#not having the boy bending to his whims is a loss/general set back. he just. EXPECTS C!Tommy to fall back into line because that’s just-

[dracoria-azucar]

The more we explore C!Wilbur and C!Dream’s relationships with C!Tommy the more upsetting the:

“Who am I without you?” - “Yourself.” 

interaction gets. 

Like. We talk about the objectification/dehumanization C!Techno faces, being treated as a glorified secret weapon by his allies rather than a friend, more often than not.

But we really gotta start talking about how C!Wilbur views this kid as some unhealthy extension of himself, bordering heavily on treating him like his lap dog? And the fact that C!Dream has out right stated that he considers the boy to be a personification of conflict and passion that he wants to keep locked away all to himself??

The treatment Techno gets is definitely upsetting but there are certain moments where Tommy is objectified in ways that are viscerally disgusting. Especially considering. That he is a teenager. And being treated that way by people he legitimately trusted and idolized has very explicitly affected the way he views relationships as well as his own sense of self worth.

[cela-astral-projection]

Purple clover, Queen Anne lace. Crimson hair across your face. You could make me cry if you don't know. Can't remember what I was thinkin' of. You might be spoilin' me too much, love.  You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

It had been weeks. A month. Longer. If Muriel didn't know Asra better, he would be concerned. Asra was nothing if not leisurely in his pursuits under the best of circumstances. But Celeste was getting a bit worried. She had never been subject to Asra's whims and flights of fancy.

It was the early evening. The sun was still warming the forest, but Muriel knew he was running out of time before the dark.

Muriel had taken it upon himself to be the guardian of the forest — a routine task most days. And Celeste had come with him since she had been at the hut. It was nice to walk together in the early mornings and late afternoons, enjoying each other's company.

Celeste had been unsettled most of the day. And they both knew that something had changed. He had asked for her to stay inside, anticipating resistance. But she had complied.

She was afraid. And it instilled fear into him.

Nothing truly seemed amiss, at least not that he could pinpoint. Perhaps something on the air. The way that the light shone through the trees. If anything, the world around him seemed more peaceful. More alive.

He questioned himself. What was this paranoia? What was this feeling of dread that had seated itself in both of them, destroying their tranquility?

He knelt by a stream, bending down to splash cold water on his face, trying to steady his nerves before he headed back to the hut. But, in the rippling of the water, he saw a reflection on the other side, shimmering. The world dimming around him.

He rose slowly and was confronted by a hooded figure in a pale grey robe. Their face was obscured, but he could see a long salt and pepper beard spilling out. They held a lantern in one hand, and a long, gnarled staff in the other.

He knew this Figure. His patron.

"The Magician's Pledge is coming." The Figure spoke, it's voice placid. "Your reprieve is at an end, Muriel. I pray that it shall be enough to sustain you."

He stared, confused. "Reprive?"

"From the terms of your deal. It has been generous. I think you will agree."

"I didn't ask for a reprieve. Asra brought her to me." he countered as if his denial mattered.

The Hermit inclined its head. He could see the shape of their mouth, the corners upturned. "You did not need to ask. These things fall into place for a reason. You needed her, and the Magician and I made sure that you were supplied, and that the Magician's Pledge was given respite. Enough that you can continue and fulfill the terms of your compact with the Arcana."

"You can change this. You can free me. Free Celeste. You can heal her." he pleaded. "I don't want this. I don't want to go back to being alone."

"I know. It is a heavy burden to carry alone. You were informed of this before the deals were struck. The best is bought at the cost of great pain. And life restored..." the Figure breathed a heavy sigh.

"Please, I have had the pain. I have had more than enough sadness. My whole life has been one misery after another...the solitude was meant to be a blessing, was it not?" Muriel said, his voice rising, frantic.

"Dear Boy, if it were not for your pain, I would not have trusted you with this deal." the voice responded, calm as ever. Unfazed by his increasing panic. "You are well acquainted with hurt and loss. You are practiced in grief. I know you can survive this just a while longer. There is a great blessing on the other side of this endeavor."

"What happens if I refuse? What happens if she stays with me?" he implored, resisting the inevitable.

"Then she is reclaimed by Death. Her body falls away to bone and ash. The Magician's Pledge is also taken. His heart is contained within her Vessel, they will not be parted by Death again."

Muriel drew a ragged breath. Celeste and Asra. Lost to him. Taken by Death.

The Hermit resumed. "And that is simply the immediate effect. There will be grief in it. But, understand me, it will be nothing for the misery to come.  There are more significant, much more far-reaching implications."

"I don't understand," Muriel said, defeated. "I can't understand this. Of course, she's worth it, to me. But...why does it have to be this way? What aren't you telling us? What are we paying for?"

"It is foolish to believe that I, alone, set the price for this deal.  The winds have already begun to shift, Muriel. These days feel long, but the years will be shorter now. You will be broken by this. That was the goal. So that you would be weakened, and brought low."

The voice changed, and it sounded almost sympathetic.

"I wish you to know that if it were up to many of us, the balance would lean much more heavily in your favor. But...sadly, there is a precarious balance. Twenty-one Major Arcana. All of us with our players, playing the ends against the middle. There is a certain matter of inexactitude, knowing how things will ebb and flow." The Hermit lamented. "I would not ask this of you if I did not truly believe that you were worthy of the challenge."

"I'm not," Muriel said, his head falling, his voice breaking. "I'm not worthy. I can't do this. I don't know how to do this. I don't want to do this."

The Figure floated across the stream, and Muriel stepped back, not wanting to be near to them, far out of their grasp.

"Do you know what it means, Dear Boy, to be The Hermit?" the voice implored. "You are inhabiting the reverse right now. You have been in this for years. Your longing for seclusion, though, entirely understandable, has cost you dearly. It is a perilous path you are traversing. But, even until now, you have not been alone. You might have felt alone. But you had your friend. Your lover. And he brought you a beautiful woman. And they have loved you fiercely when you could not love yourself. And still, you were turned inward, keeping them at a distance. Afraid."

"Not now. I'm not alone now. I'm better with Celeste. With Asra. This is how I'm supposed to be." Muriel objected, shaking his head.

The Figure nodded in agreement. "You are better. Remember that. You are made better by love. You will have loneliness thrust upon you. And what you do with this time will guide you going forward. That's what it means to be The Hermit."

The Figure extended their lantern to Muriel, dangling it on the finger of one large hand.

"It will be dark. But, you will have enough light to see the next step ahead. The path you take...it can lead to great introspection. Alignment with who you are meant to be. Or, you can continue the way you have been. Into true seclusion and madness. And I assure you, influenced by pain, the sirens call into the abyss is very tempting."

The Figure withdrew their lantern. They lifted the hand to his hood and pulled it back.

Muriel stared into their eyes. His green eyes. His face. His scars were there, but they were faded. And there were wrinkles. Marked by age. The Hermit looked regal. His hair plaited back, streaked with silver. A long beard framing his jaw. The appearance of one well acquainted with their inner voice. Someone that had found their destination. A mentor. A guide. Muriel's face reflected back at him.

"I have seen your ends, Muriel. And I have hope for you. I don't think you'll fail me." The Hermit smiled. "There are better days beyond this darkness. I assure you."

Muriel was entranced. Unable to move, barely able to breathe.

The Hermit laughed. "You age well. It suits you. I could have taken my more traditional form, but I thought this might be an inspiration." He lifted the hood again, and the face was obscured.

He continued, "I will take my leave from you. The Magician has nearly finished with your friend. He will be here soon.  Please, go home. Say your goodbyes. You'll have to take the charm from Celeste. She can't keep it."

"Celeste won't understand," Muriel replied, shaken from his reverie when he was confronted with the reality. "She knows she has to keep that to remember me. It will break her heart."

The Figure scoffed. "That Woman is more resilient than you give her credit for.  And so are you."  He was moving away from Muriel and disappating. Becoming more translucent. "The days will be long, but the years will be short. Stay the path. There is an end to this darkness. I promise you."

And then The Hermit was gone. The light was restored to the forest. The sun was setting, and there was a brilliant orange glow cast around him, flowing through the trees.

--

Celeste had made dinner, picked up the hut. Magicked the furs on the bed clean for what felt like the thousandth time since she had arrived, so terribly abused in the wake of their lovemaking. Now, she was just worried and bored. She sat on the side of the bed, alternating between watching the door and casting spells on the plates to keep them warm.

When Muriel came in, she rose to greet him, but he was across the room before she could even take a step. He had her face in his hands, bending down to catch her mouth, pressing soft kisses against her lips. His eyes were closed. Celeste was pleased but caught off guard. She brought her arms to his neck, drawing him in more firmly against her. He smoothed his hands down her neck, her chest, to her hips.

Celeste pulled back a bit, breaking free of his lips, studying his face. "What...what's wrong?" she asked, seeing how his expression was fallen. All false passion. Sadness radiating off of him.

He didn't answer, but he held her hips, his hands moving at her side subtly, fidgeting. She tried to pull away, and he released her, his hands forming fists at his sides.

"What happened?" she asked, looking him over, searching him for signs of injury. "Muriel?" She pressed, but he would not meet her gaze.

"Please...just..." he started, trying to find words. To compose himself.

In his hand, he had the tiny satchel of myrrh. Stolen from her skirt pocket. It felt like it burned in his fist.

"Celeste, I need you to kiss me. Just...I need you for a few minutes. Please?" he said, opening his eyes. He swallowed his tears, trying to remain composed, not wanting to give himself away.

"Muriel..." she said, confused. He never needed to ask her before. She was free to him, to kiss, to touch.

She heard the door open again behind Muriel. And she stepped to his side. Muriel tense, not turning.

Asra.

"Oh," she said, staring.

Asra said nothing, his eyes downcast.

"Oh, no," she said, putting the pieces together. Her hand moved to her side, and she found the pocket emptied. The memory charm gone.

They all stood silent for a moment, unsure how to move forward.

"I don't want to forget," Celeste said, finally. "Please...we can stay here. Asra. Please. Master, Please." she implored, frantic, feeling tears welling in her eyes.

Muriel, pained by the tone of her voice, turned to sweep her into his arms, and Asra was across the room as quickly, catching her. They were tangled together, trying to comfort her, explain themselves, words falling on her like rain.

None of it made sense. Wasn't this what they all wanted? Why did they want her to forget? Why would they punish themselves in this way?

"Celeste, we love you," Asra said, clinging to her. "That's why we have to go. We will be together. Soon. But, for now, we have to take care of you...and that means we can't stay."

Asra's eyes met Muriel's, and Muriel nodded, continuing. "We are going to fix this. I promise you. But we still have things to do. We have promises to keep. You don't understand...but you will. Soon. Okay?"

"No, no. I won't understand. Why is this happening? Please, tell me." she said, sobbing into his chest. "Why can't I remember? Why can't I stay?"

They held each other, Asra's head on Celeste's shoulder, tears streaming from his eyes. Muriels face buried in her hair, breathing her in. There was no good answer to any of this. Nothing satisfactory to offer her. It was devastating. Knowing she was too fragile to entrust with this knowledge. That maybe she'd never be able to grasp it. And what if she could? Would she trust them? Would she be able to go on loving them?

But, for now, their patrons had been clear. Celeste and Asra were not safe to stay. They all had to play their part.

Asra disengaged from them. He gave Muriel's arm a squeeze. Hoping to impart some small comfort, but knowing it was utterly useless.

Muriel whispered words of love and comfort. He made promises that he didn't know he would be able to keep. He kissed her over and over. He wiped her tears away, held her tight. He pledged his love and devotion to her.

When she was exhausted and defeated, she moved from the circle of his embrace, her hand at his cheek, staring into his eyes.

She made one last plea. "Let me stay, Muriel. I won't forget."

He shook his head, drawing a ragged breath. "It will be okay," he replied unconvincingly. "Because we love each other. And we'll find a way back to one another."

Asra placed his hand on her shoulder. "We have to go. Okay? Once you're outside, it will be easier. I promise. It will be quick."

Muriel looked upwards, remembering. It wasn't easy, last time. He remembered her wailing as he disappeared from her. He never wanted to feel this again. Never wanted to hurt her like this.

He followed them to the door. He caught her arm as they moved to leave, pulling her back to him for one final kiss. It was shaky and painful. Almost bruising.

"I love you," Celeste said, new tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"I love you," Muriel replied, his hand falling away from her.

Asra swiped his arm across his eyes, watching as Celeste stepped out. He turned back to Muriel, and Muriel raised his hand to him.

"You can't come here. Not anymore." Muriel said, dark, his eyes narrowing.

Asra blinked at him, shaking his head. "Muriel, please..."

"You aren't welcome here. I won't do this again. I can't." he said, finally.

Asra stepped back, clenching his jaw. "You don't mean it."

"I do." Muriel bit back.

And then the door swung closed. Asra heard Muriel fall against it, bracing against Asra. Against Celeste. Sealing himself away.

Asra stood, staring. Numb.

Celeste was staring off into the forest. Her hand was at her chest, unsure of what this sensation was. Why these tears were creeping from her eyes. Where she even was. She turned around, and caught the sight of Asra's hair, staring at a stone structure, buried below a tree.

"Asra?" she asked, looking around, panicked. "Asra, what's happening?" she cried out, frenzied when he did not turn to her.

Muriel sat, back against the door, listening to her scream Asra's name, completely lost.

He drew his knees up to his chest, arms crossed over them and lowered his head. His body shook with painful, silent sobs, wrenching out of his chest.

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 2

Chapter 1 is here.

It was the aching of his empty stomach that dragged Aedion reluctantly from sleep.  He had been dreaming of following a voice through trees in the dark, a laughing child’s voice that he could barely hear over rushing water.  No matter how fast he ran, the voice kept getting farther and farther away, until it disappeared entirely.  And though his heart was breaking at the loss of that voice, just as he was about to throw himself into the water after it, another came and made him pause.  A mature, female voice, that merely said, “She lives.”  The dream had shifted then, to Rhoe and a dream he had had many times in the past months.  This one had a basis in memory, the two of them sparring, Rhoe pausing occasionally to correcting his footwork or his grip.  As always, the dream ended with Rhoe asking, “Do you know what your most important weapon is?”  Every time, he woke with that question on his lips, but the answer never came.  Now he had that second voice, the one that give him a tiny spark of hope, echoing behind the question.  Even if he knew that any hope was false.

Something smelled wrong.  Though the musty smell of canvas mixed with mud and piss was universal in the war camps, there was a different note to it.  As that intruded onto his consciousness, he wondered why everything hurt.  Then he shifted and the shackles connecting his ankles and wrists clanked and pulled and he remembered.  He kept his eyes closed, sorting through the various sounds and scents drifting towards him.  He was alone on a slightly too short cot in a tent.  There was a guard outside.  Faint sounds of people beginning to stir were audible, and he thought he might not be imagining the distant warm scent of coffee.  Stifling his groan, he pulled himself into a sitting position and scanned his surroundings.  The rosy light of dawn came through the gap in the tent, which was so small he wouldn’t be able to stand upright in it.  The other cot was empty and looked as if it hadn’t been slept in at all.  In fact, there were only the barest traces of scents other than his own.  He wondered who the prior occupants had been, what had happened to them.  If either of them had been among the people he and Quinn had killed before Quinn had dropped at his feet and he had been taken.  With a surge of bile in his throat he remembered the feel of his sword plunging deep into a belly, the reverberation when the blade had barked against bone.   He rubbed his hands over his face, though his chains were short enough he had to bend his head to do it.  Pressing his fingers into his eyes, he took a deep breath and felt stabbing pain in his ribs.  The nausea subsided and with that his hunger and thirst surged.  They had fed him the previous night, a little meat and bread, but it was scant fare given how long he had gone without.

He got to his feet slowly, not wanting to hit the dirt if he rose too quickly while this light-headed.  There was a pitcher of water on the small table between the cots, and he poured a glass, then struggled to drink it due to the shortness of his chains.  Bastards.  He finally figured out that if he curled up on his cot he could manage to drink with only a little spillage.  After draining the pitcher his head cleared and he shuffled to the tent opening.  The guard turned, hand on his sword hilt, as he pushed through the flaps.  

“The prince emerges,” the man said sarcastically.  Aedion straightened to his full height and looked silently down at the guard.  The smaller man snorted.  “Lord Breiner requests your presence, Prince Ashryver.”  There was a distinct sneer in the tone.  “Follow me.”  He strode off at a rapid clip that Aedion struggled to match with his shackles.  Curious eyes turned to him as they passed by the ordinary soldiers who were going about their morning business.  The camp rhythms were no different than those he was used to - people eating, cleaning weapons, bantering, just as he had been a few days prior with a different flag overhead.  He glared at the crimson and gold wyvern that flew over the largest tent, the one they were heading to.  They passed by a tall fence, spiked on the top, and he could hear people moving and murmuring on the far side.  Prisoners.  He wondered why he was not among them.  

As they approached the big tent, its guard nodded to the man he was following.  “He’s expecting you, you can go right in.”  Aedion ducked into the tent behind his guide and straightened when he recognized the man from the night before.  The man who had been willing to torture an innocent girl just to get Aedion’s name, but who had vomited his guts up afterwards.  He didn’t know what to make of that, of him.  

“Well, puppy,” the brown-haired man said, gesturing to a chair.  Aedion sat down, eyeing the man warily.  “We just received word that the Terrasen Lords have surrendered and are suing for peace.  Your country now belongs to Adarlan.”  The words hit him like a physical blow.  For Darrow to surrender to the man who had killed King Orlon, for his countrymen to now be subjected to the whims of the monster in Rifthold…  “This means,” Breiner went on, “that you now officially belong to Adarlan.  General Paget just left to go aid in the negotiations of the surrender, but he ordered me to write to the King and ask what to do with you.  Technically, you may be considered next in line to the crown, since Rhoe Galathynius had no siblings and no surviving children.”

No surviving children.  The words hit him like stones, and for the second time that morning, bile stung Aedion’s throat.  That voice he had been following in his dream…  He rallied his strength, willing his agony not to show in his face.  “My understanding,” he forced out, “is that in the absence of a Galathynius ruler, the leadership of the country is turned over to the Lords.  I am not heir.  I am nothing to anyone who remains in Terrasen.”  

Breiner’s face was skeptical.  “That seems hard to believe, given the lengths they went to try to get you out.”

“Only because of my age.  Lord Darrow didn’t want me there at all but we needed every available sword.”

“And yet it did your people no good in the end.”

Aedion clenched his teeth and counted to ten to keep from rising to the bait.  “What am I to do here?”

“Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are to address me as Lord or Sir.  You are a prisoner of war and a member of my camp now.  Don’t make me remind you with another demonstration.”  He turned his attention to the papers in front of him in dismissal.  

Taking a deep, painful breath, Aedion asked, almost managing to keep the insolence out of his voice, “What am I supposed to do here, sir?”

Breiner did not look up from his paperwork.  “Iain will show you.  You will help with camp maintenance, and you are expected to join us for training.  You may go now.”

The guard - Iain, he supposed - gestured to him to follow, a smirk on his narrow face.  He hesitated for just a moment before obeying.  Thankfully, Iain said little as he brought them to the camp mess and removed the chain linking his hands to his feet, though he left the shackles on.  Aedion laid into the porridge, salt pork, and bread like a man starving.  Which, he supposed, he was.  When he finally surfaced for air, he realized Iain and several other soldiers were staring at him, mouths agape.

“What?” he asked, spraying a few crumbs.

“Leave some food for the rest of the soldiers,” Iain said.  

With the edge finally taken off his hunger, Aedion leaned back a little, stretching his long legs out in front of him with minimal clanking from the shackles, and took a leisurely bite of an apple.   Looking the guard up and down as he chewed, he allowed a slow smile to spread across his face.  “I’m twice your size, midget,” he drawled, “it makes sense I should eat twice as much.”  

Iain grinned and flicked his eyes to Aedion’s groin.  “I’m not sure you want to go comparing sizes there, whelp,” he replied, “at least not till your balls have dropped.”

This was familiar, no different than the usual verbal sparring that took place at every camp.  “If you wanted to see my balls, you should’ve just asked.  Though I’m not sure you’d even recognize real ones if you saw them.”  Everybody chuckled, and one of the soldiers - the shorter guard from the night before - gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder.   A part of him hated them for their easy acceptance of him after they had been involved in the destruction of his kingdom.  A larger part of him hated himself for seeking it.

His job for the morning was helping clean up the mess, a task that would have been much easier were he not still restricted by the chains, which kept catching on the tables and chairs.  Iain then fetched him and showed him the way to the weapons master to join a couple of the other boys in cleaning the weapons.  The sight and smell of the dried blood of his countrymen embedded in the blades and hilts made him want to use these blades to destroy every single one of the soldiers in the camp.  The master watched him closely as he stood staring at them, nostrils flaring, trembling fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to gain control of himself.

“It’s all right, son,” the man finally said.  “How about you oil the clean ones.”  The other boys were pretending not too be paying attention, but their eyes kept flicking to him over their task.  Gritting his teeth, he picked his way over to the end of the bench and sat, picking up the freshly cleaned blade the boy next to him had just set down.  The master set down a bottle of oil and a cloth, and Aedion stared at it for a moment before taking a deep breath and reaching for them.  He ignored the other boys, concentrating on the familiar task, ensuring the right amount of oil coated each fresh blade.  When the bell rang for lunch, the other two leaped to their feet and ran to the mess.  Aedion finished the dagger he had been working on and carefully placed in on the designated rack before looking towards the man who had been studying his work.  

“Nice job, you know how to properly care for a blade.”  He shook his head, disapproval spreading across his wrinkled face.  “Most boys want to swing them but don’t want to bother with making sure they’re fit for the job.  You’ve been trained well.  Go ahead on to lunch, now.  You look like you could use some food.”  Aedion nodded, his stomach growling loudly in agreement.  As he passed by, the man dropped a gnarled hand on his arm.  “It gets easier,” he said quietly.  Aedion shot him a questioning look but it was ignored.  After a long moment, he turned and shuffled towards the mess, and when he glanced over his shoulder the weapons master was just standing there, head bowed, staring at nothing.

After lunch, he was sent to the training area.  There were half a dozen other boys there, the youngest probably twelve, the oldest maybe sixteen or seventeen, and a few older men.  He was surprised there weren’t more given the size of the camp, but then recalled this place was not intended for training, but for an extermination.  Likely the boys were all sons of the higher-ranking warriors. Not able to do anything with his hands and feet still shackled, he sat on the slope overlooking the area and watched the warmup.  The men ignored him, while the boys kept glancing his way.  He scoffed at their lack of concentration.  Rhoe would’ve had his head for it.  Pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them, he studied their sloppy footwork.  He felt a man come up next to him. He could smell it was Breiner, but deliberately did not acknowledge him.  

“What do you think?” came the older man’s tenor voice.

“They lack discipline,” Aedion replied.  He waited a beat, then added, “Sir.”

There was a pause, then, “Would you care to elaborate?”

He snorted and gave a shrug.  “They keep gaping at me like I’m some exotic animal.  If they can’t concentrate here, when it’s quiet, how will they manage it in battle?  Plus their footwork is terrible.”  His mind flashed to the memory of the ground slippery with blood, the screams and groans of dying men around him, and how it felt to let all that become just a faint buzz as he brought his sword down on the shield of an unknown Adarlanian soldier.  How automatic it had been to keep his feet moving, to attack and retreat as if it were all a well-learned dance.  

Breiner sat down next to him.  “It so happens I agree with you.  It can be a challenge to keep so few boys disciplined.  I think it’s easier when they’re in a training camp with large numbers.”

“There were but a handful of us when I was training.”  He didn’t add that for the year before the assassinations it had been just he and Ren working so closely with Rhoe and his men.  Dark-haired, angry Ren, now also gone to the chopping blocks with the entire Allsbrook family.  The boys below moved on to working with practice swords, and while they paid better attention, their footwork still made them vulnerable.  He shook his head in disgust, and then noticed Breiner was studying him rather than the practice.  

“If I undo those shackles, will you go down and train with them?”

Aedion sorted through his thoughts for a moment.  He knew why Breiner was asking rather than ordering, that the camp lord was hoping to use him as a means of pushing the boys to work harder.  He didn’t know how he felt about making his enemy better.  At the same time, he would need to keep working or he’d lose ground.  Most of his body still hurt, not as fiercely as in the morning, but likely the increased movement would do nothing but help.  He also needed to figure out the dynamics here, what type of a leader this man beside him was. “What happened to that girl?”

“What girl?”

He was a bastard for not remembering.  “The girl you were willing to torture to get me to talk.”

“She’s back in the corral with her family, I assume,” he said indifferently.

“Who are the prisoners?  Why was she among them?”

Breiner shrugged.  “Most of them are villagers we took as we marched to battle.  I would guess she was one of those.  A few are soldiers who lay down their arms.”

“Why take the villagers?”

Another shrug.  “They were in danger where they were, should the battle be pushed back, and we wanted some leverage.  Plus now it lets us sort through who might be a danger to us at our leisure.  The rest will be released.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard.  “I’ll train with the others, if I can check on the prisoners personally.”

Breiner looked at him, nonplussed.  “I can order you to train.”

“Yes, but if you are looking for me to show these fools how to work properly, you need me to want to cooperate.”

“Or I can just throw you back in the pit.”

“You could do that.”  He slid his gaze back to the boys fumbling around on the turf in front of him.  Gods, they were terrible.  How the hell did Adarlan conquer everything if they couldn’t train better than this?

Breiner’s voice intruded on this thoughts.  “If you do as I ask, you can go and check on the prisoners.  With a guard.”

Aedion did not reply, merely held his hands out for Breiner to unlock his shackles.  The camp lord pulled a key out of his pocket, then looked at him before unlocking them.  “I want you to go through a basic warmup, then spar with whoever they order you to.  Show us what you can do.”  He inserted the key into first one manacle, then the other; they thudded to the ground, and he began rolling his wrists, then his shoulders as the lord freed his ankles.  He tried to hide the tightness of his muscles as he stood and walked down the slight hill, pausing at the edge to begin stretching.  A glance up the hill showed Breiner’s focus pinned on his every movement.  He’d have to make this good.

*****

Erik watched the gangly boy shake off his stiffness, his movements slowly becoming more fluid.  He was a clever one, to not just leap at the chance to be free of his shackles, but to negotiate to see the prisoners.  Erik wished he hadn’t told the general the prince’s true identity.  While he still believed every man could be broken, he had realized the night before as he had vomited in the woods that he didn’t want to break this one.  He wanted to convert him.  He had watched him surreptitiously all day as he quickly found a foothold with the men and did his work efficiently and well despite his shackles.  Talking to him now, seeing him put his finger so adeptly on the weaknesses of the young trainees, only served to strengthen his belief this boy could be made into Adarlan’s greatest general if he could be won over.

Unfortunately, now that the King would learn who the blue-eyed, golden-haired young giant was, he doubted he’d have a chance.  It was only a matter of time before the King either took him to be broken or killed.  Ashryver began footwork drills, and now the boys blatantly stopped their work to watch him.  Even the instructors did.  Erik couldn’t blame them.  Despite his lanky height, the boy moved as if he was dancing, every step precise, clean.  It suddenly struck Erik that the boy hadn’t had a chance to get cleaned up or even gotten fresh clothes; his own were filthy and torn, and it was difficult from here to tell what marks on his face were dirt and what were bruises.  He’d have to make sure the boy got a chance to bathe, and he’d have to find him some clothes.

Just as he’d asked, Manas, the main instructor, paired Ashryver up with Burr once he was warmed up and ready to get to work with his wooden practice sword.  He was surprised to see the boy handle the sword with his left hand; he hadn’t paid attention when he’d come in at the end of the boy’s stand over the fallen Terrasen warrior’s body, but the way he did his footwork he would have thought him to be right-handed.  Burr was not quite as tall as the prince but much thicker and more muscled, having just turned seventeen.  He was also their most aggressive fighter, and the least likely to be interested in finesse.  Manas had expressed concern when he had recommended the pairing, thinking the age and weight difference might pose an issue, but Erik had merely replied, “It would do Burr good to get beaten into the dirt,” and Manas had let it go.

The two boys circled each other, then Burr moved in, as usual his aggression destroying his footwork and with it his balance.  Aedion simply stepped to the side, deflected Burr’s blade, and then smacked him on the ass with the flat of his own as the boy blew past him.  Burr was furious, whirling on the taller boy, trying to get the wooden blade into his neck, but Aedion dodged with ease and used his momentum against him, dumping him in the dirt just as Erik had predicted.  Manas and the other instructors were covering their mouths with their hands.  Erik could see Burr saying something to Aedion as he rose from the dirt, but couldn’t hear what the latter replied.  Whatever it was, it must have been good, because Burr launched on him in an all-out assault.  Aedion met the charge, blocking the blow and twisting his weapon so that he forced the blade out of Burr’s hand.  When Burr stupidly lunged at him, bare-handed, Aedion simply stepped into the rush, jabbing with an elbow just below the sternum.  The older boy hit the dirt again, gasping like a fish, the wind knocked out of him.  Aedion loomed over him, looking down in disgust, and Erik thought he heard him say in that still-changing voice, “Now this time, stay down.”  Sitting up on his hill, Erik began to grin.  

Ashryver went to Manas, dipped his head respectfully, and thanked him for the match; Manas told him next time they’d find him a better partner.  He returned the sword to the rack, and walked up to where Erik was still sitting.  “I didn’t realize you were left-handed,” Erik said.

“I’m not,” the boy replied.  “Now, when can I see the prisoners?”

*****

An hour after the sparring match that was so pathetic it barely counted, Aedion was finally clean and was wearing some of Breiner’s old clothes.  They were a little big in the shoulders and the waist, but at least they were long enough.  The short guard from the night before, Deaghall, had replaced the shackles on his wrists and ankles and now brought him to the gate of the prisoner’s corral.  As they walked over, the small man asked, “So, is everyone in there going to go all ga-ga because there’s a bona fide prince among them?”

Aedion snorted.  “Hardly.  None of these people are going to have any clue who I am.”

Deaghall looked at him in astonishment.  “The people won’t recognize a prince of their realm?”

“I’m not a prince of their realm,” he replied.  “I’m technically a prince of Wendlyn.  Here I’m just a relative of the massacred royal family.  Maybe if we were closer to Orynth I might at least be recognized, but out here?”  He shook his head.

Deaghall nodded to the two fellow guards who opened the gate, and then followed Aedion through.  Most of the people were sitting on the ground in small groups, some leaning against the fence.  The low murmur of voices hushed when Aedion and Deaghall were noticed, and the people largely seemed to shrink back.  Aedion strode as boldly as his shackles would allow, keen eyes looking for any signs of the people being mistreated.  The slop buckets were overfull, the stench pronounced enough his eyes watered.  There were no cots or bedrolls, but there was a well at the far end with a bucket and ladle.  “Are they being fed?” he asked in an undertone.  Deaghall bristled.  “Of course they’re being fed.  We’re not monsters.  Ask any one of them.”

One of the older men, grizzled and bent, met Aedion’s eye.  He crouched down close to him.  “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.  The man nodded, his still-clear eyes tear bright.  “Are you getting enough food?”

“Yes, Prince,” the man said in a husky voice.  Aedion dropped his head at the honorific.  He had sincerely not thought he would be recognized, and the hope in the man’s face broke his heart.  He was powerless to help these people, they were at the mercy of Breiner and Adarlan now, and while he might have some reason for faith in the former, he had no trust in the latter.  Even with Breiner, he knew these people’s lives were worth less than his own cooperation.  He raised his face to the man again, and took his outstretched hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.  

Around the corral he went, chins dropping all around him, some pressing fingers to their lips.  There were tears in his own eyes now.  Pausing here and there to say a few words of sympathy, to squeeze a shoulder, he went to nearly every person in that pen.  One woman stood up and wrung his hand, crying “Thank you, thank you.”  He opened his mouth to ask her why, but then saw sitting behind her, cheek bruised and eyes wide, the girl from the night before.  Pulling away from the woman he assumed was her mother, he knelt before the girl and gently took her hand.  

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked softly, and the tears rolled down her face as she shook her head.  He touched her bruised cheek gently, the moisture wicking onto his fingertips.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  He wanted to say more, but didn’t know what.  Then everyone around him was reaching for him, just brushing fingers against his arms, his hair.  He didn’t understand.  He was just as lost and trapped as they were, just as conquered.  He had failed to save anyone who meant anything to him but these people, these prisoners of war…he could see hope flare in their eyes as they touched him.

When Deaghall cleared his throat and the prisoners backed away, Aedion stood slowly.  He felt the guard’s hand on his back, guiding him through the gate, then back to his tent, but he wasn’t really seeing his surroundings.  Sitting on his cot, all he could think of was Aelin, his tiny cousin, crackling with flame and passion and joy.  If only he had ridden out when Orlon had been assassinated, maybe he could have saved that bright flame from being drowned in the river.  Maybe in doing so, he could have saved Terrasen.  But she was gone, small body lost to the icy water, and his heart and hope with her.  Still, somebody had to stand for Terrasen.  Somebody had to protect his country, even now that its lords had given up, even now that it belonged to Adarlan.  For those people who had pressed gentle hands to a fellow prisoner who maybe somehow still represented the glory of a kingdom, he would have to try.

He had not been allowed anything sharp, so he sank his own teeth into his palm until blood welled.  Clenching his fist, he allowed three drops to hit the dirt between his feet, and he swore his vow to Terrasen, to Aelin, to Rhoe and Orlon and Evalin and Quinn.  To the old man and the young girl now a mere hundred hards away.  He would do whatever he had to to protect its people, their people.  His people.  If he had to sell himself to Adarlan, he would do so.  If he had to lie or kill or steal, if he had to become another person entirely, he would not fail them as he had failed his family.  He would find a way.  

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Hot Springs (Part 7)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. Telurin considers his conflicted feelings about continuing to be Pallas’s guardian, indirectly putting the anchorite in danger from his own death knight compulsions. The following day on the road, Pallas suggests they stop at a natural hot springs. Pallas encourages Telurin to join him in the warm water, and their attraction to one another comes to light. (Advisory for some erotic content.)

With a growl, Telurin closes the distance and catches the smaller man by the shoulder, spinning him around.

“And where did you think you were going, Pallas?” he says, holding him still by the arms, close enough to touch.

It's true, Pallas was carrying a vial of oil with everything else. Maybe it was a holdover from his time with Boros. Then again, Boros has been dead for several years.

The pale priest is snatched by the shoulder when he dares consider draping himself over a boulder, and spun around. Telurin is being controlling again, and thankfully Pallas trusts him well enough by this point that it all comes out sounding hot. He squeaks a bit, blushing blue again, "I-I... I thought I'd..." He had hoped to bare his rump to the other man and raise his tail, but he can't bring himself to say such a thing.

Telurin lets go of Pallas's arms to caress down his sides, over his buttocks and up his back, encircling him with touches, reining his passion back down to something more gentle.

"Thought you'd what...?" he purred, bending his head to say it directly into Pallas's ear, punctuating it with a nip of that same ear, beginning to trail small nips down Pallas's neck. It may not help the Anchorite's concentration, but it was fun all the same. His hands didn't stop their own exploration, as if he was greedy for touch now that he'd finally allowed himself the skin to skin contact.

Pallas gasps at the attention of Telurin's hands and teeth, his heart suddenly throbbing again and leaping up into his throat. His skin erupted all over into goose pimples. Even with this relatively light groping, the priest all but falls to pieces in the Death Knight's hands because it was so unexpected and generously given. "I-I just..." Pallas closes his eyes, feebly trying to touch Telurin just to hold himself up. "Thought I would just..." The Death Knight is taking control, and Pallas finds that he wants him to.

Telurin feels the Anchorite begin to tremble, and is already shifting to support him as Pallas reaches out to steady himself against the very same thing that's causing the loss of his motor control.

"Come now, Pallas..." Telurin's grin is wicked as continues his assault with one hand and a clever use of his tail, enjoying the fact that the Anchorite can barely complete a sentence over such simple touches. "You thought you would just.... finish the sentence for me, my dear, come on now." He takes one of the smaller man's neckticles in his mouth and sucks it gently before continuing, "I know you can say it."

Pallas can tell Telurin intends to continue to administer sweet torture until he actually says what he was intending to do. For a few moments, the priest considers being difficult and simply refusing to answer, but the Death Knight's touches are like tickles, he could only take so much. The Anchorite is flinching and struggling all over helplessly before he finally replies, his cheeks hot, "I wanted to just... l-lay over there on that rock a-and put my tail up for you... Sir." For some reason, speaking what he meant to do was more difficult than actually initiating the act.

Telurin smirks, something Pallas is more positioned to feel than to see. “Oh, what a delightful willingness you have, Pallas.” He murmurs, his lips brushing Pallas's skin as he speaks, “But there will be time for that later, when each of us knows the other's limits. This time, the first time, I want to look at you while I fuck you. To watch you squirm in pleasure as I fill you completely… To see your face as you can't take it any more and tumble over into the abyss. I want to see all of it. Do not deny me this, Pallas.”

Pallas's stomach does a flip when Telurin mentions there being a 'later'. There had not, of course, been any guarantee Telurin would have been interested or willing to continue these fraternizations. It would not have surprised Pallas if the Death Knight might have wanted to try it once to satisfy their curiosity, and then never again. The fact that Telurin so assuredly states that there will indeed be a next time makes the priest's heart soar.

Pallas swallows in amazement, then registers the rest of what Telurin is saying. The Death Knight wants to fuck him while looking at him, and he's demanding this in such a manner where it's clear he won't have it any other way. The little priest blushes hotly at the descriptions of himself being fucked senseless, and he swallows again and nods anxiously. "...Yes, Telurin, Sir."

"There's a good boy." Telurin smiles, a pleased little expression that promises wonderful things. "On your back, then." He punctuates this with a slap to Pallas's ass, just hard enough to sting, and he lets the little priest go.

Pallas eeps at the smart little slap of the much bigger draenei's hand to his soft buttocks, then he is released from Telurin's clutches. He looks uncertainly at the Death Knight, then lowers himself to sit on the ground where he was, then lays himself out among the flowers and grass on his back.

He sees the white moon above, and the stars, and the tops of the beautiful willow-trees that line the hot springs and the lake. He is surrounded by white and lavender flowers in the moonlight. Pallas looks up at Telurin, his eyes two faint points of light blue in the silvery dark.

Telurin's eyes never leave Pallas's body as he lays down, not even when he himself kneels between Pallas's legs, straddles his tail and grabs his hips, pulling him halfway up his lap. He takes a moment then, to take in the sight of this small, beautiful man spread out before him, hard and waiting, trusting him completely. It's heady stuff for the death knight.

"Have I told you you're beautiful yet?" He asks, running his hands down Pallas's thighs. He manages to open the vial of oil with only one hand, the other having migrated to stroke down the length of Pallas's erection, palming him idly. He stops only to pour some of the oil out onto his fingers, and starts to tease Pallas with them, rubbing small circles against his entrance before slipping one inside, beginning to open the smaller man up.

Pallas felt almost as if he were in an altered state or a trance. His senses were hyper-focused. Everything that happened--Telurin kneeling in-between his legs, picking up his hips, caressing his own aching penis with his thick fingers--seemed to be happening on its own timeline independent from the rest of the world.

He was aware of Telurin telling him he was beautiful, and of the fingers that found their way to one of the most private parts of himself and into it. But even as the priest starts to whimper and croon at Telurin's preparation and teasing, it's the eyes of the Death Knight that he stays riveted to.

Pallas thought back to the days when they had first met. Telurin had been so aloof. He had remained in the shadows and repeatedly tried to turn Pallas away from him, finally allowing the priest to remain on a whim. He had looked so gloomy.

Pallas started to tear up at the thought that this was the same man, and that Telurin could be as loving as this. He blinked, the tears flowing. "I'm fine," he whispered in a gentle, but convicted voice so that Telurin was aware he wasn't causing him pain. "Please don't stop."

Excepting for a few quick glances to position himself, to set down the vial, Telurin's eyes have been locked with Pallas’s, and as such, he's able to tell when Pallas begins to slip into something like a trance, possibly even the beginnings of subspace. It makes him grateful he chose this position, he'll need to be even more attentive if Pallas wants to drift on sensation. When the Anchorite begins to tear up, he stills, but as Pallas assures him he's fine he nods and continues.

"Shh..." he says, wiping away those tears with his non-oiled hand, "It's fine. You're fine, little one, more than fine. You are the most beautiful creature I've laid eyes on and I am so, so very pleased with you right now. Relax, that's all you have to do now." Even as he speaks he's added another finger and is scissoring them slowly, stretching him out.

Pallas sniffles as he feels Telurin's hand move lightly over his face to brush his salty tears away. He listens to the Death Knight's words... Beautiful, he doesn't think he's heard anyone say anything so lovely to him in ages. Telurin is telling him to relax. Pallas knows he can do so, but he will have to push the older memories out of his mind. He works on focusing on the immediate, and what was happening between them now.

He can relax... Telurin isn't going to hurt him, he knows this now. The priest seems to settle down, biting his lip at the feel of the Death Knight working him open. He hasn't been intimate with anyone in this way since Boros, and this man is a very different beast than Boros was.

Telurin feels the moment when Pallas decides to trust his words, or perhaps their tone and the gentle movements of his hands. He works a third finger in with the others easily and judges Pallas to be sufficiently opened up, and removes his fingers, reaching for the oil once more and coating his own member thoroughly. He pauses, the head of his cock pressing against Pallas's entrance.

"Ready?" Telurin's voice is rough with desire, but he's got enough control of himself still to stop if Pallas doesn't agree.

Pallas hadn't expected to receive this sort of consideration from Telurin. He isn't sure what he expected, but he is touched and humbled by everything the other man has chosen to do in these last few minutes. The priest swallows, the Adam's Apple in his thin throat bobbing as he feels the head of Telurin's cock at his entrance. He's small, and Telurin is enormous. Out of all the risky things he's decided to do involving this Death Knight, he wonders how this one ranks.

But there was no stopping this. Pallas couldn't think of anything he wanted more than to feel Telurin losing himself in him. He licks his lips, his eyes panning over the surreal sight of Telurin's muscular chest and belly between his open legs and his cock /right there/, before returning them to the Death Knight's own. He nods slightly, "I'm ready." It was spoken fearlessly. Even if the sex itself made him ache, that was secondary to the trust that was exchanged.

In contrast to Pallas, Telurin is as tense as a coiled spring, full of potential energy. Despite this, he looks into the slender Anchorite’s eyes and enters him slowly, inch by inch, watching for any sign of discomfort as he does, otherwise only intending to stop when he's buried himself completely in the other man.

Pallas's pupils dilate when he feels himself breached. They snap to attention on Telurin's with an expression of looking completely possessed or taken over at the sensation of being entered by the other man. His breathing becomes shallow - He's very tight, and Telurin's cock is a lot of inches.

He can do this. He knows he can, he's done it before, with a man who, while not quite as large, was at least of comparable size. Pallas relaxes himself with some effort, making tiny noises as Telurin edges his way in. He feels filled by the other man to an impossible degree, as if Telurin would literally force him into two, but somehow, there's room for Telurin's cock to slide in. The toes of Pallas's hoofs curl, and his tail pinned underneath Telurin writhes.

Telurin, meanwhile, would feel his cock squeezed by an exceptionally tight little warm passage. It doesn't feel like this should be possible, yet he was still edging within.

Pallas is exceptionally tight, and it's all Telurin can do to get himself seated without incident. The desire to push into the other man hard and fast was intense, but it would be the wrong move, so he inches his way in, slowly, tortuously, with a moan that tumbles into words, “Light, Pallas you are so *tight* this is perfect..."

When he's in completely, he stops, looking strung out, his tail twining with Pallas's as it writhes. After a moment, he's composed again, under control, and he begins to move, thrusts slow and full, almost all the way out to far enough in that his balls touch Pallas's ass. He remembers, somewhere around the second thrust, that he has hands that could be doing more than resting on Pallas's thighs, and he begins to trail his fingers down Pallas's soft skin, across his belly and over his cock, down his sides and over his hips.

With a monumental joint effort, Telurin manages to hilt himself inside Pallas's soft rump and Pallas manages to accommodate him. The priest is panting, sweat already starting to glisten over his body at their union. He manages a smile briefly at Telurin's groaned words, aware of the effect his body is having on the Death Knight and delighting in it.

At least, Pallas delighted in it, until Telurin actually begins to move. He's being fucked slowly, but it's already so deep, and Pallas's back arches as Telurin finally claims him. "Ah!" The poor thing makes the most fucked little noises, then he steadies himself by focusing on wrapping his tail tighter with Telurin's. He's grateful for this contact - Among draenei, tail touching was intimate, and it could mean a range of comforting emotions depending on how it was done.

He's well aware of the feel of Telurin's balls and the touch of his hands while the Death Knight fucks him, but the greatest sensation is simply being taken over by this amazing man. Pallas tries to move, attempting to shift his hips so that the head of Telurin's cock brushes his prostate.

Telurin keeps his tail twined with Pallas's, grounding him, keeping the both of them steady. He feels the shift of Pallas's hips and smirks, leaving off his exploration to grab the little Anchorite's hips and shifts him so that he's at a better angle, watching Pallas's face with each thrust and adjusting accordingly until he's hitting his prostate every time. When he's found it, he starts stroking Pallas in tandem with his thrusts. He's determined to last until Pallas is sated, but the other man is making that extremely difficult with all of his writhing and arching and all those absofuckinglutely gorgeous sounds.

It's true, Pallas whimpers and mewls while Telurin pounds him. His marble white hair is tousled, there is a sheen of sweat on his body, and in general he looks as if he's barely able to keep himself together. He shifts his hips wantonly with Telurin's after the other man helps position him. "Oh, oh Telurin, Light, how..." How can a Death Knight be doing this. They're dead.

Perhaps fortuitously, the little Anchorite's endurance isn't much to speak of. He'd been abstinent for several years and this entire situation of Telurin coming close to him for the first time excites him beyond what he can endure. It's after only a few lances to his sensitive prostate that Pallas comes, thin and helpless. His back arches and his entire thin body goes rigid. "Agh, Telurin, oh Light, coming, Velen's--" He isn't even able to get his usual curse out. Rapturous, electrifying pleasure seizes his body, from where Telurin's cock has been stimulating him all the way through his extremities and fingers and Pallas thinks he might have just gone blind with orgasm.

Telurin feels Pallas clench and unclench around him and it is too much for his weakened control. He lets go of the other man's cock and grabs his hips, thrusting brutally into Pallas as he comes, holding him down in the process. It doesn't take long before the death knight himself is coming, twitching inside Pallas. His legs tremble and he hangs his head, steadying himself with hands that are still on Pallas’s hips. Slowly, he comes back to himself, and he looks at Pallas searchingly. Had he hurt him in taking his own pleasure?

Immediately following his orgasm, Pallas had thought he might get a moment of reprieve. Telurin had been fucking him firmly, but not too quickly, and he had guessed the older draenei must have equally legendary endurance.

But such was not the case, and the priest is seized for the fuck of his life. There's rough and then there's /rough/, and the smaller draenei is hard put to it, but at the same time it's powerful, liberating even, to feel Telurin finally lose himself to his own sensation. Pallas feels him coming inside of him, and wonders foggily whether Telurin would entertain the question of how that was possible.

Then Telurin stops moving and looks at Pallas. Pallas, by this point, looks like a tousled, sweaty mess. He cracks his eyes open again when Telurin seems to have stopped, catching the concern in them. The priest smiles reassuringly -- His arse feels incredibly sore, but he can heal himself, and he doesn't want Telurin to become afraid of intimacy with him. He raises an arm to try to put it around the back of the Death Knight's neck. Pallas could feel Telurin's release within him, and there was something very erotic to him about that. "You're amazing." he murmured.

When Pallas reaches for him he complies, shifting so he can rest on his elbows over the little Anchorite, and kisses him softly, in contrast to the rough pounding he had just delivered. He chuckles at Pallas's praise, lazy and indulgent.

"And think, we haven't even gotten past the basics." He lets his gaze trail over the messy, glorious mess he's made of Pallas. "Even better than I imagined."