Power grows within you, like a tendril of blood and ash. And you are becoming… this. Your hunger sprouts within you, another rotting tree of your own, reaching into your veins to scatter small seeds. You are always hungry. You crave love, heat… pain. And you bathe in torment, glowing with inverted light. Strength and weakness, all intertwined in a mad jig. You… your gods… Ain’asel… you command your puppets to dance. And they whirl in spiked shoes, in dresses made of stone.
And you whirl with them. Offering them all but mercy.
*
“The pooka brought startling news, Your Majesty.”
The bean sidhe that stood before him was made of sinews and veins. Raw in her beauty, hard as an old tree. She was not a warrior, not anymore. But she was one of Nymre’s finest.
The Bean Sidhe’s name was Shoka. And her specialty was gathering information. And her mind… was already his. No one who captured her would be able to extract what she knew from her. Even tortured, even on the verge of a cruel death. She was destined to be loyal, at the cost of her pain and eventual demise.
He liked it that way. Nymre disagreed at first… but she had to accept that liking someone was not an option in this fortress. Especially if that person was a well-trained spy.
His eyebrows were raised, his expression almost benevolent.
Shoka knew when to speak without further encouragement.
“My lord, Sal Vern’ese began to prepare his departure from Dal’coler. As quietly and privately as possible.”
Lorian’s smile widened.
“Alnam Devlon was seen in his chambers two days ago. They had a disagreement. Sal Vern’ese was heard to say ‘he will not die for a human’. Lord Devlon… looked resigned, but pookas are very good at deciphering emotions. He was moved and pained.
Of course he was. He might be a worthy opponent, a ray of light under his nail, a scornful iron blade. But he was still in a hopeless, harmful and cruel love. Against his own eyes, ears and even mind. His heart bled in his chest, a meat cut with Leira’s hand.
He would not allow her to be harmed, even if she had betrayed him. He can only guess where life has led Leira… and that must be buried even deeper in his almost dying, blood pumping muscle.
A most beautiful, most terrible agony.
“Your Majesty, shall we prevent young Lord Vern’ese from leaving Dal’coler?”
Lorian found himself looking out the window. Outside, the snow raged, carried by a furious wind. Perhaps it felt his own restless spirit. Winter often responded to his fear… or his joy. His element, dancing for him, just like his puppets…
“No.”
Shoka looked at him with a slight surprise, well masked, but he could see in her mind that even if she wasn’t an active warrior anymore, she was ready to sink her blade into Sals chest.
Shoka’s mind showed the desire to kill. It was there, always. Hidden, deep inside, that beautiful hunger for blood and suffering; a trait of every sensible Winter Fairy, but tenfold. Shoka would admire it if he offered her Vern’ese as a toy to break. But it was so well hidden, so… cleverly concealed. Powered by his shadows, it would terrify even his own court… if they knew.
You are a master at changing minds into something unrecognisable.
“No, Shoka. Let him breathe the cold wind of his estate. Let him join his followers. Let him feel more fear, let it consume him. He longs for security, now that he has assaulted my servant. How tense his days must be, don’t you think?”
Bean Sidhe’s mind whirled, counting the possibilities.
“I want him to bathe in fear. In doubt and uncertainty. Then you can bring him to me. On a bleeding plate. And still alive to touch the core of his failure.”
Shoka shivered. Yes, almost invisibly, but it ran through her with the promise of joy.
How well he knew her mind. Better than she did.
After all, he was the master of it.
*
He would fall to his knees. As he always did. And as always, Lorian would reach out with his hand, a caress on his cheek. A caress he kept for him after he returned from his dangerous, often perilous missions. How many times had they done this? How many times they danced that beautiful dance, twirling in the chaos, desperately trying to bend it to their will. No matter how strong it was, no matter how much it resisted. Teeth and claws sinking deep into the flesh of the realm.
Qhal was a tool that agreed to be one. To organize the world in the only possible way.
The way of the shadows.
“Beautiful. Such a beautiful gift you have brought me, Qhal,” Lorian’s eyes smiled. But something inside him screamed. Something inside him flinched like a wild animal in a trap. Perhaps in pain. Maybe with anger. Maybe out of…
… fear.
But Lorian would show none of it to anyone. Qhal, however… knew. Qhal never loved Lorian in the way his lovers did. But he felt his king slipping into him in a different way, less obvious, more tender, but also more inextricable.
It was not even love. It was something that couldn’t be named.
“He was a pleasure I rarely got to taste, my lord. His emotions were strong, like the tides of a raging ocean.”
Lorian removed his hand from his cheek.
“Stand up. You are one of those who never have to kneel.”
But Qhal always knelt. Because it was the only way.
The snow still ravaged behind the stained glass windows, only partially letting in the light. The old trees inside the walls were reaching out to him. It was one of Lorian’s private chambers, as far from the throne room as a king’s room could be… a place that saw a lot of sufferring, heard many screams, witnessed countless hours of passion… and in one wall Qhal saw a hand.
A smile broke his lips.
Above the hand… a desperate, frantically rolling eye. Begging. Terrified. His acute hearing could notice rustling of the tiny branches inside the prey’s flesh.
A beautiful sight.
“I keep my promises,” Lorian took a glass of wine and sipped. “My slaves cannot leave Dal’coler. Even if I never let them taste the core apple.”
“Rightful place for the insolent.”
“How was the journey?” Lorian sat in the chair and crossed his legs. He looked imposing, but something was still hurting him. But he didn’t want to show it, not even with a blink of an eye.
Something Qhal would also do.
The only way in this palace. Its owner had to live up to its glory. Qhal respected that.
“Amusing. This human boy really trusted me. I wonder why those most touched by the cruelty of fate are the most eager to believe it again.”
“I suppose he just needed someone to trust. Anyone with a spark of kindness, even a false one. Otherwise…” Lorian’s smile was cruel and unforgivable. “… why live? Wouldn’t it be better to end it all?”
“What does that feel like, Your Majesty? His mind?”
“Ah, that is the best of all. His thoughts are only of himself. Not me, not us, not Ain’asel… not even his sweet little sister. He is so self-centred that he would abandon his mission, if not his own subconscious. He hates himself, Qhal. Hates himself for being weak and selfish. His whole life is a lie. It will give me great pleasure to show him who he really is. To break him… with his own failings.”
Qhal laughed. A soft and pleasant sound, different from Lorian’s, but no less enchanting.
There was silence between them. Qhal felt the tension he had felt at the beginning grow, so far muted by Lorian’s voice. But he couldn’t stop longing. Addicted. To the blue, which tasted and smelled like moss and roots, like the air in the forest, in the cold morning.
His restlessness did not escape Lorian. His smile became almost sweet… if you didn’t know Lorian Ain’dal. His smile was never really soft. There was always something more behind it… something dark.
“Come Qhal…”
Qhal felt those two words electrify him. Addiction. Since the first day of their union. Cruel, but sweet, so sweet. He could not be calm without a taste of it. His mind drifted to places that haunted him with mares and wild nightmares.
He rose from his chair, moving restlessly, agitated. His limbs stiffened and tensed as he dropped to his knees before Lorian.
Again. With hunger carved in his features.
“You are beautiiful… and you shine with so much light” his king looked at him, his black eyes filled with night. Qhal could already taste the azure on his tongue. Need. Cruel mistress. “I would offer you an eternity of pleasure if I could… but you crave another delight.”
Suddenly Lorian’s teeth touched his own wrist. They sank into the flesh, blood swollen, pouring from the small wound. Blue. Qhal’s salvation and doom. The scent of moss filled the air, intoxicating. It was the scent of the blood of a Shadow Lord. Only that could quench his thirst. He didn’t need food, light was enough… but he would dry out if he didn’t get it. Addicted. He loved every moment of this addiction. It made him feel alive, stronger, more powerful. His loins were barren, he could not feel there… but this delicacy was something frighteningly similar, from the days when he remembered what sex felt like.
Blue blood of the Shadow Lord.
Something that brought him back from the brink of death… when Lorian saved him. A scrap of dying flesh… but brought back to the land of the living. Now he couldn’t live without it.
Drops fell from Lorian’s wrist into Qhal’s mouth. The tiny hairs on his arms stood straight, a shiver ran down his spine.
Yes.
YES.
Life.
This was the life he had been given long ago, and now… not even light was enough to kill his longing for it. Qhal bit greedily into the wound and he felt Lorian’s mind enter his head, adding to the rapture.
This was life. Lorian knew he would do anything for him… not only because of that. But…
… this was truly the best prize.
A moan escaped his lips.
It was his own way to reach the climax.