Stunning art by my friend <3
I lean over her to lick the thick blood that shines on her skin with a crimson sheen. To taste her, bathed in rubies, when her eyes close and her lips let out a delightful sound. So deep. So dangerous. Her shivering body is like the sweetest torment, coming to offer me sharp edges.
Blood pools in my mouth, I feel it in my throat, overwhelming. Life and death, thickly braided together.
Her fingers run over my back, talons on my skin, which I would love to feel deeper.
She will feel mine very deeply.
I want to drown in her flavors. Sink into blood that binds us. Drink mortality to the last drop.
I want to make her scream.
My fingers run over her skin. The rivulets drip from her belly and trickle between her legs. I feel my desire growing as thick as the blood I have spilled upon her. I feel the sweet pressure, so tight, almost painful. She opens her eyes and I see death in them. Delicious death. I want to tear it from her, death and pleasure together, I want to swallow and devour her, destroy her and fill my loins with her overflowing power.
My shadows eat her hungrily from the inside and I feel her pleasure, a violent waterfall. I dip into the blood again and draw her closer, filling her mouth, her lips closing over me and tasting.
My aura slowly intertwines with hers, I feel her pull, a light, gossamer thread clinging to my darkness.
I have her spread out before me, all crimson, all dripping.
My undoing. And my victory.
Everything falls into perfect silence, into mute stillness. The world takes a breath, holds the air in its winter lungs, while the drums beat slowly in my veins. I feel her nerves tremble, I feel it in my sinews and bones, spread wide by our struggling auras.
I want to bring her a small death. A blind collapse into the all-consuming white.
Slowly she releases me from her mouth, licking her lips in a way only she is able to achieve.
She wants me to own her. She pulls me between her legs, open and inviting. Glistening with streams of blood. Her spell strong and intoxicating, her thoughts dark and seductive.
And I will.
Oh, I will own my cruel raven.
Tiyan felt as if the mountains were draining his soul, slowly, relentlessly; a dark passage through monotonous snow, accompanied by the dull howl of the increasing wind. The clouds above their heads had been gathering for two days, promising a storm. Tiyan knew about blizzards and how dangerous they could be in the mountains. He looked up almost masochistically, trying to guess when it would arrive.
But the clouds were heavy and there was no storm; a looming danger, a promise with no outcome. Tiyan had to admit that maybe it wasn’t as bad as a deadly avalanche… but he was stealing something from himself, another particle of his courage, already shattered by the gate to AIn’asel.
Qhal seemed worried, and that alone made it look like there wasn’t any danger above them, not in the approaching storm. His steps grew heavier, more calculated, and his eyes shifted. A moderately talkative fairy was replaced by a cautious and aware person who knew the scent of danger and felt it right now.
Tiyan was good at walking in silence, but this time, between the sharp chasms that could open beneath his legs at any moment, he needed to hear a human voice. Even if it did not come from a human.
“Have you passed this path before?” his voice, already muffled by the scarves, was carried by the wind, making it almost inaudible. But Qhal heard.
He turned his hooded head in his direction, his yellow eyes almost unrecognisable in the falling evening.
“No Soath lyth knows the Shadowlands as well as they would like to,” was an enigmatic answer.
“That means no,” Tiyan sighed, the wind immediately pushing into his mouth and causing him to lose his breath for a moment.
Qhal smiled at him. His smile was a little sad, as if he felt guilty, but neither Tiyan suspected that any Fae could feel guilty, nor could he admit to knowing the Fae’s language of expression.
“I know these mountains, Tiyan Markon. I was born here.”
Tiyan looked at him with a very cautious expression. Not that he doubted. The mere thought of growing up in this dark land of crevices and cruel peaks was not even surprising. Just… unpleasant to imagine.
“Sometimes the most obvious things are hidden from view,” Qhal didn’t smile anymore, and Tiyan almost thought he had made a mistake in the fairy protocol. He was almost waiting to see the real face of his guide. For his worries and fears to be translated into reality. But Qhal had no intention of being violent, which almost disappointed Tiyan.
Almost.
And suddenly he felt acid in his throat.
Fire, a burst of flaming power, burning around him while the shadowy presence slipped under his clothes and entered him like a lover, forbidden, dark and so uninvited.
And he never wanted to feel it again.
Qhal still watched him with a curious gaze. His lips curved into a mysterious smile. Tiyan almost had the feeling that his face, or his movements, or literally anything was selling him and his thoughts.
He was almost relieved when Qhal turned and continued his journey.
The passage grew narrower, the walls around them steeper and more dangerous to walk on, the dark shapes piercing the skin of the stone and protruding from it to make their way more difficult and risky when they tried not to get too close to the edges. The mountains seemed even darker now as dusk fell, painting the sky with deep violet and ink. As they passed the rock pocket in the wall, Qhal decided – quite obviously to Tiyan – that they should stop here. Tiyan sat in the corner, shivering with cold, looking down at his hands, which, touched by the green of his guide, were now the warmest part of his body. And Qhal… began to prepare the place to bite it with roots and embrace it with vines.
It was not the first time Tiyan had seen Qhal’s magic. But now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the spring Qhal offered to winter was especially beautiful. The vines, glowing from within, spread across the frozen ground, drinking the water from the snow and growing, swelling to form a green miracle above their heads. The wind stopped like a cut with a command. Tiyan’s ears twitched with relief as the howling subsided. There was a dead and pleasant silence in the closed, improvised arbor.
Tiyan knew that none of them needed to keep watch, for the niche separated them from all danger. But… this time Qhal had no intention of resting. Instead, he began to brew. A scent filled the arbor, neither tempting nor repulsive. Tiyan couldn’t find a way to describe it… like pine trees with mud. But it was still far from the actual scent when he inhaled it.
Qhal did not boil the liquid and did not offer it to Tiyan. He simply mixed the ingredients – whatever they were – and poured it down his throat. Tiyan could see the liquid filling his pipe and going down quickly. His transparent membrane trembled.
“You can drink?” Tiyan murmured. The faint tingling of the leaves was soothing and relaxing. But Tiyan was far from calm.
No more danger. No more pain.
“Yes,” was Qhal’s answer, quite distant and cold. Tiyan felt that he was worried and that alone made him anxious. “Sleep. Better to spend this night asleep.”
“And you?”
“I won’t.”
Tiyan watched as Qhal took two more gulps of the drink he had brewed. He didn’t even offer him the dried meat. Tiyan felt a creeping feeling under his skin, a feeling that Qhal was distraught, even frightened, despite being safely hidden under a magical green canopy.
That wasn’t encouraging. Tiyan was sure he wouldn’t sleep. Something hung in the air, an indecipherable threat.
But… he did.
He did, falling into a calm sleep, this time without nightmares… while Qhal’s yellow eyes reflected the arbor in an almost ominous way. Wells without end, yellow and green green with the emerald of moss and forest and sunlit from within.
Night fell upon them and ate their shadows, leaving them in the faint glow of leaves and vines…
*
He knows he has awakened. He knows it, the dreams press on his mind but do not penetrate it, like a storm cloud that threatens. But he feels like he is dreaming, even though he is so awake.
Something crawls across his skin, his eyelids are heavy as stones. He hears voices. Silent, caressing his senses like velvet, but bringing images that Tiyan doesn’t want to understand. Quickly, in a low tone. And crackle over him like a burning bonfire. The voices remind him of flames.
The crawling on his skin stops, but he feels that something is gathering under his clothes, waiting and longing.
A silent darkness swallows the arbor, buries its claws in the green, tears the soul from the vines, the flesh from the leaves. Silence. A terrible silence, an impatient prelude to darkness.
He opens his eyes, slowly, heavily, and sees Qhal trying desperately to keep his heavy eyelids from closing. His hand crawls, as if detached from his body. Gathering earth. Trying to reach.
*
Limbs everywhere, broken faces, black as coals. Dazed mind, Qhal, where is Qhal? Dazed, he drowns in something soft, like feathers and… decomposing flesh, it stinks of old carcass. It’s so soft he wants to bury himself in it and sleep. His mind barely connects. A small face, just above him. Black, with deep blue eyes, like transparent globes. Tight lips spread in a half smile, a small hand reaches out to him and lands on his chest.
Where is Qhal?
The hand reaches and reaches until it burrows beneath his skin. This can’t be real, he feels no pain, he just needs to fall asleep and never wake up again.
The wings above him, in the pattern that is Qhal’s magic – green leaves linked in intricate swirls, and blue wings, waving as if touched by a light breeze. But there is no wind here. It’s a windless arbor. Windless. But he can feel the air, which carries the scent of burnt coal and decay.
Where is Qhal?
He feels a hand running through his hair. Pulling. And releasing.
He hears something, a whisper. “Shadow’s pet.” He is Shadow’s pet.
Is he?
He’s not a pet.
He’s nobody’s pet.
The carving across his chest suddenly begins to sting, while many small hands trace the path across it, spreading his jacket and shirt. Someone takes the pendant from under his clothes, someone smiling and terribly out of place, like a burnt doll.
Where is Qhal? Qhal?
Where is he?
Is he Shadow’s pet too?
They think he is. Tiyan is.
The feathers are so soft.
He looks at the burnt wonders, so wrong in their flawed beauty.
And he is awake enough to taste the coal.
Dal’coler was… intimidating. To say the least. Having lived on his father’s estate all his life and never having visited the palace, the first impression had Corvel crushed to the ground. The stone walls, guarded by magical barriers, bit into the mountainside like the teeth of a predator in the throat of its prey. As he and Alnam passed through the gates, many eyes looked at them – stone eyes, full of a strange intelligence that things shouldn’t have.
Alnam seemed to focus on the goal, which was to pass through the Gate, and only through the Gate. In his opinion, Dal’coler was not a good place for Corvel, at least not until he learned its ways. He was too naive, too young. Court affairs should be left to older fey. Like him. Or any other with more than four hundred years. But Corvel left him no choice. It was his greatest dream, and Alnam hoped it would come to him as he had dreamed it – not as a disappointment.
The lonely corridors that surrounded the heart of the palace breathed with melancholy. Filled with stone sculptures, surrounded by ever-hungry vines. Pierced by roots, just like the walls. The place had a beautiful aura of something decaying in all its splendour. Reaching out with claws of mist and night.
Alnam loved Dal’coler.
Corvel touched the wall with barely concealed fascination. He stood in that pose, as if the stone told him stories long forgotten – and perhaps it did, for each fey felt Dal’coler differently. Personally.
Corvel pressed Alnam for months to be taken to court. A winter court for an autumn child, born seven hundred years too late…
Without a word, they walked down the main corridor leading to the throne room. As was the custom with every lord, the young were brought before the king for judgement. Alnam knew that customs meant little now. The current king didn’t follow tradition unless it suited him. And Gods help them, the young Fae were happy to be unbound. Bliss and violence. Darkness and the illusion of freedom.
The passage became wider, more overwhelming. Roots and even whole trees grew straight out of the high, looming walls. Alnam drank them like delicious wine. But he saw that his own Autumn Child was no match for the dark aura of this place. No more than the Unseelie Fae were accustomed to their natural element.
Corvel, though visibly nervous, enjoyed the visit, which might begin to be his key to blind and capricious, yet generous, fortune.
Alnam was sure that for Corvel, the change of environment could be both his salvation and his damnation. He liked to think of it as more of a saving grace. Corvel may have been inexperienced in court life, but he was full of inner flame.
Dal’coler had already injected its poison into their veins, brimming in them, promising more than they could ever give. Corvel looked enchanted. The boy should know that with his blood and his strong budding magic, he could bind many humans and lowly fey here with a magical thread so thick that they would never be able to free themselves.
Oh, he was surely aware of his own power. Alnam passed this knowledge on to him. But Corvel was only thirty. A man who was still a child. Too young to truly spread his wings.
A small, lesser fey approached and bowed before them, her opalescent wings shimmering with their own light in the darkness.
“My lords… King Lorian has been told of your arrival. He… awaits you in the throne room.”
The slight pause the lesser fey made told Alnam that Lorian was either not waiting for them at all, busy with his own affairs… or preparing to simply reject Corvel. It was no secret that they disliked each other. Alnam thought Lorian was a sadist with a huge ego. Lorian thought that one day Alnam would openly oppose him. The words they exchanged were always filled with animosity – the court may have already foretold Alnam’s downfall.
But Alnam had no intention of falling.
Corvel glanced at the throne room with barely concealed interest as they entered. Alnam must teach him not to stare. Not here, where every step was watched by many eyes. Some of them with attention, some with hunger.
He saw Lorian as soon as they entered. Filled with seductive enchantment… and all in the wrong, distorted way. When Lorian took the throne, Alnam hoped that he would be a king who was at least a little like his father, Marnsul. Marnsul was stern but fair, and Alnam was proud to call him his friend. But Lorian, though at first he seemed a perfect match for the throne… in time he showed his true, cruel face. Lorian had no children, and that gave less hope. Only descendants can replace a king. And of course the hand of the assassin. But in Lorian’s case it was madness to try to kill him. His magic was too strong, and that alone made Alnam hope he would impregnate his woman, the sooner the better.
Or any woman, for that matter.
Lorian was having a conversation with her right now. Her face tensed; she disagreed with him, and that seemed to displease him as well. The worst moment to present Corvel, Alnam thought – but what was done couldn’t be undone.
He felt Lorian’s attention on them rather than saw it, for he still seemed focused on Nymre. But he felt it, deep beneath his skin. Lorian looked at them slowly, almost lazily, and Alnam bowed, his expression a perfect mask of calm composure, Corvel following his example.
“Your Majesty… my son, Corvel Devlon.”
“Your Majesty,” Corvel smiled. He was moved by the atmosphere of the capital, so much so. Fire in his eyes – and probably in his soul as well.
At least that.
Lorian stood up. Nymre looked at Corvel curiously. The fey ruler lifted from his seat and stepped toward them.
Alnam wanted to shake Corvel, to make him straighten up – for the sake of the dark woods.
Lorian smiled charmingly. As if he were genuinely glad to see them, which Alnam knew was not true.
“Look at me, boy. I need to see your heart.”
Corvel lifted his eyes, flaming and passionate, holding darkness of a different, purer kind. And brushed across Lorian’s black holes. But his gaze drifted and suddenly landed on Nymre.
Alnam cursed in his mind. For his son’s gaze had landed on Nymre – and stayed there. Longer than it should in a situation like this.
Lorian’s eyes followed Corvel’s, and his smile went from perfect to perfect and predatory.
“There are many wonders to be found in Dal’coler. I am glad that you found some even before you were accepted as part of the court.”
Alnam decided it was time to put an end to this. Corvel did not make a good impression. And the gods know what he was thinking.
“My Lord… will you do our family the honour of taking my son under your wings?”
Lorian managed to get Corvel to focus on him again. The boy really needs to learn how to be a lord. Perhaps the court will carve that into him – even at the cost of wounds.
“Your son is a promising young Fae, such a high flame…” Lorian’s smile still lighted up his features. “I like to see what Devlonmere has to offer, always. Fresh blood is delicious.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Alnam gritted his teeth. “This is pure joy… how else could it be?”
“The first day in the palace is always the most exciting. I will send someone to show him his place – a place he truly deserves. So he can revel in the enticing beauty of his new home.”
Alnam felt as if the moon spear had struck him.
“I will show him myself, my lord. You will need all your servants.”
“Lesser fey can do the job without batting an eye. Let them rejoice. Let them feed their eyes with a new face.”
Alnam smiled too. His grin was stark and pure – a waking sun. A young shining star.
Lorian was testing him. But Alnam was used to it – and ready for it. Corvel looked at Lorian with a curiosity and awe that could move mountains to tell him their secrets.
Yes, you will learn that not everything here is as it seems. And most of the inhabitants of Dal’coler would rather eat you than level you.
They didn’t like each other, though they would never attack frontally. Alnam knew why Lorian did it, and Lorian knew what to expect from Alnam. They were both dancing on the edge of a colossal monument, and the pit beneath them was filled with broken glass that neither of them wanted to fall into. He didn’t even blame Lorian – he would do exactly the same.
Alnam just hoped that the hidden look Corvel gave Nymre again was just an accident.
But of course it wasn’t.
Of course.
Foolish boy.
Alnam was furious at how badly things were going – deep beneath the easy words and courtly politeness. Corvel should know better.
They all should know better.
Lorian’s youth. He was more naive. Reckless. Susceptible on tease. Autumnal reign was much more easygoing than winter one. The fey were still dark… but more wild and dangerous than cruel and sadistic. Time [ and dark magic ] changes everything… Even bathing in dark power, he could remember the free autumnal prince he once was, who he can hate… but long for it, equally.
The autumn attire of Dal’coler was beaming with lights, carried by hundreds of fey. Alit lanterns’ color indicated what they planned for the night. Love, darkness and forbidden joys – it brimmed in their veins, washing over their minds with desire for the new. On the longest night, all were equal and all could wildly take from all privileges that was coming with that fact.
The High King, Marnsul Dal, the autumnal lord of Dal’coler, had no power that day. Other fey though were aware, very well, that he will return on the throne, and his power still lingered in him, untouched. No one would dethrone him, no one would dare.
Laughters were piercing the air, and screams, but not pained ones. The High Fae touched nature and nature responded, filling them with the ichor of the night. Making them reckless, even more dangerous and wilder than woods in the deep pitch-black darkness.
Prince Lorian Ain’Dal’s eyes were taking all of it in, dark holes, which held even deeper shadows. But two other fey who accompanied him, didn’t see the darkness, didn’t see the black wells. They could recognize the sparks of intrigued interest in them, burning with forbidden fire.
He was the youngest of them all. And most impatient, most filled with fire. And most reckless, foolish youth brimming in his veins. That was one of the reasons why they liked him so much. No one ever could be bored in his company.
“Lorian can’t wait to see that nymph again” chuckled lord Varien, his long fingers running through his thick reddish hair. The young prince looked at him with blank sternness, which Varien knew was only a studied pose.
“Is she really that beautiful? Worthy of royal attention?” teased Sirnal, enjoying Lorian’s stormy expression.
“After all, today, we are all equal,” added Varien. “And fires burn high tonight.”
Lorian’s face alit with a dark, ironic smirk.
“Like any of you cared about equality of positions, romancing lower fey, tracking unsuspecting humans in the woods.”
“Like you cared for that too” grinned Varien, joyfully. “I only showed you possibilities, your highness. You love to fuck lower fey. They can be so fiery.”
Oh, Lorian knew. He knew so well. Pleasures of autumnal reign were countless. He was born in the rusty season, caused by the almost cordial nature of his father. Stoic in its mute darkness, the least violent reigns in the whole history of the fairy kind.
The fey were enjjoying safety given by him, adapting to it. For Lorian though – partially losing something.
For Lorian, power and position were not a goal, but were pleasant and were allowing him to live how he wants. He never wondered how it would be to not have it. He was spoiled, but smart enough to not pull too far.
“You should commit a thief’s hunt on her. You can go against all what your father thinks about good pleasure… openly” whispered Sirnal, viciously. “He has no power over you. Not today. Why to hide, when you can have her to the sound of your court’s approval.”
Lorian’s expression showed more interest. It could be felt how his dark aura pulses around him, when he weighed the options.
“You are both such a clever fools” he eventually said, his shadows brimming around him in anticipation. It was an old solstice custom. If two fey were fond of each other, one of them could kidnap the other, and carry them in the darkness, with an applause of the celebrating High Fae.
And on nights like this, old customs were tempting to try.
“You want her, Lorian. Drag her into the woods.”
“And she wants you too. For me though, she would better choose, if she wanted me. You have skill with shadows, but I am a natural born lover. She would prefer me, if she ever tried my charm.”
Varien was sure that this would lit his royal friend up. That it will make him steal his solstice bride.
When Lorian’s black eyes sparked with something aflame-like, they both knew that their teasing worked on him. Lorian walked gracefully into the candle-lit darkness, and his friends followed him, surrounded by his deep enchantment, intensified by the awakening desire.
The night’s scent filled him in, a mix of decay and rebirth, of sleep and awake. His eyes searched for Mosla, the wood nymph, a beautiful and most of all clever lower fey, with whom he would lay the first day of their meet, if she was not a servant of his father. She was sure the king will know and Lorian was aware that she might have a lot of right. Marnsul had one huge disadvantage. He was somehow obseesed with pregnancy. And Lorian liked to seduce women. None of them got pregnant.
He seduced men too, but for obvious reason, they weren’t as problematic for Marnsul as women.
More so, Mosla impressed him, everything in her impressed him, and he could give her so much fire. He could give her so much night.
The three lords spotted Mosla putting the wreaths on the water. Her black hair tangled in braids, her green mossy eyes holding secrets of the moon and stars.
“Thief’s hunt!” howled Sirnal. The fey around immediately turned their hungry faces in his direction.
“A hunter comes for his bride!” laughed Varien. The High and Lesser Fae started to whisper, the air between them became warm from amassing auras.
Lorian stepped from darkness in the company of shadows, which were warmed up by his inner fire. Making the air even more dense around him.
Mosla looked at him and he immediately felt her power, light like breezy spring morning. She laughed, dark dark sound filled with temptation.
“Long way you treaded, my lord” her gaze locked on his. Fae were easily ignited and easily tempted. Sexual pleasure was for Lorian as natural as breathing.
“Thief’s hunt. The thief’s hunt” started to whisper the fey, eager to see the solstice bride losing her freedom. Rarely anyone kept to this custom, more so a royal son. It was as old as time, older than all autumnal kings, older than winter lords, reaching into the core of spring.
Lorian’s eyes drilled holes in Mosla’s soul. She felt his intensity, he was always even too intense. Yet she wanted that, wanted to lay with him in the leaves and feel him. She wanted to embrace his waist with her legs and push him deep inside.
She wanted to tear his shirt off, and own him. Allow his aura to swallow her. And he felt the same.
Let them all hear her as she lets him in.
“Bring the binds! Bind their hands, so none of them could run!” Varien beamed as the master of the ceremony. Lorian even thought that a little too much. He was in his environment.
“No,” whispered Lorian with a mysterious smile. Mosla looked at him, with dark amusement, like wanting to know what he planned. “No,” he said louder. “No vines. I can bind her myself.”
That made all fey brim with urgency and impatience. Of course, the shadow prince had a way to steal his bride and not let her escape. And his own shadows could bind them without losing ability to touch each other deeply, until the hunt is over.
“That is cheating, my lord” her smile deep like her spells, her expression amused. “Why should only you be able to bind me, so easily being able to unbind yourself?”
“Because it’s me who steals you” he purred and she laughed, eagerly, wildly, like a real solstice bride.
“Do it then” she teased. “A young prince needs to earn his bride.”
“I will do much more. And you as well… you will do so much more…” His tone was tempting and seductive and she didn’t regret anymore that he made her the center of attention of a whole gathering.
And he stole her.
He really did.
To the crispy murmur of the leaves and creaking of the branches under the sharp autumn sky.
He would have killed anyone who would try to stop him now.
And he was carefree enough to not see the eyes of the High Fae, who he knew well enough, and who was looking at him with badly concealed hatred.
https://taste-of-mortality.com/2023/10/21/atom-interlude-i-dalcoler/
Per my message to Darkenaz:
When I created Leira, I didn’t plan to make her Lorian’s lover. Yes, he liked her enough, respected her, but she grew a lot in my book. So now, when I publish on Tapas and Wattpad, I am fixing this, making her darker, more… more. I rewrote the first Lorian chapter, the one with her (Dal’coler I). Because it makes much more sense, now, when she grew up in my mind into his lover – enough dark to love being one. Enough dark he had reason to like and want her. She is not weak. She is indeed a very torn internally but strong woman, who will have all right to feel desire to Lorian, for better and for the very worse.
She is not a pure human anymore, not only because of her horns and tail.
And she did and will do many dark things. Lorian’s words that he admires her gain new meanining. He is not easily impressed. Leira impressed him.