#that sniveling babbling bastard

[xeniums]

to have the ability to snap my fingers and smite todd instantly is my morning wish of the day

[bl00dlight]

A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

Warnings - Descriptions of gore, mischief making, family dysfunction, not proof read.

Author's note ● This is again apart of a 10k+ chunk I've split into three chapters for yall. So come on now... you know this is not going to be edited. Things are finally getting crazy and we finally getting in to it. Major Aemond and Visenya devilry is coming. As yes I did reference Storm's End at the end.

Word Count ~ 4.5k+

Tags - @mamawiggers1980

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi ● vii● viii ● ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

viii - 'Blood of Old'

The cascading light from the large window above created a harsh contrast to the dark umber stone walls of the Throne Room. On which, upon the Iron Throne sat King Viserys, decrepit and frail. Matters of the court had always been of grave disinterest to Visenya, to where she stood, amidst her family. Lucerys trial having been a matter of utter chaos so far, but Visenya found her mind drifting elsewhere – most entirely on what gifts she might be given from potential suitors.

She had narrowly tuned in upon the ramblings of Vaemond Velaryon as he petitioned the King that he, ought to be heir to the Driftmark throne over her brother. Of course, none of this was worth listening to, as it was merely the babbling of a scorned second son, jealous that he shall have to forge his own legacy rather than being handed one. She hadn’t bothered to listen to the delegation of the trial so far, only at times finding herself idly gazing upon any action that befell the court. Though it wasn’t enough to quell her desire to leave, she loathed standing for so long for her legs would always shake with impatience.

Her encounter with Aemond though, still present in the back of her mind. She had found it quite easy to stifle it for the rest of the afternoon – but admittedly, standing before the Green’s judgmental gazes instantly forced her to recoil back into her own mind. She could not bare the thought of meeting Aemond’s eye, his stance so stern and pious as he stood between Helaena and Aegon, who seemed equally disinterested.

It was the first she had seen of her eldest Uncle and Aunt, there was a small satisfaction that bloomed within Visenya knowing that Aegon hadn’t grown quite as tall as Aemond, who loomed quite considerably next to his siblings. Aemond was only a tad shorter than his Grandsire and hand to the King– Otto Hightower. Who like Aemond possessed a rather imposingly long and sharp gait.

The princess suddenly found her attention captured by the eerie silence that filled the hall, she looked to her father who’s mouth was curled in a wicked grin, “Say it.” He whispered to Vaemond, who stared so brutally at Lucerys.

His face turning into a smug, snivelling grin as he spoke and the sudden roar of his voice, caused Visenya to turn her head sharply, “Her children… are BASTARDS!” He bellowed.

Fuck.

It was the first word that entered the Princess’ mind, the first impulse of herself was not one of anger nor defence of her younger brother Lucerys, it was merely shock. Gasps and mummers trickled amongst the court as Visenya looked over to Jace, his jaw clenching. Luke on the other hand was panicked, his breathing turned to soft pants as he looked around the room, gauging everyone’s reaction. There was little time to react before Vaemond would land his second blow. He tilted his head, finding the eye line of her mother, who already clutched at the hand of Lucerys – a feeling of dread curdling in Rhaneyra’s belly.

“And she…” Vaemond spoke again in a mocking tone, he leaned forward before turning back to Viserys and continuing, “is… a whore.” The word slid of his tongue so effortlessly, as if he had thought it a thousand times before. Visenya supposed he probably had, for she had known that such vile whispers of her mother is what incited them to flee Kings Landing all those years ago.

The court erupted into a symphony of gasps and muttering, Visenya suddenly felt a bitter rage brew, she narrowed her eyes on Vaemond as she went to step forward but was surpassed her father Daemon.

The King suddenly rose from the throne, hunched over and unsheathed his Valyrian dagger, “I… will have your tongue for that!” Viserys growled.

Visenya then caught the reactions of the snivelling Greens, the ever pious Alicent and Otto feigning some form of shock, Helaena recoiling in discomfort. Visenya’s eyes scanned her looming uncle and watched with a harsh disgust as that slow, sharp smile curled itself upon Aemond’s pale face. His eye narrowed in a satisfaction which made the very bones in the princess’ body ache with hate.

The sharp slice of steel through flesh and shocked hollers of the court drew Visenya’s attention again, as before she knew it her father had drawn Dark Sister swiftly through Vaemond’s very head. His limp body thumping upon the ground, his tongue flickering with a gruesome squelch as

Daemon leaned his sword into the stone floor below, gazing with both satisfaction and disgust upon Vaemond’s bleeding body. The Rogue Prince spoke softly, “He can keep his tongue.”

“DISARM HIM!” Otto bellowed, guards rushing to subdue her father as he turned, chuckling.

 The princess looked over to her father who smirked softly in a sick delight as he wiped Dark Sister clean and spoke again. “No need.”

Visenya watched with wide eyes as her father sauntered away, her head slowly coming back to gaze upon the corpse that lay before the throne. The blood that pooled from Vaemond’s severed head, revealing the entrails of his very brain. She looked up and her eyes befell Prince Aemond, who stood so still, yet his locked eye upon Prince Daemon as he walked away, the glimmer of what could have been amusement or admiration or perhaps even loathing dwelled in that lonesome eye of his.

The princess looked down, hearing the moans of her frail grandsire, but all she could do was stare at her father’s work. She felt no sorrow for Vaemond Velaryon and was in truth, happy he was dead. Her father had solved a problem no doubt. What troubled her more was the curiosity she took in sickening image of sliced sinew and bone before her, blood pooling to her feet, though she did not step away, instead letting the bottom of her gown soak.

●

Visenya sat before her vanity once more, combing through her hair, which shone like streams of moonlight in contrast to her lightly bronzed skin. To which she could attribute such a flesh to her mother, who tanned easily and beautifully amidst the rays of the sun. She had since been forced by Rhaenyra to bathe and change from her blood stained gown, insisting she let the gown be done away with. Visenya however, thought it made little difference, after all.. it’s crimson anyway? The princess had beamed at her mother.

She now wore another gown, one of a deep garnet which fabric gleamed in deep tones of maroon in certain lights. Black threading trimmed its long bel sleeves, embroidery which upon closer look appeared like curling vines. Her hair left loose as always and long laced black boots upon her feet. Had she been on Dragonstone, she needn’t bother with the hassle of bathing and changing, upon getting her clothing stained – she would have been allowed to roam freely. However, Rhaenyra had made it especially clear that alongside her behaviour, her appearance was to be kept orderly – she would not give the Hightower’s anymore leverage against her as a mother. Especially since they had been summoned to supper with the King. All of them.

As the hour drew near, Visenya had managed to stop into the library, wanting to see the place she spent so much of her youth so desperate to avoid. Visenya gave the guard a small, polite nod as he opened the heavy set door. Unlike other parts of the Keep, the library had remained relatively unchanged, she had noticed the stark removal of Targaryen heraldry which once adorned the walls. The intricate tapestries which showed Targaryen’s and their dragons alike in the most intimate of acts. All such were replaced by seven pointed stars, it was clear that the Hightower’s had taken their place upon the throne, in her Grandsires absence. The place looked more like the fucking sept than her former home.

As she entered the hallowed hall of the library, she noted the high towering walls of books which covered the space. It was unlike that in Dragonstone, which was much smaller and disorganised. It was structured, with endless rows and shelves of all knowledge. Upon small table tops were melting candles all ablaze, attempting to illuminate the spaces in which one could read.

Only a few maesters still dwelled, one giving her look of uncertainty as the princess gawked at the magnitude of the space around her. She looked to one of the maesters, a small, darked skinned man who tended to one of the shelves. Visenya trotted over to him, aloof to the noise she was making.

“Where-" She began, her voice a harsh noise amidst the silence.

The maester flinched and turned his head, beginning to shush the princess before his eyes grew wide at the sight of the Targaryen before him.

He hung his head, “Princess Visenya I apologise.. I had not-" He muttered in a meek accented voice. Likely hailing somewhere from Essos.

Visenya gazed at him aloofly, tilting her head as she interrupted him, “Oh. No.. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“No, no… by all means, princess.” He spoke with a shaking reverence. Visenya loathed when people treated her this way. Like she was so fragile as if one misspoken word would end with their tongues severed. She wanted to shake them, to tell them she did not give a fuck. However, she had supposed news of her father quite literally killing a noble earlier that day, merely because he misspoke against Rhaenyra - had served as a bitter reminder that maybe those below her do have something to fear.

Visenya raised her brow and then, looked down nodding. “Where might I find the Valyrian works?”

The maester rose his brow, he turned and the flickering candles casted a golden gleam upon his skin, “Valyrian works? Histories and such?”

Visenya tilted her head, “Well, not exactly. In particular, the likes of works written in the time of Valryia? Works brought by the Conqueror; recounts or mayhap detailing of its culture..” She spoke softly, disarmingly.

The maester nodded quietly, gesturing for her to follow. They walked further to the back of library; she followed as he led her through the shelves to a dark, heavy door in the stone. The knob a cast iron head of an opened mouth dragon, with what seemed to be detailing of old Valyrian sigils around it. The maester reached to the side of the frame, his fingers searching before he pulled out a small slot in the stone, revealing a rather odd key. The wards upon the key were of intricate design, so much so that Visenya was certain only one would have been crafted. Upon its very tip bore a small spike and the maester turned, opening his palm for her to take, “One must bleed to enter.” He spoke softly.

“How do you mean?” The princess shook her head, her voice girlish.

The maester gestured for her to rise her hand, subliminally asking for permission. Visenya nodded, raising her palm for him to take. He brought the spike of the key to her finger, pressing gently upon the pad, letting a small slue of her blood coat it.  Visenya flinched slightly at the prickly pain, though the spike was particularly sharp, so it did not take much pressure. She raised her brow and the maester spoke once more. “Only that of blood of the dragon might enter freely.”

Visenya nodded, placing her finger into her mouth, gently sucking upon the small wound as she watched him place the key into the mouth of the dragonhead. The low rumbling of what must have been a rather strong barricade seemed to move as the maester spoke.

“A construction of Maegor the Cruel, built after the death of his mother Queen Visenya. Some say it was his mother’s last request, that Targaryen heraldry and histories be kept from the descendants of the Andals.”

Visenya raised her brow, “We’ve a library at Dragonstone? Where Queen Visenya herself, perished. There is quite the selection of Valyrian works there… but none are hidden this, thoroughly?”

The maester nodded, and gave the princess a knowing glance, his voice slightly amused, “Some also say Maegor was particularly paranoid.”

A cold gush of air hit her face as the maester pushed the chamber door open. They entered, and a spurl of mounted torches lit themselves. Clearly such works of magic, it was a surprise to the princess that, Queen Alicent hadn’t had the chamber walled off just to hand a seven pointed star upon it for good measure against such heathenry.

The princess perused the space, carvings of stone dragons in the corners of each wall. It was no bigger than a servant’s chamber, though adorned with Targaryen imagery. Most curiously, a narrow tapestry detailing the Conqueror’s journey to Westeros lined the top of the wall.

All its books were kept in shelves built into the stone itself. But it was a very a small and shallow alcove, which sat in the middle of the smallest wall in the chamber- that had caught Visenya’s eye. She looked to the maester who gave her a nod, waiting patiently by the door which had now, closed shut.

She reached the small shallow alcove, no bigger than chest one might keep storing treasures. It was arched in its shape, with Valyrian detailing etched in the stone around it. Visenya noticed the small, statue in its centre. A woman carved from steel… her hair braided down both sides, clasping a sword down her centre into the floor. The princess’ eyes narrowed further upon it as she realised it was but a small statue of Queen Visenya herself as the small etching of high Valyrian beneath it read, “The Conqueror’s first Queen.”

As the princess gazed upon it, she felt a sense of deep emotion befall her. There was something most overwhelming, primally familial about this place. The mere fact, Maegor the Cruel had made something so… beautiful in dedication to his mother, made her eyes burn with tears. Visenya reached out, her fingers grazed the small figure of her ancestor, feeling the cool steal against her. She reached out to take it into her hand, but found it was mounded to the stone, she pulled when suddenly the sound of unlatching metal rang true. It had seemed it was a small vault of sort and Visenya moved the masquerading alcove to the side, finding a very select amount of tomes within. There were but four books, all particularly whethered. But it was the smallest which Visenya found interest in, it was bounded in red dragon scale. Etched in were black markings in High Valyrian which simply read: Ānogar hen uēpa “Blood of Old”

She raised her brow and gently flipped through its yellowing pages, as she did so she felt an odd sense of pride and fear coil in her belly. Something familiar yet, dark about the text inside. She stopped, narrowing her eyes upon the words before her. Visenya was not yet entirely fluent in reading High Valyrian text. Though it was unmistakable, her eyes glazed over the strange depictions of markings on each page, her heart both roared with excitement and trembled when she realised it was a guide on Bloodmagic. Seemingly written by a Bloodmage of old Valryia… those who are the ones in which the Targaryen’s stem from, those in which merged their souls, their very blood with Dragons through these dark arts. Those who herald the name, blood of the dragon.  

She turned and gazed at the maester before nodding, “I’ve, uh, found what I was looking for.”

The maester bowed his head in understanding, turning slightly as he gestured back to the door, “You are most welcome to retreat back to the library, Princess.”

“Oh, no I wished to read in my chamber. I must go.” She stepped forward.

Visenya gave the maester a pleading glare, she tilted her head as the man averted her gaze, his voice meek, “Forgive me, we are not to allow such treasures to leave our care. Tis imperative none are lost.”

The princess scanned the man for a moment, it was clear the maester feared the prospect of a potential confrontation, so Visenya conceded and turned, placing the book back in the vault. She gripped the stone to force the alcove door shut and muttered, “Hm, well, I… I suppose I might be able to come back on the morrow then.”

As the Princess the made her way back to the maester, she gave him a small smile and there was a clear look of relief upon his face as he nodded, “Of course, Princess.”

With that, the two left the small chamber, and as the Princess exited she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of frustration, now she had no choice, she would HAVE to get up to mischief?  

After she had bid thanks to the maester, she made her way out of the library – her mind focused solely on the small book which held such forbidden secrets.  As she made her way into the now darkened halls of the Red Keep, the Princess found herself lost in her own thoughts – so much so she had realised it was now, well now past the hour she was supposed to have arrived with her family to dine.

She hurried through the darkening halls, slightly exhilarated as the memories of her childhood flooded through her. Her hair whipping past her as she narrowly dodged a few serving girls who were too, making their way to the dining chamber. Their giggles filling her ears as she scuffled past them.

As Visenya hurried, her family had well arrived at the Kings’ dining chamber. Princess Rhaenyra sat at the lavish table, tapping her finger upon the deep wood as her thoughts dwelled upon the whereabouts of her daughter. Only a seat over sat Alicent whose face coiled with a smug grimace at the thought of Rhaneyra’s inability to manage her own spawn. The tension between them obvious.

Alicent turned her head to gaze upon her former companion. She muttered softly, “I am sure the King shall arrive most promptly. He merely takes time to rise, given his condition.” Her words but a rouse.

Alicent, of course, knew Rhaenyra was not thinking of her father – though nonetheless it brought a strange joy to her to speak to the Princess again, even if it was in an attempt to call out her daughter’s tardiness.

The Princess sighed, muttering politely, “It is not my father’s absence which I seek answers to, it is- “

“Ah, of course. The Princess Visenya. Well, I am sure she merely is readying herself to dine, a girl of her age and… liberty must be sure to tend to her appearance.” Alicent interrupted, her tone dignified.

A familiar scoff left the lips of Prince Daemon, who slouched freely upon his seat beside Rhaenyra, “I do doubt that she is… tending to herself in the mirror for all this time.”

Alicent tilted her head, her tone incendiary, “Hm, mayhap she is lost then.”

“From across the hall?” Daemon countered.

The conversation had triggered a low chuckle from Prince Aegon, and it was now clear that the younger Targaryen’s scattered about the table were now peaked to the rising tension between their elders.

Another stark scoff left the Rouge Prince’s lips and he sat up, feeling inflamed by the Hightower leech who sat so piously across the way. The mere idea that Alicent would suggest that his daughter would be so half witted as to get lost from a straight forward trip across Maegor’s Holdfast seemed to sparked a great deal of irritation within the prince.

Rhaenyra, placed a hand on her agitated husband, speaking lowly, “Daemon…”

Alicent looked down, her voice low and careful, “Or has simply forgotten.”

Swiftly, Rhaneyra’s head turned to Alicent, her brow raised as she spoke incredulously, “Forgotten?”

“I suspect she must be rather occupied, seeing to potential suitors, I mean. It is no surprise she may forget of the King’s request. Given she is unwed… well, I remember how swiftly you became drained and... lack for socialising during your courtship, princess.”

Rhaneyra bristled, her shoulders gaining height as she spoke with a measured restraint, “The matters of my daughter’s courtship is… not something I wish to discuss so openly, your Grace.”

Queen Alicent bowed her head in concession, “Of course. I apologize.”

A strange silence befell the table, and Rhaenyra was flooded with all the reasons why she had left King’s Landing, all the foolish underhandedness of court and snivelling glares of the Hightower’s. She felt that discomfort rise in her throat, already she felt rather bloated and discomforted from the babe, but now even more so.

Rhaenyra took a breath and spoke softly, nodding as though nil troubled her, “I am sure, Visenya shall… bless us with her arrival soon.” The Princess looked over, her gaze weakened as she prayed to all God’s who would hear her, that her daughter did stay true to her word of not causing any further harm to her mother’s reputation. That she would walk up those stairs and have a reasonable explanation. Though, apart of her seemed to accept the opposite.

●

After many minutes of running past servants and fumbling over her feet, finally with a huff Visenya found the common entrance to the dining chamber. She drew in a breath, collecting herself before she walked up the small staircase, hearing the soft chattering of familiar voices. Huffing slightly. Deep voices mumbled, those of her two uncles as she traversed the steps,

“This is the first I've seen you drink.” Aegon grumbled

The clear voice of Aemond rang, “Does me drinking surprise you?”

“You do not drink enough.” The elder brother retorted

A scoff was heard before Aemond spoke again, “You drink more than a bravosi sealord.”

“I drink just the right amount.” Prince Aegon confirmed.

Visenya finally came to the top of the steps, instantly noting her two uncles, Aegon and Aemond standing before the arch which led to the table. Their bickering come to a stop as they noticed the Princess.

Her eyes landed upon her family, who all; even the Greens – stood and sat idly about the space in their own conversations. Where she had entered, she saw her mother and father sitting on the far right of the table, Alicent and Otto to the right. Both her mother and the Queen stiff as boards, clearly uncomfortable by the notion of having to be within each other's proximity. Her siblings clustered too at the furthest end, leaving of course both Aemond and Aegon, who simply stared at her as they stood.

Visenya caught the eyes of her mother first who gave her a smile of relief, Daemon beside her snickering at his daughter’s tardiness. Her siblings giggling too, giving her warm glances.

Though it was not the eyes of her faction bother her. But the Greens, Alicent and Otto both with raised brows, almost as though they were unsurprised by her general lateness, though shocked that she had managed to turn up before the King had arrived.

However, it was the eyes of the two Targaryen’s directly before her – her two uncles which she had felt linger the longest. She looked to them, Aegon standing with a goblet clutched in his hand, his brow raising a small gleeful smile came to his face as he leered upon Visenya. In front of him, stood his younger brother, ever the joy-killer; Aemond’s face remained stern, harsh as he pursed his lips at his niece.

His mind coiling with an explosion of emotions, judgement, hate, rage, jealously – but one that bothered him the most was that he seemed to stare longer than he’d like. Despite her wretchedness, she had grown rather comely… perhaps too comely considering her lack of husband. What a waste of a womb, Aemond thought.  

As Visenya stalked passed them she saw her siblings clustered by the far end of the table as she made her way towards them, she heard the low muttering of Aemond to his brother, “Even when the noose is so tight, they expect us to break bread?”

Funnily enough, the Princess could have agreed with her uncle’s assessment. It was absurd, the thought of having to make nice with those who drove her family from King’s Landing, those who have done nothing but sabotage her mother’s claim.

She gave her siblings a small smile, “How lovely you look.” Rhaena spoke gently, bowing her head.

Visenya grabbed her younger sister’s hand, gazing softly into her sister’s doe-like umber eyes, “As do you.”

“Do I look lovely too, sister?” Jace beckoned teasingly, his head tilting upwards from where he sat, clearly the prince was in good spirits with the news of his recent betrothal to Baela.

Visenya raised her brow, sitting at the end seat which was near her father’s. “Lovelier than the Maiden herself.” She crooned mockingly, hoping Alicent would hear such blasphemy. Her jest winning a small snicker from Daemon.

“You think so?” Jace smiled, turning his head to Baela who had now come to sit beside him. Following suit, Rhaena sat next to her sister, whereas Lucerys had joined Visenya on the end, sitting adjacent to his betrothed.

Baela gave him a sweet nod, snickering gently, “Indeed, your cheeks are positively rosy.”

The prince found himself slightly enjoying such a comment, he raised his brow in consideration and a scoff left Baela’s mouth as she rolled her eyes.

It was not too long before the King had ended up arriving, his sickly frame being carried by a grand chair which was placed between Alicent and Rhaenyra. All had now been seated, and of course, Aemond sat directly across from Visenya and her young brother Lucerys – his lonesome eye narrowing upon the dark haired boy.

It was clear, some old bones were still waiting to be picked, and the princess couldn’t help but feel a surge of discomfort at the clear storm that brewed within Aemond's eye.

○ix○

[tothemeadow]

Stardust's commennt: Requests are open and I'm thirsty? Time to request Douma x male!reader position play :> (With Douma as our mighty and evil top uwu) feel free to make it as humiliating as you'd like hehe- :> thank you and have fun writing it!!

‘come forth, my king, for i am yours’ / Douma x Reader

warnings: NSFW, humiliation, boot licking, stepping, spanking, ass play, master/sub if you squint

words: 1,398

(a/n): Hi, yeah, can someone give me a crash course 101 on how to write humiliation? Also I hope you like the open ending bye 🏃‍♀️

-

You asked for this.

For the bruises. For the bitemarks.

For the sins.

It’s not like you can deny the penetrating lust, the creeping desires sneaking up your spine. Your nerves vibrate with a mix of excitement and anxiety, but you know it’ll all be worth it. You are his favorite, after all.

He could have any come at his beck and call, snap his fingertips, and have a whole line of beauties kneel before him, expose themselves and wish for his touch. But no, he chooses you each and every single time. Perhaps you’re selfish, maybe even haughty. Nobody can please the king like you can, and you take pride in your seductive ways and supple body.

Behind you, the tip of the whip cracks against the hardwood floor, mere centimeters from hitting your very flesh. You jolt at the sound, your breath catching in your lungs. You are his to play with. You are meant to bring him pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. Your entire body is his canvas, free and open for whatever art he wishes to create.

All of it turns out so beautiful.

“You really should have more shame,” Douma says, voice unamused. You know it’s all a façade, just him showing off his authority, yet you play along because that’s what he wants.

“Forgive me, your majesty,” you say feebly. Your eyes remained fixated on the floor; his shiny boots pass through your vision every time he completes a circle, his steps slow and calculating. Coming to a complete stop, he stands right before you.

“You’re like a filthy dog,” he spits. “Aren’t you embarrassed? Naked before your king, trembling with what? Fear? Arousal?” Clicking his tongue, his foot reaches forward and nudges your knee. “Clean my boot.”

Swallowing thickly, you do as told, bending down low until your mouth hovers over his foot. A sound of surprise breaks free when Douma squarely plants his other foot on your back, the pressure and weight pushing you even further down.

“I haven’t got all day,” he mutters, voice low.

“Yes, your majesty,” you answer. Tongue darting out, you lick the leather, the bitter taste nearly making you scrunch your face. Even though Douma can’t see your face like this, you know he’d know about your displeasure over the taste, over the whole ordeal. You want to look up at his pretty face, not at his boots.

Douma sighs. “You really are a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you…?” Removing his foot away from your back, he nudges your chin with the other. “Look at me.”

Letting him guide your movements with his foot, you finally get to look up at him. Dressed in fitted leather pants, a silken shirt with puffy sleeves, and – most importantly – a velvet cape, he appears like he stepped right out of a painting, features smooth and perfect. You unconsciously lick your lips at the sight of his bare throat, the sliver of his chest the shirt doesn’t cover. He’s nearly too perfect to behold, but you wouldn’t trade away this moment for the world. Douma scoffs, seemingly pleased with your response; stepping back, he settles on his oversized bed, hands pressed flat against the mattress on either side of him.

“Well?” he asks, head cocking to the side, “What are you waiting for? Tell your king what you want.”

You spring into action, then, scrambling over to him on all fours. Douma spreads his legs, allowing you easy access to paw desperately at his leather-clad thighs. “Your majesty,” you purr, nuzzling into him, “I want to bring you the upmost pleasure.” Scooching up onto your knees, you palm at his stomach, fingers brushing against the hard muscle hiding beneath the single layer of fabric. “I want you to feel truly wonderful, whether it’s with my body or my mouth – I want you to use me.”

At that, Douma rolls his eyes, yet he doesn’t bother concealing the wicked smirk that blooms on his lips. “You really are no better than a whore,” he growls. “On the bed, ass up. And don’t you dare speak to me unless spoken to.”

“Yes, your majesty-“

Smack.

Instinctively, you clutch your face, the throbbing sting in your cheek coming as a complete surprise.

“What did I just say?” Douma taunts. “Bed. Now.”

With a nod, you hurry to a stand, quickly slithering onto the bed and getting into proper position. The cool satin feels heavenly against your burning cheek, the strain in your knees from being on a hard floor for so long. Your eyes flutter as the bed dips under his weight, his hand caressing your asscheek. A flowery scent fills your senses, leaves your heart pounding ferociously.

“My, my, my, look at how hard your tiny cock is,” Douma says, wolfish grin evident in his tone alone. Your entire body jolts as he shoots a hand between your legs and taps the underside of your cock. You should be embarrassed by how swollen your cock is, beads of precum swelling from the head. “I’ve barely done anything, you know… Oh well.”

You hear it before feeling anything. Another loud smack resonates throughout the room, your entire body jolting forward with the sheer force of Douma’s strike. Right dead center, his large hand hits your ass and balls in one go. Everything burns; you scramble to catch your breath, your lungs squeezing from the pain.

Douma sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Ooo, that had to hurt, didn’t it? And yet look at you, cock practically drooling all over my covers.”

He’s right, of course. You’re so fucking wet that it’s not even funny. You really are just a lowly whore, aren’t you? As long as you can get your dick wet and your ass stuffed, you’re nearly willing to do anything.

“It’s fun when we play together, don’t you think?” Douma says, his voice turning chipper. This is the front he puts on before his people, this bright, bubbly king, but you know better. He’s a cruel, sadistic fuck, but by the gods does that make you want him more and more. “You remember this, right?” he continues, reaching around you to show you an ornate jar. Tinted black and embellished with gold, the scent of roses emits from its contents, sickeningly sweet yet utterly dangerous. He must have had it set out from before, probably from when he collected his whip.

You nod your head, lips clamped shut. Of course you remember that itty bitty jar. It’s a frequent sight whenever you bed with your king. Swallowing thickly, you watch as long fingers dip inside, collecting the rose scented oil. Your brain turns dizzy, thoughts muddling into some incoherent mess.

“Whatever shall I do…” Douma trails off, his other hand tracing down your spine.

A pitiful gasp escapes your throat as slick fingers prod at your entrance; Douma chuckles darkly, his fingers slipping past the tight ring of muscle. Damn bastard, he’s getting a kick out of this. Well, so are you, but it’s not like you’re going to admit it anytime soon.

“Give into it, I dare you!” Douma sneers, his fingers quickening into a merciless pace. “A pathetic whore like you enjoys this sort of treatment, huh? I bet you want my cock to rip you apart, make you cry until you’re nothing more than a sniveling mess.”

“My king!” you cry out, unable to hold back anymore. You shamelessly rock your hips back onto his fingers, desperate for them to reach that sweet, sweet spot-

A disappointed wail rips itself from your chest as Douma yanks his fingers out. Shit, now you’ve done it. You went against the orders of your king, and you know how much he hates it whenever someone doesn’t follow his orders to the T.

“Tch. Can’t follow a simple order… My cock only deserves the best, whore. Be a good dog and learn how to obey your master.”

“I’m sorry,” you babble, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sor-“

Smack.

“Wrong choice,” Douma growls, warm breath hitting your ear. When did he-? “Listen, since I’m only going to say this once. You’re going to get fucked, but not by me.”

“Wha…?”

Craning your neck over your shoulder, you come face-to-face with Douma’s wicked smirk. With a deranged giggle, he holds up the whip.

Your heart nearly stops beating in your chest.

[madou-dilou]

A Requiem for Opeli, a Dragon Prince fanfic (Viren x reader) (sort of)

Despite everything your parents may have said, you enjoyed attending mass.

In the shade of the semicircular vaults of the sanctuary, in the sweet coloured lights of the stained glass windows, in the golden halos of the candles, under the benevolent eye of the saints, surrounded by six chapels for the six sources, the atoms themselves seemed to be scented with incense. Carved in stone, the acanthus flowers and strange fruits decorated the column's capitals, reminding the lost blessing of Xadia. Everything felt so dignified, so humble, so respectful, so soothing, so reliable and so reassuring that it was easy to get carried away by the choir of the nuns. The wise sermons of the High Prelate Opeli, in particular, procured such fervour that you had more than once been caught raising your hand to your chaplain when the ringing of the coins gathered for charity was heard between the rows of benches. However, it was not your habit to pay for strangers, even less for beggars. The Katolis Crown was funding enough leprosariums and hospitals to make it unnecessary for you to contribute. It was always their Majesties Harrow and Sarai who completely emptied their purses filled with gold in the baskets of the Sisters. Even the royal bastard ... what was his name again? Calleon? Callus? Caramel? Chameleon? Anyway, even he did not fail once to loosen his little chubby hands.

Thus the honour of sharing the same bench as their Majesties paid for a similar purse on pain of incurring the royal contempt, and after Their generous contributions would clink no more than mountains of little dims, pennies and piecettes.

Led by the warm alto voice of the High Prelate Opeli, the choir of the nuns spread in pious solemnities.

Et lux fontes duce nos

Defendat nos temptationem

Salvos nos fac de tenebris

Nos, agni decidantur

Dimitte nobis debita nostra

Dona nobis gratia Hi autem de Xadia

On your right, Lady Vassileia yawned. You gave her a nudge:

"Ouch!" she protested softly enough not to interrupt the psalm of the High Prelate. "I wasn't even asleep!"

"Liar," you whispered to her. "Raise your head and listen."

Vassilea had a broken pout that her lace mantilla could not conceal:

"After our phenomenal bender last night, I wonder by what miracle I was able to drag myself to the sanctuary."

You could hardly blame her. In the euphoria that followed your tenth perfect execution of the complex Jarnac move, you had invited your fencing master and your best friend to celebrate the event with a glass of fine wine, a secular cuvée stung in the cellars of the castle in the provinces. One glassful had become a fifth, a tenth, a fifteenth, and to the wise and poignant melody of Who covets the lady the husband must kill had succeeded the bawdy and raucous notes of A sublimated dead for my rising athame, and this until very late at night.

"And not just any rotgut, please!"

"Some Sang-Réal! Heavens, are you insane!" cried Vassilea, seeing you go up from the cellars with two bottles under each arm. "But what will your parents say?"

"Nothing, as usual: they are buried in their books!" had you retorted. "The courses at the University take so much and so much time and energy from them, because who, yes, who will be able to deliver the little people from the sterile dogmas of Faith if not Their Nobility and Their Bookish Knowledge ?!"

The Royal University of Katolis had only opened its gates fifteen years earlier, - it was the late King Harrow's father who inaugurated it. Still, its fame was already reaching every corner of the Pentarchy. Students were taught about everything, aside from dark magic, of course. Mathematics, geometry, geography, politics, history, philosophy, astronomy, ancient draconic, neolandian, evenerian, delbarian, durennian, rhetoric, logic, literature, theology, accounting. Even corpse dissection was taught in this place, despite being legalised only twenty years before- the Faith had uttered loud cries, and it was necessary to double the theology courses to calm their whinings.

"After the hollering that the Faith gave when the Toreha was printed," joked your lord of a father, "no one wants to suffer its snivelling ever again !"

"Everyone has their own copy and everyone can now interpret it in their own way!" added madam your mother. "Obviously, the Faith does not want to lose its grip on consciences!"

"The Faith lost it a long time ago already" snickered sir, "and despite all High Prelate Opeli's booing and hooing to the Council. On the contrary, even, that only demonstrates the truth: if It struggles, it is that it's dying! But, (name), my darling", he added conspiratorially, "won't you shout it all over the place, hm? You know how much displaying scepticism is frowned upon. "

Only the nobles had the privilege of teaching at the Royal University of Katolis, for the moment at least. On the actions took for the education of the little people, to lower the cost of paper and to improve printing techniques, invented some two hundred years earlier, returned the credit for the meteoric increase in the number of students. Even if most of them came from the bourgeoisie and the nobility, and even if the printing works were strictly supervised by a censorship council which limited as much as possible the dissemination of pamphlets and more or less fraudulent wisdom, it was inevitable that this storm of knowledge would trickle over each layer of the population, from the marquis in his castle to the boggy swamp. The Toreha will kill the Church, they said, from murmurs to pamphlets to late drinking in manors, and Human will kill the old Gods of Xadia ...

The nuns' choir continued its hymn in the triforium:

Mors, et vita in morte Fontes nos in deliberationibus

De veteris Dryadalis Xadia quidem apostolos luminis

Accipient in humanitate

Et propitius ero peccatis nostris

Et pascam eorum magicae

Vassiléa yawned to unhook her jaw:

"And then what idea you had of placing us in the last row!" she whimpered as the High Prelate Opeli piously licked a finger to turn a page of the Toreha. "I can't see a drop of it. As if ancient draconic wasn't enough..."

"It's not my fault that we arrived late," you whisper with dignity. "If you had stirred a little earlier, maybe we would be ..."

" You little liar," whispered Vassiléa. "Look at me all these splendid attires. It is surely not to honour the Holy Sources that you took all this trouble ... You have always disdained mass, like your bookworms of parents. Well, I grant you", she added, her eyes bright with mischief," having a job requires a lot of energy ... "

"It isn't even a real job," you protested, feeling the shame rising to your cheeks. "It's generosity, and it has absolutely nothing to do with it."

Vassiléa ignored you royally and whispered in the same mocking tone:

"It is not in the first row that you have the best view, but in the last…"

"I beg your pardon ?"

"… you are not at mass for a priestess but a priest…"

"Vassilea!" you squeaked as silently as possible.

No priest had ever seen himself in the Holy Faith of Pyrenees. The white habit had always been worn by women. If men could regroup in monasteries or abbeys, it would be forever impossible for them to say mass and to pronounce even a single parody of the sacrament. Unless, of course, the reform project discussed for years by the Conclave finally comes to an end, but given the Prelates mulish brains, that was not for the next day ahead.

"You are our soul, our hope and our salvation, Lost sources of Xadia," babbled Opeli far ahead under the stone vaults. "You who were generous enough to give us life and teach us forgiveness and mercy, may you forgive the arrogance of some black sheep and bad apples ..."

"… a divorced priest moreover," persisted Vassilea, "willingly perjury about the vow of chastity, decked out in two brats, dressed endlessly in black and not in white, versed in goety, dissection, the dark arts, spells, occult practices and hmmm, anatomy… "

" Blah, blah, blah, I can't hear anything, the sweet voice of the High Prelate lifts me up in the divine light of the Sources ... and then all that is part of his charm..."

" ... whose arrogant air makes him barely bearable to almost half the yard ..."

" Not even true..."

"… whose endless snoring invariably prevents the whole court from hearing mass ..."

" Vassilea!" you exclaim loud enough to attract a "hush!" imperious from this old cold-fish of Lord Thibalt, sitting in front of you.

"… and whose huge ivory cane that he drags everywhere," replied Vassilea when the gargoyle had turned, "most certainly serves to compensate for a little something."

You suddenly turned your head to your right. Fortunately, the handsome, oh, so handsome talker, who even in his snoring sleep could not leave those, oh, so concerned features, had heard nothing of it. His daughter, on the other hand, a frail brat about seven years old, stuck to her father, looked up from her enormous book and threw a glance at you and your companion, so cold that you both shivered.

"Dirty little mongrel of a chick-crow," you thought, and you tightened your silk mantilla around your carefully braided bun.

Rumours and speculations concerning the kinship of Lord Viren's two children (Soren, nine, and Claudia, seven) were rife at court. They had been assigned for example the High Prelate - she and Viren bickered with such ardour that it could not have happened something between these two. His legendary aversion to clerics added to the strict prohibition of the latter from carrying offspring only made the thing spicier: The Dove and the Crow, what a beautiful heading for a song! Amongst the candidates were also Lady Esmeraldine, because she had black hair and green eyes like Claudia and, as the Queen's servant, some contacts were far from improbable; Erichtoë, a luscious Durenian servant who was said to know something about dark magic; and many others ... Even Queen Sarai had not been spared by hearsay. You had just arrived at the court when this stupid idea had crossed your mind. In your eyes, there was no doubt that a passionate threesome stood at the top of power.

« I don't know where you get these wacky ideas from," your mother sighed when you told her about your suspicions, "because it's common knowledge that the know-it-all crow Lord Viren divorced just two years ago."

You had shrugged. This version was not very compelling. Or, perhaps mentioning the difficulties opposed by the Faith to this still new practice ... but that was not worth the salt of the love triangle.

"And then," continued your mother, "It is enough to look at the queen to see that she refrains from strangling our Grand Mage as soon as he pretends to approach his majesty."

"Precisely," had you insisted, "Is this not proof of bold jealousy between these three? The tension is, at the very least, overwhelming. They spend all their days stuck together. They've known each other for years. And the little prince gets along wonderfully with Soren and Claudia, and he has green eyes like her, and ... "

"Listen, my dear," sighed your mother again, for she spoke only with a sigh, "you better get down to something useful. Or upping your nose with a rubber hose, because in case it escaped your piercing gaze, which I very much doubt, I try to analyse this most boring theology work for my next conferences. "

"But come on, mother ..."

"Frankly," she continued without even listening to you because she never listened to you, "I thank the printing press every day for existence. I can hardly imagine the despair of the unfortunate copyist who had to spend whole years on this crystal-waving nonsense ... "

Whether their progenitor was the fairy queen, a whore from the Suburb of Pillows or a laboratory test tube, little Soren and Claudia were both brought up at court. Despite their promptitude to sneak into the kitchens to raid the jams, to giggle at jokes of a very bad taste or understood only by themselves and to enrage the castle's guards with their tricks; each of them was promised to more than prominent positions.

By the-Sources-knew what bewitchment, Lord Viren had even obtained a very express favour from Their Majesties, however renowned for their intransigence: Soren could miss Sunday Mass (a privilege that the whole court envied him) to participate in the training of the royal guards. Or to parasitise, depends on your allegiance. Claudia meanwhile was required to attend sermons - and as her father's daughter and rightful heir, did not listen to a word of it and always brought enormous books to pass the time. Without willing the fantasy as far as becoming their second mother, you would readily see yourself as a benevolent and affectionate but firm chaperone. A veneer of manners would not do them any harm, did you dream in the secret of your room, and then their father would undoubtedly be delighted to see them find back a semblance of balance.

"Love your enemies," announced the High Prelate far to the other end of the nave, "do good, and lend without hoping for anything. And your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the All-Mighty Sources, for They are good even for the ungrateful and for the bad. "

Her Holiness licked her finger again and turned a page of her copy of the Toreha. Someone in the audience yawned loudly. Several had begun to doze. Viren jumped, fell asleep again, snored more and Claudia horned a corner of her book.

You reached into your pocket and felt the silk of the honey candy bag. Without a doubt, Soren and Claudia would appreciate this little something special. It was a well-known fact that every child loved honey candies. Viren, on the other hand…

Your hand came to curl around the second gift. You did not have to dig your brains too hard to find it, this one: it was the magic oyster from which came out the few precious pearls that you had sown here and there during this memorable evening, two weeks ago ...

Of all the balls celebrating the arrival of spring, Lord Viren had deigned to present himself to only one. However, he distinguished himself by his ease. His tall stature and haughty manners frightened the dancers, but you had not been intimidated. Oh, you still had chills just by thinking of the way his arms tightly surrounded you, hugged you gently as he spun you in music and a storm of silk.

"You dance marvellously, my lord," you had extricated yourself.

"You too, madam."

Then, silence. You had the most considerable difficulty speaking, breathing and thinking while you were in the arms of the High Mage. Not to mention that you have to unscrew your neck to be able to look it in the eyes. I dance with him, he talks to me, touches me. You could perceive the warmth and the firm muscles of his long body through the black brocade.

"Are you still so charming, or is it my lucky day?"

"Is it your rule to speak while dancing?"

You were not going to let yourself be dismantled for so little. You get a new sense of ease in the rhythm of the flute, the viol and the tambourine before responding.

"Only if I consider my partner as worthy of this honour."

Oh, he was worth all the trouble in the world, actually. Particularly draped in this half-cape of black brocade stapled in purple, in this tunic embroidered with sand arabesques, which espoused its movements so gracefully. His beautiful grey eyes narrowed:

"You are too kind. In comparison, my ignorance makes me feel ashamed. I cannot even remember your name."

Had you been a sort of chippy, you would have taken offence and left him there, but you only managed to emit a charmed chuckle as the music sent you to rotate each on its own:

"Oh, your remarkable brain must simply take note of too many things essential to the prosperity of Katolis ..." You accepted his gentle hand around your fingers. "... to think of cluttering up such trivialities."

He laughed, visibly flattered. What a charming laugh he has, you thought.

"Imagine, madam, a demarcated space that you divide in half. You can always divide the two halves into two other halves, and so on."

You were well aware of this paradox. Your parents had bent your hear with it for years; but now that it was spoken in such a low voice, with such gallant inflexions, you found in it all the charms of the world. What could be more normal, coming from a dark mage, and therefore an expert in charms, bewitchments, spells and incantations?

"So this is how memory works, in your opinion: infinitely expandable?"

Viren drew you close to him, and you found that this slightly interested expression suited him perfectly.

"Would you be so fond of paradoxes, my dear ..."

"(name)," you confessed, and you felt yourself blushing even more.

He looked thoughtful, but the two of you jumped at the cry from the pastry buffet: "Hey, father! Try "Cumulonimbus "!". You looked over your partner's large shoulder and the dancing couples to see the two chick-crows, Soren and Claudia, who, spurting out a storm of jelly tarts crumbs, giggled and exchanged elbows.

"Uh, I beg your pardon me, my lord," you stammered, disconcerted, "but ... what did your son just say ?"

Viren then rolled his eyes in the most exasperated expression you had ever seen:

"Something stupid, I'm afraid."

You separated for a few measures before coming back into each other's arms. Oh, those severe features... you felt like his solid arm around your waist was about to leave you, for all your beautiful assurance had abandoned you. Dirty brats ... a pox on them and their incomprehensible bellowings!

"Madam, tell me something."

You thought you heard it wrong. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"Tell me something." he went on, in the satisfied tone of someone who had spared his little effect. "If what you say is true, I will give you the next dance. Otherwise, I will leave you there."

You were propelled on a small primitive candy pink cloud while the viol flew away in the treble. The magic of the Sky-Wing elves surged through your human veins, and that of the Star-Touch sparkled your eyes. It was one of your parents' favourite paradoxes. Viren made it easy for you. He rolled out the red carpet for you, he tore the breach apart for you. To believe that he really wanted to feel your hand pass through his well-groomed hair, caress his sharp cheekbone, flatter his so baroque beard, follow the outline of these oh-so-concerned eyebrows, pass the alliance around this ring finger…

Just as you were about to mischievously pronounce the magic formula "You are going to leave me there", the music abruptly slowed down and stopped. The dancers were already bowing, including yourself, and looking up, Viren looked at you with such a contemptuous air that you were left breathless. Oh, but what made me wait so long? you vexed yourself, watching his black half-cape fall gracefully as he walked away towards the-Sources-knew-where, probably towards the cheese buffet, or pray her Grace Sarai to honour him with a dance, or interrupt the last marvellous idea of his brats. He took my silence for hesitation and foolishness. Oh, I ruined everything ...

And today was the perfect opportunity to correct the situation.

Having taken great care to your hair - carefully twisted by your maid in a braided updo in elven fashion, your outfit - purple silks embroidered with red, gold brooch and bear arms, and your perfume - you had tried one half a dozen before setting your sights on a rose fragrance; in short, you had carefully put all the odds on your side.

Of course, you were under no illusions: your good looks were not your only asset, far from it. Lord Viren was known for his unconditional love of libraries, being buried in books very late at night to the point that he had lost the use of beds to prefer that of the oh so uncomfortable benches of the Sanctuary. So your hand caressed the little volume in your pocket with all the kindness in the world. Enigmas, paradoxes and insoluble problems, headlined the cover page. And, calligraphed just below by your quill pen: "except perhaps for you." You had hesitated with "except, for you, perhaps", or "for you, except, perhaps", and to finish off with a "my lord", which gave a choice: "except perhaps for you, my lord "," except, my lord, perhaps for you "," My lord, except, for you, perhaps "and "for you, my lord, except, perhaps.". Then you realised that the formula would probably be too full to suit the close friendship to which you aspired, which made you set your sights on the first attempt. A close friendship, and maybe more. You simply added your first name and tenderly blew on the still fresh ink. Just your first name: there was no doubt that the dance was still as vivid in his memory as it was in yours.

"The Sources teach us that love is given without expecting anything in return," babbled the High Prelate under the vaults once the nuns had finished their pious fourths, fifths and sixths, "and that one can't buy love. They brought Xadia out of nothing, overwhelmed it with their generosity and their benevolence, expecting nothing in return for the spread of this love and this ... this ... "

You were drawn out of your flowery thoughts by the rustling of unsuccessfully turned pages, followed by annoyed mumbles. You and Vassilea unscrew your necks together: far away at the other end of the nave, Opeli was fighting with her copy of the Toreha:

"This ... forgive me, my lords, but this page ..."

She licked her finger, pinched the paper, muttered insults to the fool who had used this new printing ink which made the vellum stick, removed her richly decorated copy from the varnished ebony lectern. In the audience, there were wonderings, whisperings, chuckling.

"Opeli, perhaps I can provide you some help…"

"No, your Grace, you, slurp, you are very kind, but ... but ..."

You risked a glance to your right. If Viren still hadn't quit his sleepiness, you found that Claudia was exceptionally agitated, all of a sudden. Her back was shaken with convulsions, and her little legs were frantic in the incense dust. Look at her fidgeting on her bench. It's as if she had the devil in her.

"Is it me or ... is she just dying of laughter?" you murmured, but Vassilea did not hear you, as busy as she was babbling with her neighbour in front.

Should I have the sleeper? You caught yourself thinking you might wake him up with a kiss. However, you were torn from your reveries by the sound of a cough that emanated from the other end of the nave. Increasingly puzzled glances were exchanged. People left their drowsiness, people quit their reverie, people stopped cleaning their nails or their noses. The concerned survey flew from look to look and from mouth to mouth. Voices and coughs rose under the vaults of the sanctuary. Some rose from their benches and gathered around the gaping High Prelate; however, Queen Sarai had removed her her hood, opened the collar of her cassock and started to give her massive pats on the back while His Majesty cried out to let her some space. The little prince started to cry.

"No, kof, sire, I assure you ... I swear that everything is, kof, kof, perfectly, huurng... perfectly fine!" assured the High Prelate, whose borborygmus intensified until nausea.

"Breathe, Opeli, just breathe, that's it! Oh, you, just move away, you scavengers !"

However, the movement began to gain assistance, including nuns. Useless prayers were muttered, inutiles advices were shouted. The benches and the triforiums began to bleat like the lambs from the Toreha. Half of them were standing, wringing their necks for a better view. The other, whether driven by the opportunity to seize or seized themselves by fear, rushed casually through the central alley and the aisles towards the portal of the sanctuary with one idea: be with the devil as soon as possible.

"(name), come on! Get up!" peeped Vassiléa, grabbing your shoulder. She was apparently part of the second category.

It would have been wise to follow her, but you were as if you were screwed to your bench. And this little chick-crow choking on laughter. Poison, did you understand. Poison on the very pages of the Toreha.

You bound from the bench and grabbed Viren's shoulder. He was the only sleeper who hadn't woken up.

"My lord, get up!" you bellowed. "We have to go!"

"What are you doing? Just drop him!" squealed Vassilea before joining the silk tidal wave.

Faced with Viren who continued to snore, you hesitated to give him a slap. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Claudia suddenly calming down. This child is mad, you thought, stark raving mad. From the chick-crow's lips pulled out something strange, which you did not understand. Then her eyes opened on a purple glow. An abyss of purple. You jumped, wanted to silence her, but could only remain crucified on the spot. So that's what Dark Magic is. When, in Claudia's eyes, a void of darkness replaced the purple, making her look like a fly, you knew this was the end. The Romanesque portal of the Sanctuary was wide open, and daylight pierced the nave on all sides. There was no one left under the vaults. Except for the convulsing, gaping High Prelate, the royal family, yourself, Lord Viren and ... this little witch ...

You close your eyes and prepare to die. Ô Six lost Sources of Xadia. In the name of the Sky, the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the Earth and the Ocean. Amen.

A few seconds later, you opened an eye.

"Ho!" resounded the voice of the High Prelate, whose inflexions no longer foreshadowed imminent death. "I'm finally breathing!"

You swivelled and watched their Majesties pick up Opélie, hair undone, the collar wide open, the silver tiara crooked and the hood in disorder, but the skin as white and smooth as usual. "May the Sources be praised -burp… ha!"

To the cry of surprise echoed a ridiculous sound ... but so characteristic.

"Crôaaa."

Then, silence.

"Is it ... a toad?" you heard. Her Grace Sarai sounded just as lost as you were.

You had a thrill of horror. You had a holy terror of toads.

The king did not reply. Opeli, back on her feet, watched the beast hopping on the pavement of the sanctuary.

"What is... Six Sources, I..."

Hup ! A second one bound out from her lips. This is but a dream, you told to yourself, your nails clenching into your flesh. Nothing but a very strange dream, and I'm about to wake up.

"What the fuck is that..." her Grace Sarai muttered, back to her old soldiery level of language.

The little royal mongrel bent down, trembling, and picked up one while Opeli was getting her clothes together with a frenetic hurry. "It's a toad, mommy."

No one said a word, except the beasts which were going on with their grotesque wanderings under the high vaults in the sepulchral silence. From jump to jump, the little gargoyles were sauntering under the great saints' stone eyes. The incense was struggling to hide the smell of carrion with rose from the kings asleep under the marble. The candle's tiny glims almost had something pathetic. The dawn's daylight was splinting through the vitrals and the portal wide open like a wound. It was drowning the pious penumbra in a chasm of white light. Those little monsters appeared only clearer.

The stones had echoed nothing but nun's canticles, ever, but neither the Sources nor the gigantic wrapped praying statues rose to smite the outrage. The minuscule blasphemers were jumping and croaking in the holy light with complete impunity.

"Crôa."

You took a few steps in the centre alley, towards the altar, but you stopped, unable to move forward.

King Harrow seemed to be about to open his mouth when two chuckles rose into the nave, very close to you, two high-pitched laughs, two children's laughs, joined by a third one, lower and more discrete. Apparently, Lord Viren had woken up... and was laughing with Claudia while the other crow-chick, Soren, arose from behind a pillar, spitting out all his lungs by dint of laughing. He was the one who laughed the loudest.

But wasn't he supposed to be paraziting the royal guards' training? you heard yourself thinking, while Opeli stammered, straightening her cassock's collar :

"Lord Viren, will you, at last, explain to me what's going on in there ?"

As he didn't answer, to busy to retain a laugh, she rose her voice :

"As if you weren't satisfied enough with disturbing the mass..."

She put her hand to her mouth, to her stomach, bent over in two: wasted effort. A third toad leaps again from her pious lads, redoubling the hilarity of the crows family. You were speechless. To see Viren laugh so bluntly, he whose features were known as nothing but deeply thoughtful, exasperated by the stupidity of others or at best the vaguely contrite or amused grin; that was at least as extraordinary as the presence of toads.

«Opeli, say something religious." suddenly said Sarai, to the astonishment of sane people.

"I beg your pardon?" Opeli said «, and a fourth beast came to complete the croaking concert.

The crows chortled again. The din through the transepts, the triforiums, the naves, the crypts, the chapels, it aroused so much and so much echo that it seemed sanctuary's walls were going to crumble, collapse and fall too.

"My lord!" intervened the queen, and her voice resounded so dryly in the nave that the laughter died immediately, "Would you be kind enough to explain to us the reason for this masquerade. That you invariably spend the whole mass snoring because you are not surprised by your own grandeur, we can accept; but I will not tolerate your preventing ... "

"Oh no, your Grace," he replied. He had risen all at once, to his full height, and had even engaged his mage scepter by banging it against the marble paving which resounded loudly under the vaults; you were amazed by the coldness dryness of his deep voice. "Believe me, I had no idea what was going on today. I swear."

"The word of a dark mage? The big deal - burp!" spat the High Prelate as, summoned by the concept "Word", a fifth beast came to join its comrades. The king glared at her, and she remained silent:

"In this case, how do you explain this masquerade?"

"Mascewhat?" repeated the blond chick-crow with a perfectly bewildered expression.

You suddenly found back all your senses and your reason. Your hand was raised, and your index finger was planted on Claudia, whose face was ravaged by a barely contained giggle:

"She did this!" you denounced, and the resonance of your own voice surprised you.

The look that Viren gave you pierced your heart.

A look to blast Justice herself.

Gazing around, you realised that even their Majesties were frankly disapproving. The betrayal was all the more burning. Here you were who found yourself making common cause with the sanctimonious clap-trap spitter...

Soren stood in front his sister, his fists clenched, ready to fight, but the little girl released the hand that her father had put on her shoulder:

"It was Soren's idea, but I am indeed the prime contractor!" she squealed in a tone of immeasurable pride. "Well, the powder on the book, it was me, I had read it in a novel! It took me weeks to finish this selenic powder, especially since it had to stick to the pages without being seen! "

Your gaze came to rest on the Tor��ha, which had fallen from the lectern to crash on the ground. "After the bawling with which the Faith stunned us when Toreha was printed two hundred years ago, no one wants to undergo its whining again. Everyone has their copy now, and everyone can now interpret it in their own way!" Although only a printed copy, this book was made according to the rules of art. The illuminations were each hand-painted. The cover alone, crimson leather inlaid with precious stones, was a real work of art. Most of the pages had fallen from the fall, and the glue would render the copy forever unusable.

You had never been very fond of books, but this truth shook you.

"And we also had to put some in the holy water stoup so that everyone receives a little!"

"Ah," muttered the mage, "so that's why you insisted that I dip my hands in it…"

"Yes, and then a spot of dark magic so the prank more would be even more credible -"

"A prank?" remonstrated the High Prelate. "A prank! I almost died, your Majesties, you are witnesses! This child tried to poison me! You will not tell me that I am over-principles!"

You nodded with firmness.

"These ... creatures are from the selenial-shadowed magic," Viren explained in a low voice as if he was lecturing some of complete bonehead, "commonly known as "moon magic", which places them under the seal of illusions. Not only visual ones but also tactile, olfactory and auditory."

He put his staff against the bench with a thousand precautions - the object did not echoed less loudly, then he hunched his endless spine and bent his knee to grab one of the little blasphemers, then straightened up and began to pat it with the palm of his hand:

"In other words, these toads are only the product of a gigantic collective hallucination, and the Your Holiness's convulsions are only the natural reaction of a human body solicited from within by primal magic. It was nothing but an illusion, my lady, which means that at no time were you in danger of death. "

A dismayed silence followed the declaration. The infamous beasts pursued their a capella which resounded under the pious crossheads of warheads. Never had they seemed so real.

You took a deep breath, wiped your hands in your fine gown, bend down in a silk frill and overcame your repulsion to catch one of those. The coldness and the roughness of the pustular skin, the fixedness of the globular eyes, the absence of muzzle, the greyish colour, the viscosity of the drool which flowed in your hand. By the Sources, what a horror ... a grimace of pure disgust distorting your features, you closed your eyes, then your fist, suddenly. You open your eyes, your hand: nothing.

Your empty palm was stared at, then the abandoned benches and triforiums as well.

The idea that the Sanctuary had been deserted, emptied and ridiculed by the fault of mere chimaeras was almost simply inconceivable.

No conversation, no essay, no pamphlet, no book or rant had ever laid bare such a decay. The printing might have dug its grave, but it was simply inconceivable that the collapse would take so little, so little ... A shiver ran through your spine. The Toreha killed the Church, and the Human killed the Sources.

Opeli put her hand to her mouth, bur nothing came out.

"However," said Viren, who still continued to caress his toad, in a softer voice, a fascinated and even admiring tone, "it is the first time in my life that I have seen such tangible illusions and - "

"You, you will have plenty others occasions to show off, but right now, stop this," interrupted Sarai as little Claudia displayed a smug smile of pride. "You two," she went on to the address of the two chick-crows, stop all this shi ... pandemonium. At once."

As if with regret, Claudia pulled out a collar from under her collar and pulled out a shrivelled toad leg from her bag.

"Wait a minute!" Opeli interrupted her incisively. "I hope you don't plan on using dark magic in here! "

"Well, madam," said Viren, "it's either that or you spend the rest of your life spitting illusions and chimaeras. Oh, silly me, that's already the case ..."

"I BEG YOUR PARDON?! -burps! ha, you dirty beast!"

"Crôaaaa!"

"Enough, both of you!" growled the king, in the tone of someone who felt the headache coming.

The endless squabbles of the High Mage and the High Prelate were an integral part of court life, and they were regarded with a particular mixture of fun and lassitude, a bit like watching a brat always laughing at the same joke. Today, however, did not seem in the mood to tolerate their tussles. His Majesty, moreover, had not finished:

"Among all that you could have offered your father," he belched in a tone where pierced like a kind of mischief, "did your choice absolutely had to fall on this farce?"

"Hmm?" said Viren, stopping to caress the toad, which landed very unsightly on the marble paving. "What did you say ?"

You suddenly remembered the weight clogging your pocket and bit your lips.

Viren frowned. Opeli would have proposed to him that he did not look more dazed.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATHER!" bellowed Soren, without taking into account the resonance of the sanctuary which made the audience wince.

"Did you enjoy the show?" asked Claudia, pulling on the velvet doublet. "You had a lot of fun, huh, right?" Then, as he didn't answer, "Did you ? Yes, you did, did you ? Huh? Huh? Huh, right?"

"Right, dad! Right! Dadadadadadadadadadad -"

Your hand tightened around the small book. Insoluble enigmas, problems and paradoxes, except perhaps for you.

"Dadadadadadadadadaaaaaad -." The croaks of toads and crows, they made quite a duet.

A true Requiem... and not only to your blended family dreams.

Your eyes turned to the High Prelate. She was just as flabbergasted as you were, judging by her stillness and her gaping mouth. The stone seemed to have swallowed her. Petrified. A new statue for the nave, you thought, holy, helpless, pious and terrified facing the march of Progress. This wasn't just the white dove reached by the toad's drool. This wasn't just some sort of priestess carrion over which crows would have a feast on among her fellows dead villagers. This was the terror of the woman of the sanctuary in front of the lead letters, of the silver tiara in front of the race of time, the terror of the priesthood in front of the changing souls.

As you pinged in a whirlwind of silk, perfume, incense, discomfiture and disarray towards the portal of the sanctuary, you heard his Majesty inquiring with all the good nature of the world:

"Maybe you could stop the illusion now?"

"Yes," added her Grace, "it seems to me that you had enough fun for today. Or, wait, maybe you can tinker us some illusion of High Prelate, now that you've broken this one ? "

"Sarai!"

"What? I'm not right? Look at that, darling, it's not moving anymore. Oh, Opeli, please shut that mouth, or you're going to attract flies. And then, come on, smile a little, hey ! It's not the end of the world !"

"Ah, well, it seems you also broke your father, here he is petrified on the spot. They pair well, aren't they? Viren, if I say "history book"," melting camembert" or "crème brûlée torched with whiskey", will you find back the use of your smile or your legs? Aaaah, there, you see!"

"Oh, what a happy, united family... Aaaaaaw, you are so cute when you are happy, Viren !"

"Actually, no, you should stop smiling, it becomes really unhealthy. "

"Crôa, crôa, crôaaa."

"Callum, drop this notebook and this pencil! And you two, stop with these toads, that's enough!"

The last thing you heard before closing the gate on the tomb of the Age of the Gods was the voice of Viren:

"Oh no, Claudia."

Then: "Leave them a little longer, will you?"

And there you go ! : D

Well, I warned you that it was a somewhat special Viren x reader ...

But, I mean, look at the scene where Viren takes power Napoleon style (the one where he is a thousand times sexier than all the scenes of Aaravos put together): everyone completely ignores Opélie to acclaim Viren the Savior ... Okay, everyone is terrified of the elves, all right, but that's not enough to ignore the Church, the law and traditions. There had to be some deeper reasons. Same for Harrow's communism, moreover, he is so enlightened for an absolute monarch of divine right that it can only come from an intellectual broth having macerated for decades, even centuries ... And then look all these huge libraries throughout the castle! Look at how nobody cares about Opeli throughout the series!

I hope you enjoyed the dance in the arms of the dark, tall and handsome advisor ;) and that seeing the Magefam reunited and happy put a little balm in your heart during this complicated period. Fluff, fluff: 3

Reviews are appreciated :3

[mewhenhorrormovies]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As we

say in Texas, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions

printed on the heel. You are a canker, an open wound. I would rather

kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. You took your last vacation in

the Islets of Langerhans.

You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little

worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a

cad, and a weasel. I take that back; you are a festering pustule on a

weasel's rump. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench,

a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same

species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at

the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut.

Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are

a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. You are a technicolor yawn.

And did I mention that you smell?

You are a squeaking rat, a mistake of nature and a heavy-metal bagpipe

player. You were not born. You were hatched into an unwilling world

that rejects the likes of you. You didn't crawl out of a normal egg,

either, but rather a mutant maggot egg rejected by an evil scientist

as being below his low standards. Your alleged parents abandoned you

at birth and then died of shame in recognition of what they had done

to an unsuspecting world. They were a bit late.

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting

to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a

nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able

to access it ever so much more rapidly. If cluelessness were crude

oil, your scalp would be crawling with caribou.

You are a thick-headed trog. I have seen skeet with more sense than

you have. You are a few bricks short of a full load, a few cards short

of a full deck, a few bytes short of a full core dump, and a few

chromosomes short of a full human. Worse than that, you top-post. God

created houseflies, cockroaches, maggots, mosquitos, fleas, ticks,

slugs, leeches, and intestinal parasites, then he lowered his

standards and made you. I take it back; God didn't make you. You are

Satan's spawn. You are Evil beyond comprehension, half-living in the

slough of despair. You are the entropy which will claim us all. You

are a green-nostriled, crossed eyed, hairy-livered inbred

trout-defiler. You make Ebola look good.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid,

nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an

ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with

you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in

a land that reality forgot. You are not ANSI compliant and your markup

doesn't validate. You have a couple of address lines shorted together.

You should be promoted to Engineering Manager.

Do you really expect your delusional and incoherent ramblings to be

read? Everyone plonked you long ago. Do you fantasize that your

tantrums and conniption fits could possibly be worth the $0.000000001

worth of electricity used to send them? Your life is one big

W.O.M.B.A.T. and your future doesn't look promising either. We need to

trace your bloodline and terminate all siblings and cousins in order

to cleanse humanity of your polluted genes. The good news is that no

normal human would ever mate with you, so we won't have to go into the

sewers in search of your git.

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and

obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living

emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a

loathsome disease, a drooling inbred cross-eyed toesucker. You make

Quakers shout and strike Pentecostals silent. You have a version 1.0

mind in a version 6.12 world. Your mother had to tie a pork chop

around your neck just to get your dog to play with you. You think

that HTTP://WWW.GUYMACON.COM/FUN/INSULT/INDEX.HTM is the name of a

rock band. You believe that P.D.Q. Bach is the greatest composer who

ever lived. You prefer L. Ron Hubbard to Larry Niven and Jerry

Pournelle. Hee-Haw is too deep for you. You would watch test patterns

all day if the other inmates would let you.

On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are

deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of

wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted.

Spammers look down on you. Phone sex operators hang up on you.

Telemarketers refuse to be seen in public with you. You are the source

of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

May you choke on your own foolish opinions. You are a Pusillanimous

galactophage and you wear your sister's training bra. Don't bother

opening the door when you leave - you should be able to slime your

way out underneath. I hope that when you get home your mother runs

out from under the porch and bites you.

You smarmy lagerlout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock.

You grotty wanking oik artless base-court apple-john. You clouted

boggish foot-licking half-twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You

gormless crook-pated tosser. You bloody churlish boil-brained clotpole

ponce. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You cockered

bum-bailey poofter. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You

dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. May your

spouse be blessed with many bastards.

You are so clueless that if you dressed in a clue skin, doused yourself

in clue musk, and did the clue dance in the middle of a field of horny

clues at the height of clue mating season, you still would not have a

clue. If you were a movie you would be a double feature;

_Battlefield_Earth_ and _Moron_Movies_II_. You would be out of focus.

You are a fiend and a sniveling coward, and you have bad breath. You

are the unholy spawn of a bandy-legged hobo and a syphilitic camel.

You wear strangely mismatched clothing with oddly placed stains. You

are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just knowing that

you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go

away. You are jetsam who dreams of becoming flotsam. You won't make

it. I beg for sweet death to come and remove me from a world which

became unbearable when you crawled out of a harpy's lair.

It is hard to believe how incredibly stupid you are. Stupid as a stone

that the other stones make fun of. So stupid that you have traveled

far beyond stupid as we know it and into a new dimension of stupid.

Meta-stupid. Stupid cubed. Trans-stupid stupid. Stupid collapsed to

a singularity where even the stupons have collapsed into stuponium.

Stupid so dense that no intelligence can escape. Singularity stupid.

Blazing hot summer day on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one

minute than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. It cannot

be possible that anything in our universe can really be this stupid.

This is a primordial fragment from the original big stupid bang. A pure

extract of stupid with absolute stupid purity. Stupid beyond the laws

of nature. I must apologize. I can't go on. This is my epiphany of

stupid. After this experience, you may not hear from me for a while.

I don't think that I can summon the strength left to mock your moronic

opinions and malformed comments about boring trivia or your other

drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped

away most of your of what you wrote, because, well ... it didn't

really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was

pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a

load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after

you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more

success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal"

people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering.

But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this

world who find these things to be difficult. If I had known that this

was true in your case then I would have never have exposed myself to

what you wrote. It just wouldn't have been "right." Sort of like

parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the

emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a

demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful,

cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable,

belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal,

fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic,

brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame,

self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, fraudulent,

libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, EDLINoid,

illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking,

devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic,

fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased,

suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim,

crazy, weird, dyspeptic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim,

unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive,

abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, and Generally Not Good.

[songsofbloodandfire]

Prompt #6: First Steps

(NSFW/TW: Violence, implied torture and death. Another Ru one since she seems to still be pretty much my focus as of late. Also tossing my @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast up here as well again.))

Years had passed and still the voice of Alexion sas Aretiem still shot a spike of rage through her. Unfortunately for her, the bastard was just out of reach and the solid metal restraints that held her to the table showed no sign of straining despite her best efforts. As always, she was defeated and he stood smugly over her.

Or perhaps not so smug. Under the arrogance there was a subtle rage. That was new. Out of her twin half brothers, Alexion was the quieter and more levelheaded, rarely giving over to rage or anger. Acheron was the one more prone to fits if rage. 

"Who would have thought that it would take all this work just to see you laid low like the savage you are, sister dearest." The venom in his words gave an edge that was as sharp as any blade. "Did you really think your rank would protect you? That I wouldn't find allies who were quite happy to get rid of the mongrel pilus. Bad enough there was already one, but a second?" He paused to tsk lightly. "You always were bad at politics, Ruvera."

Jerking against her restraints, any shout of rage was lost, her vocal folds so damaged from the previous experiments and torture that she couldn't manage a sound. It had been bad enough to have to listen to Ralutis and his constant prattle but having to sit through the monologue of a man that had spent his entire life tormenting her and sabotaging her when he could was painful. At least she could blame Ralutis' ramblings off as some misplaced belief and an obsession that he loved her and she him.

"Still have fight, do we? Shouldn't be surprised, really. You never knew when to stop. Even when it cost our precious little sister her life!" The rage reached a crescendo and pain blossomed in her gut when he punched her, causing her form the sag against the restraints holding her upright. "She worshiped you. A filthy savage. Father praised you and painted you as some success and she worshiped you for it! And you...you got her killed for it."

Guilt mingled with her rage. Cassandra was dead because of her. She might as well have run the girl through herself. He was right about that much and guilt lay bitter on her tongue as a result. 

Release us...honor our pact…

It took her a moment to realize the voice came from within, almost lost amid Alexion’s further rage filled ramblings about her failings. Her devil. Truthfully she’d thought it had been a pain and drug induced hallucination, but she could feel it there within her...whatever it was. 

Embrace us...make us one! Free us!

Another burst of pain stole her vision for a moment, making her dry heave with the sheer intensity of it. She’d already endured so much and had clung to life by a thread out of sheer stubbornness. With the next strike, she knew if she didn’t do something, Alexion would kill her. Each strike was stronger than the last and he gave no regard to the fact she was already weak and injured from the constant torments she’d already endured. 

She reached for that devil within her and touched something...electric. Pain faded, not numbed but replaced by sheer, unfiltered ecstasy that ran like a bolt of lightning down her spine. The power her devil brought was beautiful and exquisite in its almost primal purity. It made her blood and body sing in ways she’d never experienced and everything she’d been through no longer mattered for a moment. The first warning that something had changed sung in the air with tension and touched it with ozone and Ru could see Alexion falter. Lightning ran blue-white, starting from her fingertips and across her arms and that was when she saw the fear start to flicker into his eyes. She’d seen him express many things, but fear towards her was never one of those things. It was intoxicating. 

She didn’t feel the heat of the metal bindings melting and warping under the assault of her power. The delayed realization that she was free had rooted Alexion in place long enough for her to move in a blur of speed and capture him. It didn’t occur to her than she shouldn’t have been able to lift and throw him or that the speed at which she was on top of him, pinning him to the ground was beyond unnatural. She was too far into the rush of the high to care. Her voice was soft and hoarse, the power having done nothing to actually heal her, just allow her to ignore the damage to her body, but her rage spoke volumes in that rasp. “Idiot...Should have killed Ralutis first…killed Cass because of me…” 

“Don’t do this, Ruvera. Please don’t kill me...I can get you free. I can have them punished. I’ll restore your rank...please...please don’t.” The sharp scent of fear laced through the air and it never occurred to her that she shouldn’t be able to smell fear. 

Instead of pleasing her to see him die, it further enraged her. Coward! He should have had the dignity to at least die like a man and not a sniveling fool. The electricity that crackled around her surged with her rage and with it Alexion’s fear doubled. 

Snarling with wicked fangs, her eyes went white and crackled with the power she rode along on like a bolt of pure lightning. Instantly Alexion’s babbling died and left enough silence for him to hear Ru. 

“Goodbye...brother.” She shoved the power into him, letting the lighting sear bone, flesh and sinew until there was nothing but a husk of a body and armor left. There was no satisfaction in the kill for her, but her devil reveled in the moment. The contrast of emptiness and delight between her and her devil was jarring but she didn’t think on it too long. 

She was free...at least partly. With Alexion dead, she now stood unrestrained in the room. Killing him had given her the first step towards freedom that she’d never thought would come. She was going to take it running for as long as that power kept her going.