make a grasp for the rain....

.....but, the rain remained ever the same. In stasis. Darkness, as it realized once more, remained inconsequential.

[ahalal-uralma]

“Take my hand” spoke the girl in cloak

‘neath a burning red sun and gray sky

barren lands around my eye, I choke

I barely hear her immortal sigh

I hold her hand and the image shifts

before us, waterfalls beyond a ledge

birds of blue scintillate, the air drifts

beyond myself, beyond heaven’s edge

for a moment, I don’t see her face

I see sharply-tipped roses without a name

and fairy-winged lilacs in a exotic place

the bell-ringing berries, it’s all the same

I ask “where am I and did I die?”

Did she leave me, but no I feel a grasp

accompanying the silence of her reply

it’s in that moment I turn, I gasp

A demon is there, where once she stood

cloak is gone, her skin a falling mask

sunshine hair turning to blackest hood

spiraling skyward are horns damask

“All angels must fall when it’s their time”

comes his sinister voice, a sensual grin

and I’m shoved down into that climb

into that void, to marry with my sin.

Poetry challenge #7

A strange dream.