castlevania: adrian tepes, trevor belmont, sypha belnades
RULES.
• i don’t mind minors on my blog since i wont post nsfw often, BUT if i see you interacting with a suggestive/nsfw post, i will block you on the spot.
• absolutely no homophobes, racists, xenophobes, sexists etc
summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
i. DUTY & HONOR
Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.
You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with.
They gave you a husband instead.
Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.
“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.
“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”
You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.
Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.
That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).
You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.
You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.
“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.
“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.
“I was,” Gwayne nods.
“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”
He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.
Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve.
“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”
“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.”
“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”
You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.
“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.
Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”
“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”
“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.
“It feels less and less so these days.”
“They’re only frightened—”
“I’m frightened,” you remind him.
The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud.
He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”
“No Hightowers?” you add.
“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”
You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”
“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”
“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”
“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”
“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”
“They won’t.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”
“So do most men—”
“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”
Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.
“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”
“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.
A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”
“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”
“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”
Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.
But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.
And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.
ii. OATHS & ASHES
The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself.
It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”
Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.
Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.
You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask.
The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.
Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.
“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.
“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.
Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.
“Well, I was going to, of course.”
“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood.
“…Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”
“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”
“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”
“The king has given orders—”
“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”
Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”
“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”
“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”
Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you.
His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.
“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”
“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”
“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”
“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…”
You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.
“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.
The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.
The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.
“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely.
“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”
“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”
The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”
Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”
Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”
Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.
“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.
“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”
Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.
He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.
This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.
It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.
The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.
“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there.
He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.
He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”
You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.
Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.
His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.
Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.
Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”
You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.
Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.
His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.
“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”
“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.
Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.
“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.
Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”
iii. CROWNS & CAGES
You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.
Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”
You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.
Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.
You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.
“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”
Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.
“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”
“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”
“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”
“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”
Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”
“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”
“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”
The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle.
Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.
A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.
Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned.
A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.
Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map.
“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone.
“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”
Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”
“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace.
His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.
“I expected someone… older.”
His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”
“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”
“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”
You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”
“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”
You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.
Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”
“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”
“For… What purpose?” he laughs.
You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all.
You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.
“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”
Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude.
It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.
Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.
The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.
It had been four days since then.
And you haven’t eaten once in protest.
It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?
On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.
He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it. The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.
There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow.
Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless.
Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.
“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”
Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.
“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”
His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”
You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”
“Eat.”
You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”
“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”
You respond with only a glare.
Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”
You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.
“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.”
Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.
He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.
“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides. “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”
“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”
“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”
“When?” you spit.
“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”
A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”
His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?”
His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.
“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches.
A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth.
“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”
Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.
“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”
Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”
“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”
Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.
iv. SILK & SWORDS
You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.
Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.
Your days, however, remained painfully empty.
Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.
The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.
Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.
“Is that a love letter—?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”
“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.
You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.
Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”
“Please, don’t—”
His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.
The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.
His head turns slightly under the blow.
Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.
The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.
“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.
You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.
“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”
“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”
The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.
Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.
You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.
Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.
“My lady…”
You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.
Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.
Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.
Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.
“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”
Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.
v. SANCTUARY & SIN
The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.
For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm.
Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.
Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.”
His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.
“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.”
It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.
Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.
You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.
But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.
Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.
“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."
You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.
You haven’t left his bed since.
The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.
No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor.
You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.
You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.
“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders.
“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.
The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”
“I learned everything from you, did I not?”
When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.
Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”
“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.
“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”
You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.
His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.
“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”
You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”
“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."
“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.
“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.
He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you.
One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.
It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.
You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.
“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.
“Ought what?”
“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”
You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”
Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction.
“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”
You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”
He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”
“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”
You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.
He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.
Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.
Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.
You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.
“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”
Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”
Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.
Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.
Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.
“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.
“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.
“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”
A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.
“There it is…” he praises.
“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”
The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you.
His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.
It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins.
Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.
You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.
He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth.
He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”
Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”
Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”
“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.
Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”
The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.
“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”
Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit.
Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.
Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you.
The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass.
He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you.
You aren’t far behind.
He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.
“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”
Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one.
The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.
“My lord?”
The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.
“My lord—”
“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”
The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”
You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.
Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”
“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”
Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”
After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”
Summary- When Jacaerys dies, her world fractures. Grief consumes her. Every moment is filled with him. She carries his child and his absence all at once. Trapped in a loop of memories, she can't escape.
Pairing- Jacaerys x Pregnant Wife! Reader
Warnings - Depictions of grief. It goes back and forth between the present and her memories. The reader is at one point awful to Rhaenyra. Have not proofread it, so apologies for mistakes regarding grammar, etc. Timeline is a bit funky, but nothing too drastic. Beyond that, nothing else.
Word count- 9280
a/n- This is a long one, so strap in. I do not proclaim a profound understanding of grief, but I have tried to present it respectfully. Might consider making this one day in a full-length fic. For now, I wish for you to enjoy every moment.
Grief reverberated through stone walls, war-torn and weary, unable to endure another loss. She stood rigid before the widowpane, the world pressing in around her. Vast, indifferent, unyielding as the soil claimed another soul. But it was her soul buried with her love. Drowned with her love. Her lungs filled with water; each breath was a struggle. The endless landscape beckoned her. Whispering for her to join him. The weeds ready to entwine her body in a cruel embrace.
She would not fall. No, she would soar. A dragon does not bow to the soil. Their home was the endless sky above. A dragon takes flight. And within her, a dragon stirred, growing in her belly. She would soar.
"Princess, we beg you to sit."
The maids clung to her with a merciless grip. Worry seeped through every crack in the castle. She mindlessly moved towards the window. The air drew her in, pressing against every stone, as though it too longed to welcome her. Soon, she would join her beloved. The maids desperately urged her, placing their trembling hands upon the princess. So seldom would they be so brash. Their nails bit into the soft flesh of her arms, pulling her from the precipice.
No. Forsake the Gods, for they could not intervene now. The heavens had opened, and she would face their wrath for her choices. How could she bear the news? Surely he would not forsake her for joining him. Certainly with joy, he would welcome his babe and wife. There would be no pain then when faced with her husband.
She pressed forward, her hands grazing the clouds. The door burst open, torn from its hinges. The guards seized her, forcing her onto the bed.
The endless world pressed heavily on her breast. A scream tore from her throat. Glass-shattering, flesh-ripping, until her voice broke into sobs. She choked on her sobs. Drowning in her own tears. Spluttering as her body betrayed her mind. Against her will, it fought for air. It fought for life. And that, more than anything, was her dismay.
Noise dissolved into darkness, taking her vision with it. Her body convulsed beneath the weight of woe. For some time, the world moved around her. Yet, she remained frozen, trapped in sorrow's grip.
Her ears rang, struggling to separate the chaos of sound until one word pierced through. "Breath."
The command shot through every vein, igniting a fire. How long had she been lost in the pit of her despair? When had Rhaenyra come to her side? Her lungs burned with the fresh air. Her chest was rising and falling in an erratic rhythm. Rhaenyra bent close, face stained with anguish, fresh tears still carving their mark upon her cheek. Again and again, Rhaenyra whispered the mantra, willing her to breathe.
The two gasped for air. Their chest rising in a broken rhythm, the cold stone beneath her was jarring. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, refused to look away from Rhaenyra’s. Around them, the maids and guards stood helpless, a silent witness to the sorrow neither could mend. Rhaenyra was first to break from the haze, pulling the princess's head to her chest in a fierce maternal hug. She inhaled Rhaenyra's scent, so achingly similar to her son's
She bellowed. If the soil was not to claim her, they would have to face her in her suffering. They would face the hollow depths of her heart, empty as her soul, ripped from her love. Her love. Her only love. Gone as the war claimed another victim. Death knew no bounds to its cruelty. Her sweet husband did not deserve to be struck from the sky. Did not deserve to be torn from his dragon. His body was condemned to drift endlessly, denied the peace of rest.
"My love," she called out, struck with grief at the notion her call would never be answered. Never again will he heed her call. Never shall her husband comfort her through her pain. Never shall she bask in his laughter. Never again shall she bask in his warmth.
"Let us help the princess," Rhaenyra hailed through unsteady breaths. The guards swarmed her side once more. Hoisting her with the utmost care for her and the babe. She stumbled over her feet as the guards stilled for their next command.
"She cannot stay here," Rhaenyra's voice echoed through her mind. Distant from the noise swirling in her head. "Place the princess in a chamber without a window she can reach." Rhaenyra's voice commanded the room with ease, despite her own bleeding heart. "Leave the room bare." She cautioned the ladies with a single glance, "Do not abandon the princess to her thoughts."
The castle blurred as she was dragged to her new cell. Her mind betrayed her, conjuring shadows of him through the corridors. The halls he would forever haunt with her memories. Every alcove was plagued by a phantom so similar to his form. The chamber was cold, so devoid of the life she had grown accustomed to. She curled upon the sheets of the lonesome bed. Her eyes fixed longingly on the light that blared from a window set too high upon the wall.
Dragonstone, born of dragonlords. Wrought in fire and sorcery. Its visage was often grim, grey, bleak and lifeless. Fog clings to its stone like a veil, heavy and unyielding over its head. The war echoed Dragonstone's nature. Devoid of light and love. A place where happiness rarely dared to bloom.
"Do you wish to frighten your husband?" He questioned. His voice knew no anger when addressing his sweet wife. No matter his mood, warmth hung on to every word.
"I wish to fly." She declared to the world. Wind laced its icy hands through her hair, painting her nose a sweet red. The soft spritz of drizzling rain only cooled them further. She was a light upon the stone, seeping her warmth in every crack. Cold and war seldom touched Jacaerys when she was near. Against the bleak grey stone, her presence was impossible to overlook. She moved with a quiet grace. It was as if a golden warmth clung to her, softening the harshness around them.
He could not resist the smile carving its way onto his features. So dear she was, tempting every blissful emotion from him. "I would urge you not to attempt to."
"It has been so long since you have let me accompany you and Vermax."
"Your condition does not favour such activities." His arms wrapped around her growing abdomen, ever so careful of the growing life. "You ought to rest."
"Rest. Rest. Rest." Her voice was a charming mockery of his. Humorous even to herself, she could not contain the plethora of giggles.
"Tease me?" He pulled her to his side and gently sat upon the soft grass. She allowed him to hold her to his lap, finding the sweet warmth of his chest behind her back. "I encourage you to mock me if you will heed my pleas." He bumped her nose with his own, a sweet display of pure affection. "Rest, wife, our babe does not yet have the endless bounds of your energy."
She made no sound of protest at resting in his lap. Her fingers idly pulled at the grass beneath her. Perchance, it was frustration lingering unspoken. Perhaps it was a restlessness etched into her bones, he could not tell. He did not mind. He did not blame her for weariness. Nor did he blame her for the life pressing against her at cruel hours of the night.
She never complained. Her lips would utter nothing but delight. She carried her swelling abdomen with subtle pride. Though never one to boast, she felt a secret triumph when walking the halls. No other woman would bear his child. Only she would. She longed to make him proud, and so she bore their babe with devotion. Fortune had favoured her where it had been so unkind to other mothers. No sickness in the early months, no swollen feet, only the occasional kick against her ribs or bladder. Though the weight upon her abdomen grew tiring, her joy outshone every discomfort. Each day brought fresh excitement at the thought of their growing family.
"It is not long now, another moon. Perhaps two." She sighed in content as his lips brushed a tender kiss upon her shoulder.
"Our lovely boy." He mumbled between kisses.
She sneered, her lips upturned in a smile. The most precious smile in the entire realm, born from his love. "How are you so sure the babe is a boy?"
He shrugged as though the fates had whispered their secret to only him. "I just know."
She pursed her lips and turned her chin defiantly. "I think it will be a girl."
He laughed, charmed as ever by her defiance. Soft but relentless. He cherished that she was no placid wife. Not a wife cowed by his stature but an equal. Bearing his name and child. "Neither will disappoint me, wife."
"Have you thought of names?" She reached for his hands. She played with them, her own dwarfing at his size, finding love in their warmth.
"Truthfully, I have not, my love"
"No? Will you wait to name the babe?"
“Names are a serious affair, my love,” he murmured, pressing kisses into her palms.
"Oh, are they?" She teased, soft giggles escaped her rosy lips at the tickles upon her palm.
“They are carried for a lifetime. They are the few things that truly belong to you. I believe you do not know your child until you first look into their eyes.”
Her smile turned sly, her voice laced to tease. "And if all else fails, and we see nothing. We can always name them Aegon or perhaps Aemond. I hear it is not so common." He did not take to it lightly, already mumbling and grumbling as her laughter wrapped around them.
Laughter faded, carried off by the gusts of wind as they fell into a serene tranquillity. The silence dragged on, though comfortable, it was loaded with what they wished to ignore from bringing up so often. Her fingers drifted back to the blades of grass, restless in their anxious play. He, in turn, fiddled with the pendant around her neck, soothing the metal as though it could soothe her.
He sighed. He could not bear to see her in this state. He stilled her hand, gently halting their ministrations. "You need not worry, my love."
“War is always cause for worry.”
"But it is you who needs not worry." His lips brushed her shoulder, then her neck, then her lips. Tender and reassuring. "It will end soon. My mother will claim what is hers, and this will be past us."
It was not enough. The promise of an end was never enough. It hurt him to know he could never soothe the blaze of worry besetting her mind. It hurt him that there was nothing he could do but promise that this soon shall end.
"Do not intervene," She could see it, his desire to interject, to end her worries. She did not give him the opportunity. "I know your desire to fight for your mother. It is an admirable one." She swallowed harshly, her throat tightening with emotion. "I worry, Jace. I worry about you."
He melted, showering her with love as though to protect her from the harms besetting the realms. "My love, do not worry. I will never leave you. The war will be over, and we will spend our lives forgetting this brief moment in time."
His words did little to soothe the storm raging in her chest. How she despised the way her husband rode off to fight in his mother's name. Despised the endless rallies for support. Each time he left, she prayed before the Sept for this to be done. For their lives to return to a comfortable peace. She prayed that by the time their child drew its first breath, these battles would be long past.
"The rain is lovely." It was all she could say. He hummed, agreeing as the soft spritz of rain chilled them. The last signs of summer.
The wind howled in agony, clawing at the stone walls of the castle. For days, the rain had not ceased. Befitting of the atmosphere within the castle. It was as though the heavens themselves mourned Jacaerys. The rain mirrored her own despair, but could not quite compete with her agony. Night after night, she wept, her sorrow like the clouds, implacable. His death was etched into every fallen tear.
The midwives and maesters moved in frantic haste within the confined chambers. The hearth burned ceaselessly for hours, flames fragile in defence against the wet, suffocating night. Blood seeped between her legs. Unnoticed until one of her ladies came to prepare her for slumber. Numbness plagued her body, the pain dulled by the persistent visions of her husband's death.
Servants darted in and out of the chamber. One rushed through the stone castle to summon the Queen. To bring Rhaenyra to the princess’s side. Yet she could not help but feel it should not have been Rhaenyra here. It should have been her husband. Her sweet love. He should have stood beside her, guiding their babe into the world. Not his mother. Still, she could not deny the babe’s grandmother the right to witness the birth of her grandchild. Even as her heart ached for the presence of her love.
She paid no mind as Rhaenyra scurried into the chamber. Nor when Daemon appeared to witness what fuss dared a servant to enter their chamber so late. Her gaze remained blank, the same hollow gaze she bore every day since. Her mind twisted through the endless memories of her beloved, as though by sheer thought she might summon him back into existence.
"Please, princess, you have to push." The midwives begged their eyes, pleading not only for the princess but also for Rhaenyra's intervention.
Rhaenyra did not falter in the face of her daughter-in-law’s vacant expression. She moved to the girl’s side, whispering softly, “Darling girl.” She pressed a tender kiss upon her brow. With gentle hands, she brushed the sweat clinging to her forehead. “It is time. Push.”
For a fleeting moment, Rhaenyra’s presence lulled her back into awareness. That fragment of consciousness was enough for pain to rudely surge through in a horrid display of torrential agony. A scream tore from her throat as her frame convulsed. She felt unbearably sweaty, unbearably sore, the pressure in her pelvis a weight no human should endure. She tangled in the bloody sheets. Writhing in her torment. No matter her mind, she could not force nature to halt. Still, her mind refused to heed the commands of her body.
"Jace would not want this." Rhaenyra pleaded with her eyes, wrought with distress.
What could Rhaenyra know of Jace’s wishes? She was his wife. This was her child. It was their baby, tearing its way into this world. A bitter urge surged through with a sick thought to threaten to punish Rhaenyra for her words. A sick urge to prove she alone knew what Jace would have wanted. How she resented Rhaenyra for the very war that took her husband. Yet all she could do was writhe upon the sheets. Her body betrayed her mind as it obeyed the commands of nature. She could not halt the waves, driving her to push. Could not silence the rhythm of life that pressed forward despite her reluctance. Nature would prevail. Nature was indifferent to her anguish. The world would only carry on.
The storm halted for no one. Through the night, its fury echoed the torment swirling within her. The pain did not relent, nor did the persistent contractions. It was hours before the first signs of progress. Hours before, the midwives glimpsed the breach of the babe’s head. The world seemed to collapse inward, narrowing around the single mantra repeated by all of the women around her. Push.
This was not how it was meant to be. Jace should have been by her side. His hand clasping hers as they awaited the first joyous wail of their child’s first breath. He should have held their babe first. Cradled in the safety of their father's arms, showered them with the love he had carried long before their birth. Before finally finding himself at his wife’s side, watching over his family. There had never been a moment when Jace did not want his child. Never a moment did he not love them. Now, there was never a moment he would know them.
At last, the midwife placed the babe upon her chest. The small wailing pink babe, wrapped snug. She searched desperately for her own features, hoping her heart might find solace in them. But the child bore little resemblance to her. His features were strong. Unmistakably his father’s. There was no doubt whose blood ran through this child, no doubt who had sired him.
"Does he have a name, princess?" A hopeful midwife inquired, however silent the chamber fell.
She had dreamt of the babe for many moons. Many nights she spent beside Jace in deep discussions, bordering on a playful argument, about their babe. Laughing, arguing, imagining. Whose eyes, smile, whose fire the child would carry. It was a tender battle. A sweet war or love between expecting parents. Neither parent minded losing. Either way, the babe would be theirs.
That was then, when she had not thought how it would be only her to know. Only she would see who won the battle. The answer belonged to her alone, and grief warped it into something unbearable. Her grip on reality faltered, slipping away yet again. Memories blurred, voices tangling into a cacophony, and silence pressed against her mind. Until thought itself slipped away.
Her brows knit. Her lips parted. Wavering open and closed. “Jace?” The name broke from her like a plea, fragile, searching. She peered down at the babe, confusion clouding her gaze.
Rhaenyra stilled beside her. Face wrought in the similar display of despair, both for her lost son to war and her son's wife lost in her mind. The midwives and maesters did not move. Respect held them silent. Pity held them still. In that silence, the princess’s confusion folded back into grief, wrapping her in the cruel truth of his absence.
The castle pulsed with warmth. Alive with the firelight and laughter. Flames blazed at the hearths, warming the ample guests. Expensive wines spilt freely into eager mouths. The halls filled with a heated glow. A glow was visible even in the deepest alcoves of the castle.
"My prince, you must not follow." She giggled, pressing her palms to her lips to stifle the sound, eyes darting between every passing figure. "The talk that will ensue if we are caught.
"Idle tongues will find scandal whether we give them a reason to or not." His body closed around hers, shielding her from wandering eyes.
Often, they played this game. Whenever she visited the castle, whenever their families sought counsel together, it was always the same. She ran and he chased. She pretended to resist but relished being caught. Though her hopeful eyes betrayed the depths of her desire that he would never stop running. She lost count of their meetings. Hidden in alcoves, tucked away in the library, and once even in her chamber. Though the memory of that night wrung her with fear of how they could have been caught. Her father would forsake her if he knew how close she flew to ruin. How each meeting made it harder for her not to surrender and give him everything.
She tried, for a brief moment in time, to slow his pursuit. She learnt quickly that Jace was not one to concede. How could the court not see? How could they all be so blind? He was besotted. Flowers arrived at her chamber daily. Endless walks were offered only to steal her company. At feasts, he danced with no other lady. His gifts grew costly, his attentions more apparent, his courtship undeniable.
They knew this spelt trouble. Still, their youth betrayed reason. They still indulged. The red string of fate bound them too tightly, for they could not wander far from each other. So they continued their clandestine meetings. Unwilling to let go of the perilous sweetness of being caught.
Her palms rested against his chest. Not in an attempt to push him away. Oh, how she wished to take hold of his tunic and pull them flush together. "But it is not just talking when you seek me in these ways. Is it?" Her eyes teased, daring him to admit his intentions were anything but pure.
Jacaerys paid no mind to the provocation. Partially, as he did not wish to confess how right she was. How pretty the flush of her cheeks, the song of her laughter made it inconceivable for him not to ravish her mouth in hidden alcoves. He could not do much but stare upon her blushing form. Her eyes were darting so often to ensure no unwanted onlookers. Despite the gossip that would ensue, she made no attempt to leave. She lingered, cornered, so very sweet, and so very his.
"Do not marry him." The words escaped before he could leash them, raw and reckless.
Her lips wavered, spluttering for an appropriate answer. "It's hardly my choice."
He shrugged, dismissing her father’s will as a trifling obstacle. When faced with the world, there was little he would not burn in pursuit of her hand. "Beg your father not to marry him."
She scoffed, though her heart betrayed her with longing. "And then? Your mother discusses your union with Helaena."
His shoulders went great taut at the mention of the possible alliance. His mother had mentioned it in passing. The promise of peace between alliances. He would not refuse if his mother instructed and arranged the union. That is what he hoped. He hoped that when the time to perform his duty came, he would not waver. But then he sees her, flushed in their momentary clandestine meetings. He, too, knows then that duty could not eclipse desire.
"Alicent will not accept such a proposal." His jaw clenched, slowly grinding his teeth.
She cupped his face, thumbs tenderly brushing across the skin. "And if she does? What then, Jace? Am I made your mistress? How unfair for Helaena. She is a sweet girl, and you may come to love her."
Her kindness cut him deeper than reproach. She would forsake herself to comfort him. He caught her hands, pressing them to his heart. "I doubt it."
"But you do not." She smiled, endeared by his petulance. "You may come to love her. If not, you will form some companionship. Besides, I do not wish to live my life wandering the shadows only for a taste. I will be insatiable. I will starve for the taste of you."
"Then marry me." He closed in on her, his nose bumping hers in pure affection.
Her cheeks bloomed with a rosy colour. Her gaze fluttered away lest she surrender so quickly. Worried that if she looked too long, she'd fold there and drag them before the Septon. "Do not make promises beyond your realm of making. Your mother is not interested in a lowly noble girl. Helaena is her decision, and you-"
"And you will humour me." He cornered her, further pushing her flush against the warmth of his chest. She could but giggle and fluster before his brazen acts. "Alicent will not accept the proposal. If I see the truth, what then? Will you marry me?"
She could all but bite her lip. Wishing to contain the hopeful smile. There was no harm in entertaining the idea? To dream that her lover might not only be hers in her heart but hers in the eyes of the realm. "How foolish of a girl I would be to say no."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, a silent invitation. He wasted no breath, claiming her lips that burned with fiery longing. He cradled the back of her head to deepen their affection. There was no duty between her lips, no alliance to be formed. Only her desire burned solely for their forbidden love.
A sudden clatter of metal against stone split them. Her hands flew to her chest as though she could still the frantic beating of her heart. Aegon staggered through the hallways, spilling wine and goblets. A drunken spectacle of incivility, muttering in annoyance at servants who struggled to steady him.
She stifled a laugh, pressing her hand to her mouth once more. “He is ghastly. Hard to believe the King sired that.”
“His mother insists he should be considered for the throne.”
“Surely not. What would he do? Sit upon the Iron Throne, drowning in wine and whores? No different than many kings, but hardly a better fit than your mother.”
“He will not trouble us,” Jace sighed, turning back to his love. He was sure Aegon was too drunk to care. His hands cradled her face, eager to reclaim their passionate moment.
“For now.” Her gaze lingered on Aegon, stumbling as Alicent swept in to scold him. Her eyes were fixed on the dowager Queen, a sense of dread crawling up her spine. Dread for the storm brewing. Dread for the tension heightening between the families. “Though I suspect he is not the one we should fear.”
Jace’s jaw tightened with disdain. “I do not think we will ever have to worry about her. Her schemes shall never ruin our moments of love.”
She toyed with the chain around her neck, eyes fixed on the pendant. A silver dragon charm, Jace had given her when she lamented having no dragon of her own. The gift had become her constant companion, lying upon her chest where her heart still ached for her husband. Her fingers drawn to it in idle moments as though the pendant carried a quiet pulse of his presence. Not long after he had gifted her the pendant, he had asked for her hand. She pleaded with her mother to let her wear the necklace on her wedding day, though it sat awkwardly against the delicate fabric of her gown. Still, she wished not to part with her dragon. Time and time again, her gaze lingered on the silver dragon resting upon her heart over the wails of her own dragon.
"The babe is hungry." The nursemaid pleaded once Rhaenyra entered the chamber. At her chest, the babe wailed. Not even the steady rocking of the nursemaid's arms could calm him.
"Have the princess feed him." Rhaenyra urged, slightly annoyed, taking her grandson from her arms.
"She won't move my Lady." The nurse grumbled in a voice still laced with pity. "I have brought the babe to her face, yet her gaze is locked. Unmoving in her mind."
Rhaenyra sighed, her agitation for the princesses' ongoing sombre moods increasing. "Princess." The endearment lacked affection. "My darling girl. Do not let your boy suffer."
Rhaenyra hurriedly placed the babe in her arms, giving the princess no choice but to break from her melancholic haze. Her baby dragon wailed at first, quieting down as though he knew the chest in which he had been laid. His tears swiftly dried. His small mouth searched instinctively for his nourishment. She sighed, loosening her shift over one shoulder so he could latch on. Rocking him without thought, the notion just seemed natural. His soft coos between suckles were the first notes of contentment she had heard from him all morning.
Rhaenyra's gaze lingered upon her form. She could not tell if the look was disappointment or pity. The castle's eyes had long mirrored the same weight. Pity for the woman who had become a miserable shell of her former self. Disappointment for the mother who failed day after day. Judgement pressed in from every direction. Constantly humiliating her in its perseverance. To be looked upon by Rhaenyra with those burdened eyes. As though more were expected of her, it was a wound deeper than any blade. It weakened her further. Driving her back into the cold embrace of despair. Isolation began to feel safer than the world's constant scrutiny.
She could not bear it any longer. Her eyes flicked from Rhaenyra to the soft bundle in her arms. He was content, hands flailing for his mother's comfort. "I do not feel myself anymore." She admitted to no one in particular. Welcoming the world to carry her confession. She could not find it in her to care when everyone knew. Rhaenyra hummed in a silent agreement as though she, too, did not know the princess anymore.
"All he does is cry." She swallowed at the hard lump agitating the back of her throat. "All I do is cry." Her eyes rimmed red, closed as tears threatened. "I birthed him with all my sorrow. I have cursed my boy with endless suffering."
Her poor babe deserved more. It should have been Jacaerys here. He would have done better. He would never have abandoned their child to drown in his own grief. How could she look upon her child without remembering the times she lay motionless, listening to her dear babe's cries go unanswered? Already she had failed him, before she had even been given a true chance to try.
Her grief‑stricken admission broke Rhaenyra’s composure. The words, raw and steeped in self‑hatred, struck Rhaenyra with a misery of her own. "All babies come into the world screaming and crying. But look how his tears dry when he lies upon his mother's chest. You did not birth him with your sorrow."
It comforted her for a moment. It was true, the babe calmed the moment he lay upon her chest. Still filled with innocence. Trusting the embrace of his mother.
"Jacaerys laid with you with love in his heart. It was with joy that he cried for days when he learned you were with child. Think of all the happiness and love sewn into your babe's blood."
The memory drew a fragile smile to her lips. Jace had wept for days. His pride overflowing as he proclaimed to the world that their love had sired a child. He could scarcely look at her for too long without tears welling in his eyes. And it was true. They had brought forth a babe born of pure devotion. Her babe's blood tied by the passion their parents had shared. In that realisation, sorrow loosened its grip for a brief moment. She felt a flicker of relief, believing that Jace’s love remained with her still, cradled contentedly in her arms.
She was restless. Utterly restless as she waited for the day to arrive. As dawn broke, the thought of being readied into her bridal gown stirred a flicker of contentment within her. Her chest warmed with the notion. Tomorrow, she would finally be wed to her love. After months of pleading with her father, she finally bore fruit. Her final night alone dragged on endlessly. She ran the brush through her hair again and again, as though each stroke might hasten time. A peaceful smile lingered on her lips as she hummed softly to herself, suspended between impatience and anticipation.
Her chamber door cracked open, seeping light into the halls. She jumped from her seat at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes hurried to find familiarity in the figure. "Jace?"
"I apologise." He whispered in a hushed tone as though he wished not to invite eager, unsolicited ears. He diverted his eyes once he glanced at her. Prepared for bed in nothing but her shift, her form peeked beneath the sheer fabric.
Her face burned with a rosy red as she scurried to find her nightgown. "What business do you have in my chambers, my love?"
He turned, offering her a moment of privacy, however much he wished to leer upon her beautiful form. "Tomorrow we wed." His voice trembled with devotion, barely containing the swell of love that consumed him.
She felt similarly. Every moment carried a ball of anticipation in her belly. Her hands slid across his chest before curling around his neck. "I shall not sleep. My blood buzzes with joy."
He chuckled, hands wrestling on the dip of her waist. Carefully needing the soft flesh. "You must sleep. 'Tis the last night you shall sleep alone."
She leaned her chin upon his chest, a silent plea beneath her sweet gaze. "How do you leave me another night with the torture of your absence?"
His hands travelled lower. His palms are dancing with a possible invitation for more. "If you wish me to stay, I would not dream of leaving."
Her eyes widened, though they betrayed a gleam of desire. "Jace." She warned.
He only laughed softly, wrapping her in his arms, urging space to forsake them. The kisses fell in a trail starting upon her crown. Then her forehead. Her brow, her nose, her lips, her jaw. Her neck in the familiar spots he knew she loved before threatening lower. She gasped audibly. Never was he so brazen in their previous meetings. He halted, lingering for any sign of protest that she did not wish for more.
"We are to be wed, and we shall spend a lifetime with one another." He uttered, noticing as her chest heaved with a peculiar blend of anxiety and passion. "Longer than the time we have spent apart. What is one night sooner?"
"You think I will give in to temptation?" She chuckled. Her resolve faltered as he continued his attention.
His eyes echoed her desire, gleaming with possibilities the night had to offer. "You are a temptation itself."
She threw her head back, throat bubbling with sweet laughter. "Unfair, I was not lounging about my chambers, hoping you would barge in and glance upon what should be your surprise for your wedding night."
His smile was boyish, guilty yet unrepentant. "I got my surprise early. You are beautiful. Exquisite"
She flushed, hiding her face against his chest. His words carried the same adoration she had always known. Only now it was laced with hunger.
"Time is most cruel." She complained, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. "It's slow when we so wish for it to hurry."
"It's almost as though it is up to us to make the most of our time."
She thought of the wedding. In the singular moment, their hands would be bound. From then on, she would never know a day without him. The only regret she imagined in the years to come was that she had not loved him sooner. That she had not seized every fleeting moment before eternity stretched out before them. Even with forever promised, she longed to have gathered more of the present into her embrace.
"There might come a day I regret not spending another night with you." She muttered, her mind racing as she pondered the situation.
"Such a day will not come," he vowed, certain their hearts would never part.
"There is no wrong. We are to be wed so soon. Tomorrow will be ruled by merriment. I would hate for us to be so tired come the time we are alone."
"I shall never be devoid of energy in your presence."
She blushed, feeling the depths of his excitement upon her lower abdomen. "I can feel." She teased.
"I apologise, my love." Flushed with momentary shame, he pulled back as though not to force her to endure his desire.
"Do not. It warms my heart that you wish for me so desperately," she guided him until her knees brushed the bed. Falling back, she awaited his choice. "It warms me in more ways than one."
He did not follow, not yet, not til he was sure her wishes matched his own. "Do you wish for me to take my departure?"
She slowly shook her head, biting at the sensitive skin on her lips. Her hands reached for him, tugging at his tunic. He yielded, covering her body with the largeness of his own. Their lips met, and passion surged. His hands lingered at her knees, inching higher as desire overcame restraint.
She woke in a foul mood. From the moment she opened her eyes, the memories of last night crawled back. Unwelcome and unbidden. Oh, how she cursed the feast. Cursed those who attended. Cursed herself for going. Cursed her naivety. A feast meant as a celebration had soured into her own humiliation.
Every Lord and Lady had come upon the Queen's request. She had attended simply out of duty. She would rather have spent the evening listening to her son's soft coos as she read aloud poems Jacaerys once recited to her. But Rhaenyra had summoned her herself. Only upon arrival did she realise how suspicious the Queen's intentions were.
"Where is my son?" She demanded, tone still sharp from the night before.
The nursemaid barely looked up, paying no mind to the princess's tone. "He is with the queen, my lady."
She clenched her teeth. Agitation crawled up her spine as she stormed off, nursemaid on her tail. Each step weighed heavily with anger. She could not believe how Rhaenyra's scheming had blindsided her. It was not unusual for Rhaenyra to request her presence at such festivities. It was, however, highly unusual for her to encourage lords from houses she did not care to remember to entertain her all night. Lord after lord attempted to press her for dances, ply her with wine and vie for her attention. Their sudden interest perplexed her. That was until she later realised it was Rhaenyra's doing. It was the Queen's deliberate meddling.
"What are you doing?" She inquired, chest tight with fury.
Rhaenyra did not flinch. She tickled her grandson's belly, smiling. "He sat with me during counsel. He is to be King one day."
Her rage flared hotter. "He is far too young to begin his instruction. He does not need to be surrounded by hardened lords and their crude chatter." She lifted her pudgy babe, his hand reaching for the pendant swaying before his face, before handing him to the nursemaid. "His ears are too young for such poison."
"Princess, it is not an issue. I assure you the boy is fine." Rhaenyra attempted gently.
"That is solely my concern."
Rhaenyra's patience thinned. "He is my boy's son. It concerns me."
"He is my boy." She spat, teeth bare, defensive and ready to fight. "It will always concern me most."
The Queen’s composure cracked, anger threatening her as well. "Are you upset about last night's affairs?"
Her fury spilt over. "How dare you? How dare you encourage men to mingle with me? Have you no respect for your son? I was his wife. I do not need any lowly lord's flattery."
"It has been some time, princess. Months. You are alone." She attempted to reason with her. "No one in the realm would begrudge you if you opened your heart to love again."
She shook her head. Her body recoiled at the thought. "It is not open to love, nor does it desire love."
"You will forsake love entirely?" Rhaenyra pressed, her presence firm but not domineering. "Why? Must you still punish yourself? Does guilt eat at you still? You are not incapable of love, nor will a new love replace Jace. You are allowed to love."
"I will not speak on this matter anymore." The mention of Jace’s name struck a raw nerve. She screeched, as though the wound had been torn open anew. "You may be Queen, but this is beyond your realm of rule. You will not orchestrate such treachery against my love again." She turned to leave, her son fussing at the sharpness of her tone. "And do not take my son from his crib without consulting me," she warned.
Rhaenyra scoffed, shaking her head. "I have had many sons, princess-"
She turned on her heel, her anger preventing her from knowing better than not to feed into every fight "So you know better?"
The implication was there, it hung heavy, and it did not escape Rhaenyra's notice. The queen had stiffened as though preparing herself for the worst of the princess's blows. She ought to back down now, to tuck her head and hurry out before she truly regrets her words. But she could not.
These days, she was quick to rage. It seemed day by day she was tested. She was never someone quick to anger, a trait Jace had acknowledged himself. Though now it was though there was always a simmering pit of anger at the base of her stomach waiting for anyone to ignite it.
"Speak then", Rhaenyra's voice was cold and challenging.
"What will you have me say?" she hissed. Resentment long and festering finally broke free. She looked around her in mock search. "Where are your boys?"
The words hung heavy. She regretted them instantly. She knew how Rhaenyra loved her sons. How little she wished for them to be complicit in the war. But grief clawed for blame, for someone to carry the weight she could not. Had her whole family not waged war, she would not be without a husband. Her boy would not be without a father.
"With what foulness has corrupted your heart?" Rhaenyra spat back her offence mounting. Her voice was laced with signs that she genuinely felt hurt by the girl's words. "I don't recall this woman as the one my son begged for. You think he peers upon you with pride? Where is that girl?"
"Gone."
"No, she stands before me. Hidden beneath her cowardness. Incapable. Bowing to fear."
She huffed a sardonic laugh, breaking halfway into a sob, she refused to let escape "What do you know of what I fear?"
"You fear life beyond my boy. You fear there is life after his death. You do not know yourself because you fear discovering what you can be without him."
"Save me your lectures. I need not hear it from you."
"Heed not to mine. Lecture me openly I shall save you from any punishment. What do you have to say?"
Her voice faltered, guilt twisting into accusation. “Was it worth it? He fought for you. He died for you. And yet it was not you who reaped the consequence. It was not you who was struck down. Was it worth your boys? Was the throne worth it?”
"I did not wish for my son to fight my battles." Rhaenyra faltered, her voice cracking under the weight of loss.
Her throat burned, tears spilling freely now. “And yet he did. And still you sit upon your throne as though unscathed. All I see is the woman who got what she wanted at the expense of everyone. I bleed openly from a wound that will never close. As far as I know, my son lives, and yours do not. I do not need lectures from such a mother. It will always concern me most."
She turned from the hall, ignoring Rhaenyra’s further words. Hot tears rained down her face. A storm perpetually swirling within her chest. She needed someone to take the blame. For anyone to admit this war had not been worth it. Everyone else seemed to move on. They had exempted themselves from the ruin they had wrought. But she was still here, carrying grief like a brand upon her chest. Searching for someone to grieve him as openly as she did. Searching for someone to understand that her love had not died with him.
Sunlight pressed through the lace curtains, the delicate beams scattering across the chamber. The air still carried a faint perfume of oils and candle wax mingling with the faint smell of their coupling. Light bounced off the sheets covering their tangled bodies. Their love lay exposed to the tender glow of dawn.
She stirred, twisting in the sheets and mess of limbs. Her eyes caught the rising sun. Beside her, Jacaerys law sprawled in perfect contentment. His dark curls haloed by the light. His breath was steady and untroubled by the world. The sight of him so unguarded and utterly hers made her chest ache with sweetness,
Yet the world beyond this bed was already stirring. The muffled clatter of servants echoed through the stone walls. A reminder that time was not theirs alone. She clutched the sheets to her chest. Her limbs still tangled with his. Her heart leapt as the memory struck her straight to her chest. Their wedding. Today. In mere hours, the entire realm would bear witness to their union.
"Go, you must go now." Her eyes widened, urgency breaking through the haze of love. She shook him gently, whispering, "My ladies will be here soon. They cannot see us in such a state." Jacaerys blinked awake, groggy, his lashes heavy with sleep. He rubbed his eyes, protesting with a low sound that made her blush despite herself.
He did not move with such haste, preferring to wake slowly. He only chuckled, slow and lazy, his smile softening her panic. His body held on to no shame. He did not hide from her nudity, nor his own. Rather, he gazed at her with unyielding adoration, as though their love was the only truth in this world. "Let me look upon you one last time," he teased, his voice deep and husky. His words meant to wring laughter from her worry.
"Jace, you will see me tonight and every night after that. You will indulge in those moments henceforth. You must take your leave. We do not have time."
He did not listen. He gathered her into his arms. The sheets fell uselessly to the floor. "No, let me look upon you one more time. I beg, my love." His hands trailed lazily up her sides before lingering at the pendant still resting upon her chest. The only thing they had not discarded the night before. He did not say much for a while, his eyes just peering into her own. His eyes flickered watching her, as though he was deep in thought.
"What difference shall it make from tonight?" She chuckled, blushing and still trying to cover herself with whatever sheet she could grasp from him.
"Because we will never be here again." He murmured softly. His voice gave no way that this was meant to tease. "I will never be a love-struck boy again. I will be a man. A husband." His words silenced the world around them, honing in on the space between their bodies. Only for them. Her heart pounded at the words. Stilling at his admission before rapidly pounding beneath her ribs. Her brain turned with the implication. This would be the last moment before they were man and wife. Their days of clandestine meetings were over. Never would they have the need to hide and steal moments when time now offered them the world.
"I will never know you like this again." He said, casting each sheet aside. This time, she did not fight for the sheets back but rather let him remove any barrier between them. She could not find it in her to care about the discarded sheets or how she lay bare before him. His words had undone her, stripped her of fear more thoroughly than his hands ever could.
He kissed her in a blazing trail with pure love. First her stomach, her chest, her throat, then her cheek. Each was a promise. "I am prepared to love you in every way you come to me." He mumbled between kisses. "Change how you please, there will never be a version of you I will not love."
She melted her mind, clouded with only him. Her apprehension left her as they tangled their limbs once more, bodies closing in on one another. He pulled back and bumped his nose against hers in affection. "But let me love you one more time just as you are now. I have the privilege to love you in every way for the rest of time. I do not want to miss a moment."
All fight left her, surrendering as the sun climbed higher. She melted into his form, tangling them limbs once more. Time was not a worry when they had forever to share it. They did not need to worry about the sunrise or the maids. Not when time bent to their will. This moment would stretch on before it would fall into the funny grips of time.
The sun rose high in the sky, glimmering against the last signs of rain clinging to every leaf. The earth felt warm beneath her, releasing the final moments of the day before night came to claim it.
Her child crawled on the grass, fingers tugging at the blades to reveal the soil beneath them. Dark, wet and fragrant with the smell of replenished earth. He giggled at his discovery. His joys knew no bounds, his world vast and waiting for him. She smiled, a warmth blossoming through her chest as she watched her baby dragon. She encouraged him. Encouraged his happiness, his fearlessness. For him to explore without fear of the hidden anguish in this world.
Rhaenyra slowly approached, her presence heavy after weeks of silence. Shame had kept her away from Rhaenyra. Guilt gnawed at her stomach for striking the wound of loss. A loss they both shared. Only the two could understand the pain of such a wound. The love for their child, and the hollow ache left behind once they were gone.
Lowering herself beside the princess, Rhaenyra’s gaze softened at the boy’s unbridled joy. “He reminds me so much of Jace at that age,” she murmured, extending a fragile branch of peace.
She felt her throat tighten, only nodding. Words would betray her if she dared open her mouth. So for some time her eyes remained fixed on her child as though searching for herself in his reflection. A familiarity she had lost quite some time ago.
"I do not know me, my lady," she confessed at last, her voice trembling under the weight of uncertainty.
"Few of us do, when sorrow endures." Rhaenyra's voice held no judgment, just opportunity.
"I will always miss Jacaerys." She admitted, though her tears were slow to come. So often she had cried, she did not have it in her anymore to shed another tear. "He was my love, and I knew only the love he gave. Grief has become my sole companion. So constant I do not remember life without it. Happiness and warmth are momentary. It always yields to this permanent ache. I miss him," She admitted her voice wavering as she struggled to admit what she held so hidden for so long, "but i miss myself too."
"Sorrow has its way in forcing change. It carves us whether we will it to or not."
"I was not ignorant. We were at war. I had thought many times he may not return. I knew there was that chance and I knew if it happened I would experience the depths of grief." She admitted, the words ashy in her mouth. The wind threatened the spill every secret it carried. "But I believed I would not change. That this grief would weigh upon my chest, but that it would still be my chest."
She diverted her gaze, her eyes drifting to her son. He crawled, babbling a plethora of nonsense without knowledge of his mother’s pain. She smiled, happy for a moment that her son was happy. Her heart was grateful that his joy was untouched. How often she prayed he would never have to endure such sorrow.
"I keep remembering the person I was with Jace. These memories I play on loop everyday. Remembering me and that I was still the woman he loved and that love would help me carry on now that he is gone." Tears threatened, her eyes rimmed red. "But I am not that girl in those memories anymore."
Rhaenyra only nodded. She knew better than the way in which grief stormed through the world, carving its change with no regard for who it harmed. How few people came unscathed by its touch. She, too, had lost more than most, fragments of her heart scattered across the graves of children she would forever miss.
"I wish I were as fearless as Jace. He courted me openly, defied my father, and asked for my hand without hesitation. He came to me simply because he wished for me." She admitted smiling, though her eyes betrayed the constant ache. But the memories were too sweet to bow down to this constant grief.
"Jace was unlike you in many ways. You cannot keep searching for answers within him. He can do no more than leave you loved. He cannot live for you. Your boy cannot live for you." Her voice held a motherly tone she had heard so often when Rhaenyra addressed Jace.
"I fear I died with him."
Rhaenyra sucked in a harsh breath, "You did not-"
"No. I did not die with him." Her smile was pained, "That is what I fear. That for so long I believed I was gone, and it hurts to wake some days knowing I am here. Alive with purpose still. It feels wrong. Unfair."
Rhaenyra nodded. Death did not know how to play fair. Many were taken, though they deserved better. "Death seldom bows to fairness." She agreed, her brows furrowed in contemplation. "Though it is better to live, no matter how brief the moment. The moment Jace had was beautiful. He was loved from the moment he came into this world to his very last breath."
She nodded, a pained smile gracing her lips. Rhaenyra was right. However brief he was here. Jace was here. Beautifully alive for just a moment, and she of all people had the privilege to bask in just how lovely he was. For so long in her life, all she knew was happiness because of him.
"I will not love again." It was not an attempt at punishing herself, but rather her admitting a truth.
"Do not deny yourself love, just because you lost yours."
"No, that is not it. This is not punishment. I was luckier than most. From the moment I met Jace, I was never unloved. To live through such unwavering devotion was unlike anything I will experience. For that, I am grateful, but I loved just as strongly as he had. I've given all my love. To Jace and our boy. I was allowed to love Jace for a moment, and my boy, I will love for a lifetime. I have no love left to give but to myself."
Rhaenyra smiled through her words, the last of the sun warming the earth to lull them into a moment of content. "Jace would be proud of you."
Her eyes flickered between memories of Jace, just as she had for so many months now, before flickering to their child. For a fleeting moment, the world was still. The ache remained. Grief still pressed upon her chest, but slowly it made space for peace. The last light of day kissed her skin, and she breathed. Alive and grateful, for she was at last at peace.
A/N - I hope you enjoyed this as much as I had fun writing it (I cried...). Forgive me for any mistakes. I did rush the end, which I may come back one day to revise. Other than that, toodles.
alicent you unintentionally fostered the environment in which your son directly yearns for your unspoken affection in a manner that is beyond appropriate behavior. alicent your son longs for the recognition and affirmation that you once yearned for from your own father and dead mother. alicent to manipulate him is to peel back his skin and reveal all of his wounds that also match yours. alicent the apple is rotten right to the core. my queen dowager in christ you made the sandwich without even knowing it
Summary: At the base of the looming giant of Mount Vesuvius, the city of Pompeii bustles to life, unaware of the calamity that awaits. You were a slave in the esteemed House of Batiatus, preparing for the arrival of the grand games to celebrate the Augustalia Festival. But as fate takes its course and the slumbering giant awakens, will you live to see another day or forever be immortalized in the ashen casts of the fallen?
Trigger Warnings: depictions and descriptions of ancient roman slavery in all its forms, explicit language, blood/gore/violence, mentions & descriptions of physical assault, reader witnesses sexual assult, explicit sexual content and themes, virginity/concept of virginity loss, f!masturbation, m!masturbation, f!oral receiving, m!oral receiving, vaginal sex, and more. Viewer discretion advised - MDNI
⪼Part 3 || masterlist⪻
trigger warning: this chapter contains decriptions of sexual assault and witnessed sexual assault. Viewer descretion advised
August 30th, 79 C.E.
THE LAND OF POMPEII WAS ENVELOPED in the thick, suffocating embrace of Sol Invictus's might, and all under its searing glory ailed from sweat-drenched skin and parched, burning throats. In the turquoise heavens not a single cloud crawled across the sky, nor was there a whispering caress of wind.
You stood with Aurelia upon the balcony overlooking the ludus training grounds, the grating sound of the gladiators below practicing their drills echoing off the stone walls of the villa. Your Domina's attention was solely on the glittering, expertly crafted necklaces inlaid with countless jewels and precious stones that were perched upon satin cushions, held aloft by ten slaves lined in a row just before the balcony threshold. They had arrived with a margaritarius, one Fabius Helvius, the premier jeweler and goldsmith in all of Pompeii.
She endeavored to find adornment suitable and prestigious enough for the upcoming banquet and celebrations for the Ludi Romani, the most ancient and important festival celebrated throughout entire the Republic. It was a multi-day celebration to honor Jupiter, filled with nonlethal gladiatorial games, theatrical performances, chariot racing, and grand feasting. It was to begin within the fortnight, and preparations had been well underway within the villa.
You had been commanded to act as a visual representation of what the adornments might have looked like worn, forced to stand before her lounging form upon the klinai newly situated in front of the balcony banister. On either side of her stood two other slaves bearing large fans made of peacock feathers, the large golden handles clutched tightly in their sweating hands as they raised it up and down in attempt to keep her cool.
She appraised each piece upon your neck while the margaritarius droned on about the minute details of the necklaces, detailing the exhaustive crafting process and location of origin of each jewel and stone. You did your very best to listen to his words, but try as you might, it was a futile effort. Your attention kept flittering through the banister, the angle of your bowed head allowing you a perfect view of a familiar crown of gold.
It had been nearly a week since you and the Wolf - Adrian - had spoken, and despite forcing your mind to conjure logical thought, you could not rid yourself of the desire nor wish to speak with him again. That night within the slave baths had been but a taste of a kind of freedom you never dare dreamt of existing. The kind of freedom that allowed the seed of trust to bloom, where one could speak freely with another soul, to share a moment of easeful tranquility. It pained and terrified you to admit you craved it just as much as you did breath.
Yet the gods would not grant you your wish for the opportunity to do so. You had not been able to leave your Domina's side as the House of Batiatus prepared for the upcoming festival. Your days were spent at market with Aurelia, your evenings at her beck and call as she attended countless dinner parities and social affairs. Even in the infinitesimal moments you and Adrian shared space, he never made effort to acknowledge your presence, a striking difference to your fleeting, shared glances from before. Unlike the countless times you would briefly meet his stare, for the entire duration you had been perched upon the balcony and the innumerable times your gaze found his striking figure, his eyes never met your own.
"No, no, no!" Aurelia huffed in exasperation, forcing your gaze to rip away from the golden-haired gladiator, focusing onto the stone beneath your feet. "None of these strings of commoner goods spark my interest. I am a daughter of Batitatus, you insolent swine! Not a peasant so easily impressed. Show me the stock you'd present to the Empress herself!"
Fabius choked a startled cough before inclining his chin. "Of course, Mistress."
With a snap of his fingers another slave who stood behind him stepped forward, an ornate gold and marble box held carefully within his hands. The margaritarius carefully opened the box, his wrinkled olive-toned hands pilfering the twinkling contents before producing a breathtaking gold chain glimmering with sapphires.
"The stones were mined in Ceylon." he informed her with a small, tight smile as he held up the chain for viewing. "Imported at great cost. They are believed to have been favored by the ancient Etruscans."
Aurelia made an appreciative sound before she inclined her head for you to try on the necklace. Wordlessly you took off the one made of moonstone that had been the object of her ire and replaced it with the sapphires. The perfectly cut stones and golden chains were cool against your skin, and as you shifted back to your original position in front of your mistress, they gleamed like the deepest seas.
"Well, well," Aurelia tilted her head, appraising the necklace against your neck before she frowned. In an instant she stood before you, tugging down the linen straps of your house garment, exposing your breasts. Her amber eyes widened the most imperceptible amount, following the swoop of the golden chains and blue stones that hung just above the swell of your exposed chest.
You froze as sharp, gnawing tendrils of rage and embarrassment coursed through you, burning down into the marrow of your bones. With every ounce of strength you refrained from covering your nakedness with your hands, your fingers instead twitching at your sides.
"Spin, amicae," she commanded with a small twirl of her pointer finger, making to lounge upon the klinai once more, "I wish to see how the stones gleam from every angle."
You swallowed down the large lump forming in your throat and slowly turned in a small circle, bitter dread rising on your tongue as you caught a few leering glances of the gladiators below. When your eyes landed on Adrian, a voice in the back of your mind shouted for his gaze to meet your own, seeking a mere moment of safe familiarity as you drowned in the dark depths of humiliation. Once again your prayers went unanswered.
"Price?" she questioned the jeweler with a sharp rise of her dark brow.
"Two hundred denarii."
"Two hundred?" she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. "I will offer you one hundred."
The corner of Fabius's mouth twitched. "One hundred and seventy-five."
"One hundred and fifty," Aurelia's eyes narrowed, her voice laced with sickly sweet poison, "and I will refrain from spreading word you dishonor the House of Batiatus."
The merchant's wrinkled face paled. "One hundred and fifty it is then. I-"
"It is such an exquisite piece, sister, but surely not the best within his stock. And we only deserve the best. Do you not think it wise to see another before committing to such exorbitant price?"
Your heart stuttered in your chest the moment Felix's voice sounded out as he crossed the threshold of the balcony behind you. You willed your raging heart to settle, the sounds of his footsteps drawing closer and closer until he was only half a pace away, close enough you could taste the lavender and thyme oil that clung to his dark curls, feel the heat radiating off his body.
He had taken every opportunity he could to touch you or intrude your personal space since that night at the Belmont Villa. Though it appeared he truly did not recall the events that took place in the kitchens, whatever desire he felt had swelled and festered so deeply that not even wine and opium-induced delirium could erase it. It was as if he could sense whenever you would be alone, materializing in the moments you would least expect. In the kitchens late at night when Aurelia demanded refreshment, in the wine cellar when Dominus Antonius commanded you for refill. His touch was not direct as it had been the week prior, but the ghosting of his hands, lips, and fingertips were enough to cause bloody talons of fear and dread to rip into your heart.
"Brother." Aurelia's smile fell, regarding him. "I thought you were at market with father."
"I changed my mind." he stepped even closer before he was standing in front of you, raising his hand so that his fingertips brushed over the polished royal-blue stones that rested above your exposed breasts. You dared not move nor breathe as you stared at the marble beneath your feet, focused your thoughts on anything but the feeling of his hand so close to your flesh.
"I must say Aurelia, sapphires do not suit you. Not with your complexion and all." Felix leaned in impossibly closer, his hands trailing up your neck until he unclasped the string of sapphires. He clutched the bauble and turned to face the margaritarius, but not before tracing his empty hand just above the swell of your breast.
Aurelia scoffed. "You sound like mother."
"It is a rarity she speaks with as much wisdom as I do." he mocked before snatching the ornate box of treasures from the slave's hold.
With surprising gentleness he rummaged through it until a small hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest. Within moments he was before you once again, bearing the new necklace carefully within his grasp. Felix leaned in close, your nose nearly brushing his shoulder as he fastened the heavy necklace around your neck. A gaudy, layered gold chain weighed down by brilliant blood-rubies sat upon your neck, cascading down to your nipples.
His hand found the tip of your chin, forcing you to peer up and meet his dark amber gaze. You willed your expression to remain as passive as possible, to quell the desire to shudder away from his touch. His broad chest brushed against yours, his breath fanning against your cheek.
"There we are," he took a step back in the same breath Aurelia stood. She made no comment as her gaze found your own before falling to the rubies, satisfaction flooding her face.
"The House of Batiatus has ever the discerning eye." the jeweler bowed. "Those blood rubies are quite the rarity indeed. Mined from the lands of Ratnadeepa, known as the Island of Gems."
"Yes." Felix crowded you once more, his hand trailing up the expanse of your exposed arms and toying with the rubies at your neck. "Quite the rarity indeed. Wouldn't you agree, little poet?"
Your body burned as rage and disgust consumed you whole. "Yes, Dominus."
"And the price for such a prize?" Aurelia questioned lazily, her eyes finding the margaritarius.
You willed your mind to focus on their exchange in futile attempt to ignore Felix's hovering, but it was for naught. He pressed impossibly closer, blocking all of your surroundings from view, his lips nearly skimming your ear. "How I long to see blood dripping from your thighs, staining my cock. Just as these rubies drip from your neck."
An involuntary shiver ran down the course of your spine, bile burning your throat. Your reaction elicited a dark, sinister chuckle to slip quietly from his lips, his hands now beginning to rise and make for the swell of your right breast. But before he could make dreaded contact, the loud crack of a whip tore through the air in the same breath countless shouts sounded from below.
Felix tore away from your side, he and Aurelia giddily rushing to the banister, searching for the cause of the commotion. You took the opportunity to pull your garment back over your breasts before your attentions were quickly pulled in the direction of the shouting, the sounds of fists colliding with flesh growing tenfold. You turned and made your way to look down below, your breath hitching in your throat as you took in the scene of chaos before you.
There, in the middle of a circle of amassing gladiators, was Adrian bashing his fist against the bloodied and bruised face of his apparent sparring partner. His brothers-in-arms shouted their bloodthirsty encouragement as the Wolf hit the warrior beneath him again and again and again. It only ceased when the doctore's whip wrapped itself around his bloodied fist, yanking him violently backwards onto the sands.
"Bloody animal that one!" Felix guffawed, turning away from the commotion and setting eyes upon Fabius's awaiting form. "Come, sister. Let us accompany the margaritarius to father's offices and give him deserved coin."
Aurelia's lips pulled into a smile, gazing once more at the layered ruby necklace upon your person. With a sigh she snapped her fingers. "Come along, then."
Wordlessly you did as you were bade, the ruby necklace heavy around your neck like the yoke upon an lamb herded to slaughter.
~
The following evening, Aurelia and Felix received an invitation from Quintus Aventus and his younger brother Brutus as the dined on supper in the triclinium. The invitation was for the opportunity to accompany them on their pleasure barge in preemptive celebration of the nearing festival. The barge would chart across the bay of Pompeii, viewing the grand sight of Mount Vesuvius and the striking cliffs of the coast. The children of Batiatus were beyond thrilled, immediately barking orders at you and your fellow slaves through mouthfuls of their supper to begin making necessary preparations.
"And you," Felix's eyes slid over your form as you filled Aurelia's cup for a third time, "you shall prepare the Wolf for our outing. Isn't that right, sister?"
Your Domina stilled, her goblet halfway to her lips, a frown at her face. "She is not yours to command, brother."
He leaned back in the klinai, sipping gingerly from his own cup, his eyes alight with cruel amusement. "Of course, sister. Yet I implore you to imagine the awe Quintus will revel in when we bring with us the Champion of Pompeii, the very man he tried to deny would emerge victorious."
Your fingers pressed into the bronze pitcher in your hands, returning to your place just behind Aurelia, ignoring with all your might of his heavy gaze upon you.
"Yes, well, it would be quite the surprise, would it not?" Aurelia hummed in hesitatnt acquiescance. "And Quintus so does love his surprises."
Felix chuckled, inclining his chin. "Indeed."
With a flick of her wrist she bade you to step forward. "Inform the Champion that his presence is required on the morrow. Ensure that he shines brighter than Apollo."
You dipped your chin, your stomach tightening with a burning mixture of dread and anticipation. "Yes, Domina."
~
The stone underground of the ludus was cool and quiet, your footsteps barely making sound as you descended further and further below. The rocky corridor was illuminated by iron braziers alight with amber flame that danced upon the stone walls, eradicating any and all shadow. Two house guards stood outside the distant iron gate that led into the stone chamber and cells below. You felt the moment their eyes landed on you, a pulse of unease blooming in your chest.
"Halt." the eldest guard at the metal gate peered at you with muted suspicion before he recognized the bronze collar around your neck. "Apologies, amicae. What is it that Domina requires?"
You kept your expression neutral, pulling yourself to full height and meeting his emerald gaze. "Domina wishes for me to relay command to the Wolf."
"Very well," he gestured for the guard beside him to escort you through the maze of cells before finally stopping a few paces away from the last wooden and iron door. The guard rapped loudly four times before unlocking it and pulling it towards him, taking his place beside you. "White Wolf!"
As the door swung open, your eyes instantly found the warrior's naked form sprawled over his bed, his golden locks splayed around linen pillows. Your breath caught while your eyes roamed the expanse of his scarred and chiseled torso, trailing further down to the impressive cords of muscle of his thighs, before landing on the thick, large cock that was nestled between his legs. Heat rose to your face as you tore your eyes away, focusing on the stone flags beneath your feet.
"Domina and Dominus have been invited to attend a gathering with the House of Aventus." you began once you took a centering breath. "They demand your presence on the morrow upon Quintus's pleasure barge."
Adrian remained silent as he slowly sat up, the worn wooden frame groaning in protest. The sound of his movements prompted you to finally meet his impressive form as he stood.
He did not spare a single glance in your direction or that of the guard, turning instead to the crude stone shelf beside his bed housing a wooden pitcher and cup, revealing the sculpted figure of his backside.
"Pleasure barge?" the sound of pouring liquid filled the air before he finally turned towards you, sipping from the wooden vessel as he did so. When his eyes finally met your own, they were devoid of any ounce of familiarity you had been witnessed to before. Confusion curled around you like smoke, a tendril of hurt unfluring inside your heart.
"It is a day ship used for sailing around the bay," you answered, clasping your hands in front of you in attempt to center yourself under his hardened gaze.
"Is it?" he scoffed lowly.
Your brows furrowed at the sound of his clipped tone. "It is."
"And what am I commanded to do upon this pleasure boat?" he stepped towards you, causing the guard to inch closer as well. You did not move, but the movement of the guard caused Adrian's eyes to settle heavily upon him, stilling him in his tracks.
"I cannot say." your eyes roamed his handsome face, widening slightly as you noticed the newly formed, angry red cuts upon his lip and cheek. You surmised it was from the altercation earlier that day. "I know only that you are commanded to attend and I am to prepare you come morning."
Adrian's golden gaze slowly slid to you before he downed the remaining contents of his drink. "So be it. Is that all?"
Your lips parted as the painful lash of hurt tightened within your chest. Words failed to find you, but before the silence could stretch on for too long, you nodded.
The Wolf did not offer reply before he grabbed the iron bars of the door and pulled it shut with a loud slam. You stood, motionless, as countless thoughts raged inside of you while you attempted to keep your emotions from bubbling to the surface. You had just enough sense to turn on your heels, followed closely by the house guard as you weaved through the underground maze of cells and made way back towards the villa.
Had you done something to offend? Did he harbor anger towards you?
You barely held back the disbelieving scoff that threatened to escape you. How could you have? Neither of you had truly been in each other's presence for days on end. Perhaps he was filled with regret of sharing a piece of himself with you, nor held any remaining interest in the unlikely acquaintanceship that had begun to bloom between you. After all, he was the Champion of Pompeii, a mighty gladiator of Rome. You were simply an amicae, a glorified house slave. Perhaps he simply no longer deemed you worthy enough of his attention once he had bared upon you a piece of his soul.
Perhaps it was for the best, you thought bitterly. There was no place for true friendship to grow within the bowels of a ludus, lesser still in the viper's nest that was the House of Batiatus. You had been foolish to ever think and hope otherwise.
~
The following morning you woke just before dawn and tended to your usual chores before making your way to the slave baths. Another guard stood watch just outside the stone structure, his beady eyes staring at you with unsettling hunger as you drew closer and crossed the threshold. Your eyes at once found the Wolf sitting within the waters, his eyes still not meeting your own upon your arrival.
Neither of you spoke as you slathered his supple skin with aromatic oils, de-tangled and washed his hair before adorning his body in a striking crimson and black tunic. You combed through the thick golden locks with an ivory comb, the wavy strands cascading down the expanse of his broad chest and back.
"Ah, splendid!" Felix crooned as he appeared in the entrance of the baths, dressed in his own gorgeous tunic of sapphire and emerald, his hands heavy with golden rings. "Quintus will be quite taken with surprise!"
You immediately stepped away from the gladiator as Felix crossed the distance between you and stood before the Wolf, inspecting him.
A satisfied hum left his lips. He turned to face you, his hand once again finding your chin and forcing your gaze onto his own. "Quite the skilled amicae, is she not, Wolf? To turn a beast such as you into the living visage of Apollo himself?"
You forced your eyes downcast, focusing on the thick golden collar inlaid with glittering emeralds that hung upon his neck. The Wolf did not reply.
"My sister commands that you accompany us as well, little poet. Best make haste and dress. We leave upon the hour." he roughly released your chin. "Go."
"Yes, Dominus." you rasped, surging forward before he could attempt to grab you once more.
Within the hour, you had been bathed and dressed by Corrina whose touch was rough upon you as she worked, her pink lips etched into a permanent frown. Before long you were adorned in a rose-pink stola, a matching silk veil upon your head, a gleaming gold chain of rose-quarts around your neck.
Caius was sent to collect you from Aurelia's chambers, he dressed in a tunic of emerald and amethyst. When you reached the atrium you took your place behind your Domina, he behind his Dominus and the Wolf. The children of Batiatus carried on a mindless conversation about their desires to purchase their own barge as you all clambered into the gilded carriage and set down the winding road towards the bay.
The journey to the Aventus Villa's private port was short and unremarkable, yet the heightened heat of early morning promised a grueling afternoon. The scent of the sea wafted thickly in the air as you followed your masters down the winding stone steps that led to the ship's dock, your eyes immediately landing on the large ship bobbing in the brilliant aquamarine waters. Even from your distance it towered high above the tiny figures that waved upon the House of Batiatus's arrival, the gargantuan, teal sail undulating in the light breeze that caressed your cheek.
As you made footfall upon the dock and the Aventus brothers welcomed your betters, you took in the brightly painted blue and red hull and the expertly carved detailing of the ship's banisters. It was an impressive showing of the House of Aventus's ties to the Roman navy, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt envy took root in your masters. It paled in comparison, however, to the acidic envy upon Quintus's face when his gaze settled upon the Wolf.
Without further ceremony Brutus beckoned Felix and Aurelia aboard the barge, the sweet cry of an aulos meeting your ears along with the discordant sound of overlapping voices. Your heart stuttered in your chest the moment your feet kissed the fine wooden deck beneath your feet, feeling the shudder of the hull as it bent and bowed within the sparkling waters.
Inhaling a sharp breath tinged with the saltiness of the ocean, you drank in your colorful surroundings. A handful of the Aventus private guard stood to attention, their backs pressed against the banister of the ship, their eyes trained on the distant horizon of endless sea beyond. Nearly thirty highborn Pompeiians milled about in different pockets and groupings, some staring out into the glittering ocean, others sipping from golden goblets, lounging upon klinai. Near the bow of the ship a slave draped in what appeared to be a golden-threaded fisherman's net sat perched upon a wooden dais, an ivory aulos at his lips. Beside him stood two females, their breasts and cunts covered with curtains of shells that clacked together as they wreathed and writhed sensually in-tune with the music.
"Ah, Batiatus!"
Your gaze snapped in the direction of the familiar voice, at once landing on the striking figures of Senator Belmont, Sypha, and her amicae Greta. He was clad in his usual toga praetexta while Sypha wore an expertly threaded silver and violet stola. Greta, however, was clad in one of gold and emerald.
"Senator! What good fortune to see you here." Felix and Trevor kissed each other's cheeks in greeting, Aurelia and Sypha doing the same.
"How could we deny such a gods-blessed experience?" Senator Belmont chuckled, his eyes briefly flickering to where the golden-haired gladiator stood.
"I share the very same sentiments, Senator." Felix smirked. "Who am I to deny the call of such wondrous pleasures?"
Within the hour, the pleasure barge sailed from port and began to make the slow voyage around the bay, growing closer and closer to the distant peak of Mount Vesuvius. Felix and Aurelia joined their hosts within the circle of klinai at the prow of the ship, reserved only for those of highest standing. You stood behind her, Caius to your right, as the other guests inspected and fawned over the Wolf.
Though he stood across from you, Adrian still refused to meet your gaze. His golden eyes never left an unseen target just beside Caius. You ignored the heavy stone of disappointment that settled in your stomach, your own eyes focusing solely at the wooden boards beneath your feet.
"Tell me, Senator, how are you fairing within the Senate? Felix informed me you were newly appointed not only a year ago." Quintus began when their conversation had returned to the intricacies of Roman politics. "My great-grandfather was a Senator, you see. He loved his position more than anything in the world."
"I am honored to do my duty to the people of Rome," Trevor answered in earnest, taking an audible sip of wine, "but my soul will always be bound to and crave the thrill of the battlefield."
"Ah, you are military man yourself?" Brutus questioned, voice slurred with drink.
"Quite. I spent my youth and formative years training in the art of war, and once I was old enough to serve I became a soldier. It was only a recent desire of mine to turn my attentions towards politics within the Senate. I always considered myself a man of the blade, you see. Not one of sharpened mind honed for the art of politics."
Quintus chuckled. "My grandfather always said that men who face war should be the only ones dictating when soldiers are sent to die. You are a true Roman."
Senator Belmont raised his glass in appreciation. "Your great-grandfather is a wise man."
"Hear, hear."
"Dear Felix has also spoken of your love and devotion for the games," Quintus continued. "Have you any desires of sponsoring an event yourself? The Augustlia is little more than a moon away."
"What proper Roman would not favor the games?" Trevor answered with a chuckle. "Isn't that right, White Wolf?"
The question caused your eyes to peer up from their spot at your feet and fixate on the stoic-faced gladiator. The deck fell silent as all other eyes fell to Adrian, his expressionless face meeting the stare of the Senator evenly. "I am a gladiator."
"What an astute observation." the Senator mocked, eliciting amused laughs from your masters and their fellows. "Tell me, are you aware that in our mighty Republic, if a gladiator proves their skill in the arena, they can earn their freedom? Perhaps one day you shall earn your own. You may yet have the opportunity to call yourself a Roman."
The Wolf's eyes narrowed the most imperceptible amount. "The only true freedom for a gladiator is the liberation of death in the arena."
"Spoken like a true warrior." Trevor leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes sliding to Felix. "Tell me, where did you procure such a specimen, Batiatus?"
Felix froze for half a breath before drinking the remaining contents of his wine. With a lazy extension of his hand he bid Caius to fill it. The male slave instantly left your side to do as he was bade before returning promptly.
"I regret to inform you, Senator, that his place of origin is not known. My father purchased him and his kin at market some time ago. The slavers claimed they were from the outlying wilds of Germania, but did not know for certain. Those savages are always at war with themselves, you see. It is hard to differentiate one clan from the other."
"Oh? Is that so?" Trevor glanced sidelong at his wife before standing and crossing ten paces across the deck. He stilled as he came face to face with the Wolf. "Did it not occur to you to ask the savage himself?"
Felix's face contorted in annoyance. "Of course, Senator. Though the brute refused to speak the truth aloud. No matter how many lashings fell upon him."
Trevor made a noise at the back of his throat, eyes never leaving Adrian's. "Tell me, Wolf, what clan do you hail from?"
The gladiator did not reply.
"Answer him, slave!" Felix hissed, surging from his seat, his newly filled wine sloshing over the sides of his goblet.
Again they were met with silence. The son of Batiatus flicked his hand, commanding the guards that stood at the prow of the ship to make their way towards them. They halted in their tracks, however, when the Senator held up his hand, another chuckle falling from his lips.
"It is no matter." he turned his back towards the warrior. "After all, his origin holds no true meaning as a slave."
Another bout of laughter filled the air as Quintus's slaves began prepare smoking pipes of opium. The elite highborn passed the pipe around, ecstatic giggles escaping their lips.
For many hours you stood listening to the drone of their conversation, your eyes fixated on the nearing giant of Mount Vesuvius. Though the sun shone mercilessly from the heavens and your back was coated in sweat, the strengthening sea breeze offered welcomed respite. The reprieve was interrupted, however, as the growing thirst of the masters called for immediate attention. As the slaves of the House of Aventus were preoccupied with tending to the other guests of the ship and her impatience mounted, you were commanded by Aurelia to go below deck and fetch an amphorae of water. You all but peeled yourself from your spot upon the deck and with careful movements you descended the stairs that led below. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you disappeared beneath the deck, the hold considerably less stifling than above.
It was dark and quiet in the hull save for a single-lit candle mounted on an iron holder. Your eyes quickly adjusted to the low level of light, at once drinking in the countless wooden shelves filled to the brim of clay vessels. You crossed over to the nearest wall of amphorae, searching carefully for the seals labeled water. After many moments you found the correct rack directly across from the wooden stairs and made you way towards it. It took considerable effort to dislodge the clay vessel from its perch as you fought against the rocking of the ship. You finally found purchase and lifted it, only for it to be gently taken out of your grasp by strong and muscular arms. You stilled before turning, eyes at once landing on Adrian.
"Let me," he murmured, further pulling it from your reach when you attempted to grab it from his hold.
"Give it back." you tore your eyes away before reaching for the clay vessel once more. "Domina is expecting me."
The soft, gentle sound of your name rasped from his lips. You startled, wide eyes snapping to his face.
"I wish to share words," he carefully maneuvered the amphora so that it leaned against the wooden planks beside you. "I have but only a moment. They believe I am relieving myself."
Irritation flared in your chest as your mind recalled the night before, conjuring the thorny feeling of his blatant disregard.
"I do not." you stepped around him, attempting to bend and lift the vessel.
Before you could, Adrian grabbed your arm, the action causing you to freeze and look up at him with a growing glare.
"You are upset," his golden eyes scanned the entirety of your face."Has something happened?"
You could not help the incredulous scoff that escaped you, wreching your arm from his hold. "I should be asking the very same of you, considering your treatment towards me the other night. I have no desire to converse with those who deem me lesser than when the choice can remain my own."
He straightened, causing the rich black and crimson tunic he wore to strain across his frame. "I had no choice but to regard you in such a manner. I profess sincerest regret if I have hurt you."
"Profess regret to your gods. It is of no interest to me." your frown deepened as you made to maneuver around him. You were able to take all but half step forward before he blocked your path again.
"If any soul were to learn of our…friendship… it could lead to catastrophic end. It is one matter to share a drink in celebration of victory in the arena, but another entirely for amicable moments to be witnessed by all. The guards whisper among themselves which slaves find interest in one another, exchange wagers on who will sire whelps. To be the Champion of Pompeii fuels the fires of these rumors. There are those that would see you harmed if it promised injury to me."
You stared at him for half a breath, your heart constricting as sobering understanding flooded over you. "I see."
He spoke true, of course. How many times throughout your life spent within the villa and ludus had you witnessed friend turn on supposed friend, family betray family for a mere moment of praise and elevation? Those who lived shackled and chained under the crushing might of Rome were promised so long as they proved absolute loyalty to their masters, they would be rewarded, even at the expense of their loved ones. After all, it was commonly touted by your betters that a well-bred and broken-in slave only ever wished to one day have a slave to call their own, instead of ever dreaming of liberation. And you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, there were those within the House of Batiatus who would trade knowledge of your budding friendship with the Wolf if it meant securing their own means and rise.
Adrian took a single step towards you, golden eyes swirling with something you could not name. "I have thought about our time in the baths every breath of my waking hours and have prayed to my gods to grant me another moment in your presence. It pains me greatly to pull myself away from your radiance, to not gaze upon your divinity. But it is not safe to act outside of secrecy."
You blinked up at him from beneath your lashes, your body leaning forward of its own accord. With wide eyes you drank in the sculpted marble of his face, relished in the warmth of his sincerity enveloping you. Your hand slowly rose up, your fingers ghosting an inch from the split flesh of his lip before dropping to your side. "Is that why you are hurt? Was someone trying to harm you?"
The golden-haired warrior breathed heavily through his nostrils. "Not I."
Confusion consumed your being. "Your meaning?"
"I witnessed what the daughter of Batiatus did," he snarled softly, "as well as her bastard brother. I saw his hands upon you."
You swallowed thickly, eyebrows furrowing. "How could you? You never met my eye."
He scoffed, a scowl carving itself on his face. "Yet I saw all. So I drew their attention away."
Your breath caught in your throat, lips parting slightly as buzzing surprise coursed through your veins.
Slowly Adrian inched closer, carefully brushing his right hand against your left, the warmth of his palm searing into your own. "Blood and pain are of no consequence to me so long as it means you remain unharmed."
A painful lump began to form in your throat, and with much effort you swallowed it away. "I had feared you no longer-"
"Domina is asking after you and inquires about your continued absence." Caius's melodic voice sliced their your own, the suddenness of it causing you to startle away from the Wolf.
You whirled to face the direction of the wooden stairs, eyes landing on his stern expression. "Forgive me, it was a difficult effort to reach the shelves." you dared not glance in Adrian's direction as you bent to pick up the amphora. Without wasting another breath you climbed the wooden stairs and ascended onto the deck, brushing passed the male slave as you did so.
~
The sun had reached its zenith over Neptune's domain upon your return to the surface. Once you had refilled their cups of water, your betters demanded more wine before their conversation shifted to the distant politics of Rome once more. You stood next to the banister, breathing in the scent of the ocean breeze as the barge sailed along the glittering coast of the bay, the wailing of the aulos echoing across the surface of the waters and boucing off the towering rocky cliffs you sailed by.
Caius's lapis eyes never left your form from his place across the deck, his face schooled into neutrality. But despite his stoic expression, you could see the dark blue depths swirling with a tempest that would rival that of Neptune's might. With a slight tilt of his chin he motioned to the wooden table of food and drink, indicating for you to join him without rousing suspicion. Your stomach knotted with unease as you slowly wove around your masters before standing an arm's length away from him.
"I urge deeper caution." Caius whispered at your side, his words further hidden by a bark of drunken laughter from Quintus at something Felix had said.
You peered sidelong at him, shifting gently on your feet. "I know not what you mean."
He cursed under his breath and shook his head, the movement causing his hair to glisten like onyx. "I overheard the words spoken between you. If it had been any other, who knows what would have happened? You both claimed secrecy is the only way forward, yet share words in a place anyone could claim knowledge of."
You turned your head to face him, the rose-quarts necklace around your neck twinkling as you did so. "Caius-"
"Your secret is safe with me." he dipped his chin in assurance. "But if you continue openly on this path for any to discover, it is only a matter of time before someone less trustworthy shall hear what I did, see what I did."
"Yes," you rasped. "I understand."
Caius nodded gently before Felix summoned him for a refill of wine. You shared one last glance at one another before you took a centering breath, smoothed down the front of your stola, and made to cross over to tend to your Domina.
September, 79 C.E.
A SUFFOCATING, EXHAUSTIVE HEAT ravaged the city of Pompeii in the final days before the start of the Ludi Romani. Spurred by their discomfort and lack of motivation to brave the searing sun despite demanding the procurement of countless, useless things, Domina Aurelia and Felix had made the decision to maintain refuge in the cool confines of the villa. In their stead, you and Caius were commanded to go to market and suffer through the grueling heat.
Your scalp burned beneath the golden rays of sun as you stood awaiting your fellow attendant in the carriageway, the flowing creme stola that adorned your body clinging to you like second skin. Countless beads of sweat slowly rolled down your neck, spine, and in-between your breasts, your skin feeling scorched to the touch. You had been waiting for nearly ten minutes for Caius's arrival, and as the heat became more and more unbearable, so too did your mounting agitation. Distantly you heard the large iron doors of the villa entrance open and close, followed immediately by the sound of nearing footsteps.
As they grew closer you turned, a small huff of irritation escaping you. "By the gods, what has kept y-"
Your words died on your tongue the moment you faced the new arrivals. Caius stood beside the towering form of the Wolf, whose striking figure was clad in fine leather armor and black linen hood, an expertly crafted sword attached to his hip. The top of his head was shielded from view by the hood, though you could see that his golden locks were braided away from his face, the tail resting over his left shoulder. With considerable effort you tore your eyes away and met the dark blue gaze of the amici.
"Apologies for our delay." Caius dipped his chin, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "Dominus Antonius has commanded the Wolf to accompany us to market. A measure of extra security for the arrival of the festival."
A tingling lash of anticipation and coursed through you. It was a rare occurrence for you to be given an escort, rarer still for it to be a gladiator of his station. Though given the circumstances of looming holy days, you could see the logic behind his decision. "I see."
"Shall we?" Caius extended his hand towards the awaiting carriage. You simply nodded in reply.
The journey into the city square was filled with a charged, taut silence. Adrian and Caius had claimed the two empty spaces across from you, and despite your best efforts to keep your eyes trained out the window, they would not abide. They kept gravitating to the golden-haired warrior who had caught your gaze more times than not. Each and every time you had to fight against a smile that threatened to form. The gods had done you a single mercy, however, as Caius's sapphire eyes never strayed from the passing sea of red-roofed tiles of the nearing city and thus was not witness to your display.
As the carriage came to a halt, Caius exited first before offering you a hand. You took it, carefully gathering the skirts of your stola before stepping out onto the cobbled streets. All at once you were bombarded by the raucous cacophony of the bustling streets that nearly seemed to burst at the seams. Hundreds of people from all walks of life shuffled to and fro, be it from lowly house slaves to those of noble blood, whirring by you as they went about their busy lives. Vendors shouted clever catchphrases detailing their wares, the mixing scents of herbs, spices, cooking food, and perfumed oils enveloping the senses. For as far as the eye could see, countless wooden tables, carpets, and stalls lined the streets and stone buildings, beckoning all who pass to gaze upon the wondrous wares.
"I think it best to visit Ilythia's Elixirs first," you began, turning your attention back to the attendant beside you. "Domina desires to wear pressed rose oil from Arabia for the banquet. She favors Ilythia's stock above all."
Caius nodded in agreement. "To the perfumery then."
You followed his lead, taking your place behind him, Adrian at your back. The warrior kept an appropriate distance away, but you were constantly aware of the weight of his presence prickling the hairs at the nape of your neck.
For nearly an hour you, Caius, and the Wolf bobbed along the crowded streets of the main avenues, procuring every little thing your masters desired. Every item purchased was immediately delivered to the villa by the countless slaves that labored in every store, thwarting any possibility of theft that may have occurred by keeping them on your persons. By the time the sun had reached its peak, you had reached the end of the merchant streets and had finally arrived within the Forum.
A handful of vendor stalls were spread intermittently throughout the large open space, the majority clustered outside the temple of Apollo on the eastern side of the Forum. Countless people milled about, though you quickly realized that their attentions were not beholden to the wares before them, but were instead fixated solely on the two naked, filthy, and beaten forms of a man and woman flanked by four Roman soldiers. Beside them stood a red-faced, balding, and portly man clad in a toga praetexta, the hem of his garment stained with blood. Thorny, gnawing dread knotted your stomach and before you could stop yourself, you began to walk towards the direction of the spectacle.
"These fugitivi stand guilty of treason!" the man snarled, a his beady eyes burning with malice as he gazed upon the swelling crowd. "And as decreed for such crimes by Roman law, I, Aedile Solonius Marcus, do hereby sentence them to death!"
Hushed voices began to circulate through the crowd as the two slaves were unshackled, broken sobs and groans falling from their lips. You stilled nearly ten paces away, your eyes at once landing on the two large wooden structures that lay upon the ground that they were being dragged towards. The young man began to cry violently, begging for mercy.
"The slaves of Romulus Secundus were witnessed stealing scraps from their master's kitchen," Aedile Solonius continued, ignoring the broken cries that echoed off the walls of the Forum. "They were heard speaking in hushed whispers of their intent to escape into the wilds in effort to join the rebel horde! To stoke the lecherous flames of rebellion in their foolish attempt to topple the might of Rome!"
The male slave's begging grew louder and louder as the four Roman soldiers forced the two slaves onto the wooden crosses, binding their feet, necks, and arms tightly with rope to secure them tightly to the posts.
"The sting of the whip and the weight of irons no longer offer meaningful deterrent Now is time for exacting judgment to sway any other who would follow in such regard."
You heard the moment the first iron nail was hammered, ears ringing when blood-curdling screams tore from the captives' throats and drowned out the concussive sounds of iron striking iron.
There had only been one other occurrence in your life where you had witnessed such barbarity of its like. It has been after the Great Quake seventeen years ago, when the most desperate of the populous in the aftermath of the destruction had begun mass theft from the markets. The chaos led to the beginning forms of a riot before the Legion had promptly suffocated the flames of rebellion. Nearly thirty men, women, and children had been crucified for their so-called crimes, left to rot in the open Forum, the sun boring mercilessly down on their marred bodies while crows feasted upon their decaying flesh.
Bile burned at the back of your throat as the memory conjured in your mind, the horrific shrieking increasing evermore. Your hands began to shake when the large wooden crosses were fully erected, revealing the mutilated bodies of the slaves. Broken, choked sounds bubbled from their throats as thick, crimson rivers of blood flooded down their palms, arms, and legs, dripping into sickening puddles beneath their hovering forms.
Suddenly you became aware of the ghosting of fingertips against your own, the touch nearly making you startle.
"Divert your gaze," Adrian whispered lowly from behind you. "There is no need to subject yourself to their torment any longer."
You turned slowly, eyes meeting his own, his face nearly shielded from view by the black hood upon his head. You hardly noticed Caius's own grim expression as he stook his place beside the Wolf, his eyes trained on the cruelty behind you.
You dared not speak as you forced yourself into motion, Caius jumping in step beside you as you made way for the main avenues once more. The violent thrashing of your heart, the whirling of your mind, along with the stifling heat all soon became too much to bear. Your breathing became haggard, sweat beginning to collect at your brow. Caius's eyes widened when he gazed upon your stricken face before ushering you towards a large stone fountain outside of a busy tavern.
"Sit and rest here for a moment, lest exhaustion overtake you." he offered as you ambled up to the stone bench carved within the fountain's edge.
You wordlessly did as he bade, forcing deep inhales and exhales in attempt to center your breath.
"Are you unwell?" he inquired, dark blue eyes scanning the sheen of sweat that coated your face.
"It is only the heat." you muttered dismissively, futilely wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. "I just need a moment."
The handsome black-haired slave regarded you until his eyes found the stoic face of the gladiator. "I have yet more provisions Dominus has commanded of me to procure. Why do you not remain here, Wolf, and see that she is tended to? I shall go on ahead and finish our errand."
A lash of guilt curled around your heart. "That is not necessary-"
"I will see it done." Adrian replied, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.
Caius inclined his chin. "I shall return within the half-hour."
Before you could continue to suggest otherwise, Caius turned on his heel and walked away, promptly disappearing into the crowd. Adrian shifted on his feet, taking a seat beside you.
"The amici appears unsettled by my presence." he observed evenly, his deep voice barely audible over the buzzing of the busy streets and the muffled sound of a lyre drifting from inside the tavern.
You inhaled another deep breath, your eyes fixating on the towering statues of Venus that stood guard outside the public baths across the street.
"He overheard our shared words on the barge," you confessed quietly, "he knows of our…friendship."
Adrian stilled, body morphing into stone.
You turned your head to face him. "We needn't fear. He swore discretion."
"So you say."
You shifted uneasily, the fabric of your stola clinging to your clammy skin uncomfortably. Though your unsettled nerves from bearing witness to the cruelty in the Forum had began to ebb away, the heat of the scorching sun had not. In a last effort to cool yourself, you began to fan your burning face with your hand. Suddenly Adrian stood, disappearing into the tavern before reappearing moments later with a goblet of chilled water and a handful of bread. Wordlessly he extended them to you.
You glanced uneasily at the offerings. "Where did you acquire coin for this?"
"My winnings from the arena." he extended his arm further, a silent command for you to take it. You did so, eyebrow raised before you brought the cup to your lips. The cold water was shocking to your parched throat, but you welcomed its chilling bite.
A soft sigh left your lips as your body instantly began to cool after another deep sip. "Gratitude."
He inclined his head in welcome before a long, taut silence flowed between you. You both took in your buzzing surroundings, the bustle of life so at odds with the horrors witnessed only moments before.
"Is it always as so?" he asked, finally sitting beside you once again, the leather of his armor catching the shining sun overhead in your peripheral.
"Your meaning?" you took a bite of bread then washed it down with more refreshment.
"This wretched city. The smell of shit and piss in the air, too many people crushed against each other in the streets, the constant noise. The murder of the innocent. It is grotesque."
"It has always been so. It is the Roman way." you replied sullenly.
He was silent for another long moment. "In my homeland, the markets do not have the foul smell that plagues every Roman city. Nor do they host the murdering of innocents. Though there are some who capture lives and sell them to Roman and Greek slavers, most do not. In my clan, we do not condemn those fighting for freedom. We ally ourselves with them and destroy those who uphold the opposite. Much like the gladiator leading the army for liberation."
You stilled, eyes widening. "You are familiar with the one they call Spartacus?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed the slightest amount, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "As are you it seems."
"In name only." you denied with a shake of your head. "Whispered in my ear by another trapped in bondage. How do you know of him?"
"Nearly the very same." he replied easily, reaching for the goblet of water in your hands. His fingers briefly closed around your own before pulling the cup from your grasp, the light touch sending pleasant tingles through your being. "Gladiators take nearly as much joy in gossip as they do fighting in the arena."
"He is infamous among you?" you watched him take a single sip of water as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck, his long blond tendrils clinging to the damp skin.
"His infamy is growing, yes." he amended, gently pressing the goblet back into your hands, his fingers once again brushing over the delicate skin. "I heard hushed whispers from my fellow brothers-in-arms that he and his rebel army have liberated thousands of lives."
"Where did they hear such a thing?"
"The guards of course. They too have no other hobbies besides divulging secrets when their minds are foggy with drink and they are desperate to evade boredom while tending to their duties. Evermore, countless of Batiatus's guard have seen Roman legionnaires here in Pompeii, dispatched to track down the rebel horde."
"I see." you took small sip before extending the thick slice of bread towards him.
The Wolf peered down at it before ripping a piece off at the corner and placed it in his mouth. "Does their cause burn inside your heart?"
Your neck nearly snapped as you faced him. "What?"
A small smirk curled his pink lips. "You have heard those words before, then?"
You swallowed thickly before taking another sip of water. "I have, though they hold no meaning to me."
"Wise amicae," he purred, "but you speak untrue. You know it as much as I do."
You forced the cup to your lips again before downing the remaining contents and standing, your voice lightly wavering with unease. "I know not what you speak of, and if I did, I would say the words you speak are dangerous. That you should not repeat them or those of their ilk again."
Adrian never took his eyes off you as he stood as well, speaking low enough so that his next words were hardly audible even by you. "And I would say that I bathe every night while the ludus sleeps, as is now my right as Champion. If you ever wished to continue to experience your birthright of speaking freely among a trusted confidant, you should find yourself walking the gardens when Pompeii slumbers and find refuge in the slave baths."
A frown slashed across your face. "That is foolish. You tempt fate by proposing such cursed proposal."
"I tempt fate every day I draw breath, amicae." he inched closer, molten eyes boring into your own. "While we should endeavor not to act amicably in front of prying eyes, that does not mean we cannot conduct ourselves the way we see fit in secret. After all, what is a life worth living if you do not take risks?"
You made to respond before the sound of Caius clearing his throat broke the spell between you. Without saying a word you pressed the empty goblet and leftover loaf into the gladiator's hands, turning to meet your fellow attendant.
"Did you procure everything you required?"
"Indeed," his dark blue eyes flickered between you and the golden-haired warrior, "all is well?"
"Indeed." you echoed with a sharp nod. "Come, let us return lest our continued absence conjures Domina's foul mood."
~
The evening of the opening banquet arrived promptly and without catastrophe, despite what Aurelia might have claimed in the hours leading up to the event. The villa was decorated without a single expense spared. Anyone and everyone of import within Pompeii would be in attendance, and your masters demanded utmost perfection. The night was to be full with nothing but the highborn gorging themselves on delectable foods, refreshment, and their fill of opium while entertained in every regard by the other house slaves.
You had been ordered by Dominus Antonius to perform a hymn dedicated to Mighty Jupiter after the showcasing of gladiators who demonstrated their considerable skills in unarmed combat, a way to rouse the other senses of the crowd. You were bathed and dressed for the occasion in Aurelia's chambers by Corrina whose brown eyes and pale face were darkened by heavy shadow, her touch heavy-handed and impatient.
"Are you unwell?" you finally inquired, biting back your desire to curse when her greasy palm nearly slapped the flesh of your chest, slathering aromatic oils upon your skin.
Her eyes briefly flashed to your own, the frown on her face deepening. "No."
You could not stop the quiet scoff that escaped you. "Your use of heavy hand says otherwise."
"You are not deserving of anything else," she seethed under her breath, "you are no Domina of mine."
"And yet when it is I who readies you, I make no such distinction." your own lips bowed into a deep frown.
An empty laugh escaped her. "So says the slave who dares believe herself special because she was granted the honor of amicae. Tell me why you are rewarded with duties of singing and dressing while I-"
Corrina's voiced died as she wretched her hands from your person. Your eyebrows furrowed at her inquiry, a coil of dread snaking in your stomach. "Who are we to question our Domina's desires?"
Her eyes snapped to your own, a snarl contorting her face.
You steeled yourself to full height, beginning to dress in the near sheer-white silk wrap that clung to every inch of your being and the intricately carved laurel collar. "I am not your enemy, Corrina. Whether I bare the title of amicae or not, we both share the same fate."
She did not respond. Instead her expression darkened evermore before reeling on her heels and walking away. You were left in stunned silence before Caius rapped on the large wooden doors the moment you had finished fully readying yourself.
"Dominus Antonius has instructed you to wait in his office until you are needed," he began, escorting you down the winding halls of the villa. He was dressed solely in a golden collar and white-silk lion cloth, every possible muscle that was upon him visible for viewing.
You did not have the chance to reply before you reached the threshold of Antonius's offices. Caius bowed, smiling softly until he turned his back and made way towards the atrium. Carefully you entered the room, your eyes taking in the vibrant frescoes of Jupiter upon the walls, the towering shelves filled with scrolls, sculpted marble faces of all the previous lanistas that came before him mounted on the wall opposite you. But what truly took your breath away was the divinely-beautiful form of Adrian standing with his back towards you, facing towards the open balcony that overlooked the ocean. You took a single step forward before he turned to face you, and all at once you were overcome.
His chest was bare, save for the sash of gold that wrapped around his broad chest and back before widening and covering the entirety of his groin, leaving his thick, muscled thighs and calves on full display. His own alabaster skin glimmered and gleamed with gold flecks, causing the molten of his eyes to shine brighter than Apollo himself. His hair was loose from his usual braid, the thick, blond waves falling down the length of his spine. Upon his neck was a thick plate of gold inlaid with perfectly smoothed obsidian stones. Your heart began to thrum faster in your chest as a curl of unabashed desire and awe bloomed throughout the entirety of your body.
The sound of a rasped, unknown word in Dacian shattered your thoughts and snapped you back into the present moment. You blinked, your muddled thoughts clearing.
Your face burned as you found his eyes again. "Forgive me. I was not expecting your presence."
Adrian dipped his chin, a coy smirk gracing his lips. "Dominus summoned me after the demonstration. I suspect to broach subject of the Augustalia. And as I have told you before, amicae, your gaze does not offend. It could never offend. In fact, I crave it wholly."
Your face burned hotter. "Is that so?"
His eyes darkened as they slowly traveled the entire expanse of your body, speaking once again in his mother language.
"I do not understand what you say," you never took your eyes from him, not even as his burning gaze found your own and made your lower belly tingle with arousal, "I do not have the honor of knowing your language."
"Do you truly wish to know?" he took another step forward, now close enough that you smelt the scent of frankincense and myrrh upon his skin.
"If I spoke in an unknown tongue while staring at you, wouldn't you want to know what it is I say?"
He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating in your chest as he drew ever closer. "I merely thanked my gods for blessing me with such divine fortune as to be blessed enough to be in the presence of a goddess."
You could not contain the smile that brightened your face. "Such poetic words for a gladiator."
"It is but one of many other talents I possess." he murmured, eyes falling to your lips as he took a single step forward. "My precision with a throwing spear. My prowess while hunting."
You gazed upon his own, your mind instantly conjuring thought of what they would feel like, taste like. "Oh?"
He made a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. "Of course, I cannot forget to mention the skill and dexterity of my fingers and tongue. I was always told I had wonderful mastery over the Dacian Draco."
A flare of heat went straight to your core, his innuendo unlost by you.
"I shall have to trust your word on the matter." you replied, the words breathier than you wished. "I am unfamiliar with such an instrument."
Adrian's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I suppose you shall."
A beat of silence settled between you, your gazes never leaving the other. It wasn't until you heard the sound of approaching footsteps did you look away, moving to nearest wall and fixating your eyes downcast. Not half a breath after Antonius crossed the threshold, followed closely by his own attendant.
"Ah, amicae." his amber eyes briefly glanced in your direction. "The time is upon us for your performance. See to your immediate arrival within the atrium at once and speak words of comfort to my wife at my absence. I have important matters to discuss with the Wolf."
You dared not look either of them in the eye before bowing. "Yes, Dominus."
~
Raucous applause filled the air as your perfect, final note rang out across the atrium. Every pair of eyes had been solely upon you throughout the entirety of your performance, your melodic voice as intoxicating as ambrosia. After receiving many heartfelt and lustful compliments, you returned to Aurelia's side once again, ignoring with all your might the continued leering glances of those around you.
She conversed with Felix as they sipped from their opulent goblets, speaking in hushed, cruel tones of those they deemed lesser than as they took a turn about the room before they joined the cluster of high born men and women whose minds were nearly gone with drink. They clucked among themselves, engorging on wine, food, and opium before their tongues were fully loosened. The conversation seemed to come to the end of its course until a drunken noble mentioned the dreary crucifixion you had borne witness to in the markets in the previous days.
"Savage scum, all of them!" the unfortunately familiar form of the balding, bloated Aedile guffawed boisterously. "Two perfectly good house slaves embracing uselessness and treachery. They claimed the rebel horde has set course for Pompeii! Imagine! Pathetic, savage scum believing they can stand before the might of Rome and emerge victorious. We will crucify and disembowel every single lecherous slave until this rebellion is crushed beneath the weight of the Republic!"
Countless of the surrounding masters toasted the Aedile, their grating laughter causing your teeth to rattle.
"Tell me, dear Solonius," the even, deep voice of Senator Belmont echoed out, effectively silencing them all as he, Sypha, and Greta stepped in to join the circling crowd of highborn, "is it not true that Rome sent countless detachments to hunt the rebels?"
Aedile Solonius blinked, his crossing eyes barely focusing on Trevor's striking form.
"Y-Yes that's true, Senator." he stuttered, bowing his head in greeting.
"Is it not also truth that Spartacus and his army have managed to defeat each and every Roman legionnaire they crossed swords with?" the Senator pressed, taking a leisurely sip of wine.
"I-I would not know for certain-"
"And yet you claim victory based off the final words of a few attempted escaped slaves? You describe the rebel army as nothing more than what was it? Oh, yes. Pathetic, savage scum. Do you truly believe, Aedile, that pathetic, savage scum could emerge victorious again and again against the might of Rome?"
A taut silence descended upon the atrium as every pair of eyes were now trained on the portly man.
"Well no b-b-but-"
"Countless Roman soldiers have lost their lives because they made the deadly mistake of undermining the rebel army. The infamous Legatus Aurelius's head was severed by Spartacus's own blade during their battle at Campania because he failed to see them as true enemies. Their numbers have swelled to nearly five-thousand strong. Again, Aedile, could pathetic, savage scum accomplish such a feat?"
The Aedile shook his head, not daring to reply.
"You seem quite informed on the matter, Senator. I am in awe of your knowledge." Dominus Antonius laughed lightly, easing through the mounting tension of those around you.
"That is kind of you, dear Antonius. The citizens of Rome are my utmost priority." Trevor met your master's eyes. "I would be remiss not to learn of all the goings on that plague the Republic and fail to give them their due diligence."
"Speaking of a plague to the Republic, what is the Senate's plan for the taxation on opium?" Felix questioned as he inhaled from the shared pipe that housed that very plant. Whether with intent or not, Felix's slurred words cleared the remaining awkwardness that had overtaken the atrium as each and every high-born cackled at his supposed hilarity.
As the night stretched on, the palettes and tastes of those in attendance slowly became more and more debauched. It was no longer enough to satiate the growing appetites of the guests with flowing wine and the hints of nudity provided by the garments you and your fellow slaves wore. Their pawing hands and slurred voices heavy with desire soon gave way to a private showing led by Dominus Antonius and his wife Amelia in the triclinium. Countless bodies gathered around a stone slab that was newly positioned for the exact occasion. Antonius announced the arrival of a gladiator who you recognized as newer addition to the ludus before gesturing for another figure to come forward. Slowly the naked form of Carrina was revealed, her nipples painted gold, as were her eyelids and lips. She dared not gaze up to meet a single eye, not even as the crowding members of the audience voiced their crude appreciation.
"My dearest friends whose loins ache with the need for release," Antoius gazed around the crowd, amber eyes dark with malicious hunger, "allow the House of Batiatus offer you a unique pleasure to the senses. A virgin yet untouched taken for the first time by a virgin warrior whose cock weeps at the promise of his first taste of cunt."
Violent, icy waves of dread and anguish flooded over you, stealing your breath as you watched in horror as Corrina and the unknown gladiator were commanded to position themselves upon the stone slab. She lay with her back upon the hard surface, her face streaked with shimmering gold as tears rolled down her pale cheeks. The warrior crawled between her legs, a shuddered breath of twisted anticipation escaping him.
You warred with yourself to remain unmoving at Aurelia's side as nauseating, unadulterated rage and disgust threatened to overtake you. How many times had you been forced to watch other innocent lives be ruined and brutalized for the sake of Roman entertainment? How many times had you been forced to stand by and watch as your fellows were raped, murdered, scarred and marred because Roman law decreed it just? Decreed that the rich and powerful could do anything and everything they pleased.
A quiet, muffled sound drew your attention, your teary eyes rising from the marble floor to land on the dark brown of Corrina's. The warrior had forced her head to the side as he attempted to settle closer to her at Dominus Antonius's command. For a long, terrible moment you held her gaze, saw the agonized sorrow that swirled within their depths. Your mind begged you to look away, but your heart refused to let you. Not when a dark voice in the back of your mind reminded you that someday you would be offered up as a lamb was to slaughter, just as she was. Just as every life the Romans deemed lesser than had been. Your own anguish was nowhere near as important as her own in that moment, and you could not bring yourself to abandon her.
"I desire more wine," Aurelia's sickly sweet voiced announced from beside you, a breathy sigh escaping her as she watched the inhumane spectacle with grotesque desire. "Fetch me another goblet."
You nearly didn't hear her over the ringing of your ears as you stumbled backwards, clawing your way through the thick throng of demented onlookers who sighed and moaned in delight at the horrific sight before them.
It took many moments for you to weave through the crowd and free yourself from the clutches of the triclinium, your trembling legs nearly giving out beneath you. A haggard breath escaped you as you finally reached the atrium and feasting tables laden with copious amounts of food and drink. You blinked away the stinging tears that clouded your vision as your shaking hands reached for the bronze pitcher of wine. The usually light vessel was heavy as stone in your grasp and you were forced to set it down with a loud thud.
"Something troubles you, little poet?" Felix's voice sounded from behind you, mocking with false sincerity.
You froze before turning to face him, bowing your head. "No, Dominus."
"You wouldn't lie, would you?" he pressed closer, the hem of his tunic now within eyesight.
"No, Dominus."
A clammy hand pressed itself against your left shoulder before trailing up until it stilled under your chin.
Slowly, carefully, Felix raised your head so that you were forced to meet his eyes. "I must profess a desire of mine after seeing such wondrous display my father gifted us with. I long with all my heart for my cock to split you in half, just as that brute splits the house slave."
You painfully choked down the desire to break away from him, silenced every voice in your mind that screamed for you to strike him. Hurt him. Kill him.
"Would you like that, little poet? To have your cunt split open on my cock while I ruin you? To fuck you like my whore?"
You dared not move, breathe, or speak.
"Answer me, slave, or I will-"
"Pardon me, dearest Felix."
The soft, gentle voice snapped your Dominus out of his dark stupor as he did all but tore himself away from you. Clumsily he straightened his tunic, ran a hand through his dark curls, and met the eyes of the interloper. "Good evening, Mistress Sypha."
From your peripheral you saw a flash of silver-blue and copper hair taking place beside you before the warmth of her presence washed over you like a balm.
"Forgive my interruption, but I am afraid my…condition…has taken its toll and I have not been able to lay eyes on my amicae. " Sypha's delicate hands rose to the slight swelling of her belly. "May your sister's amicae tend to my needs instead? It will only be for a moment. You do not mind, do you?"
"No," he answered, the word clipped and overly controlled, "no not at all." his gaze fell back to you. "Escort Senator Belmont's wife to the gardens, amicae. I am sure the fresh air will do her justice. I will locate and inform your husband."
She inclined her chin, a small smile at her lips. "Gratitude."
You felt his eyes rake over you once again before he turned on his heels and stumbled away. For half a breath you did not move, your body still overtaken with overwhelm. It wasn't until the quiet sound of your name left Sypha's lips did you peer up at her, eyes wide.
"Apologies, Domina. This way."
Sypha did not speak as you led her through the darkened halls of the villa until you reached the gardens below. The sound of the banquet fell away to near silence as you walked down the path, the stones beneath your feet crunching as you did so. When you reached a stone bench that overlooked the sprawling grounds hidden from direct view of the villa, she finally spoke.
"Are you unharmed?"
Your face contorted as a wash of countless emotions flooded your face. "Yes, Domina."
A small frown etched across her beautiful face, but she remained silent. For a long, long moment you stared at one another before she sat on the bench before inviting you to do the same. Reluctantly you did so.
"No human being should be treated as so." she began quietly, the words nearly inaudible to you. "No soul should ever have to endure the cruelties the masters of Rome inflict."
You did not reply.
"There are no words strong or true enough to express my sorrow for what you and the other slaves must endure. I am so sorry."
The painful lump in your throat began to swell again, restricting your breath as you turned your head to face her. "You have no cause to apologize, Domina."
"Sypha." she amended once again. "I am no ones master."
Disbelief flared painfully in your stomsch, yet again you did not offer reply.
The Senator's wife shifted, the silver-blue silks of her stola catching the light of the waxing moon. "I wanted to offer heartfelt praise for your performance. You have a voice blessed by Apollo himself."
You bowed your head. "Gratitude."
"I truly mean it." her frown morphed into a kind, soft smile. "I have never heard such beautiful singing before. Do you enjoy it? Singing, I mean."
"Yes," you replied quietly, "very much so."
"I tried honing my skill once. Trevor claimed that I sounded like a dying ram."
"I believe I said the tune you were humming sounded like a dying ram. Not you yourself."
Your attention snapped towards the nearing form of the Senator who was followed closely by Greta. Her brown eyes met your own, her expression unreadable.
Immediately you surged to your feet and bowed. "Dominus."
"Trevor." the Senator corrected, blue eyes gleaming in the silver light of the moon. "When it is just us in present company, you may speak freely. Just as my wife asked you to do the same."
Your eyes widened evermore as uncertainty and panic began to toil inside of you. How was it that proper Roman high-born continued to dare make such unheard of requests? Did they take joy and satisfaction from your confusion and fear? Was it a way to test your loyalty to your betters? A plan to disarm you with false use of familiarity so that you would feel inclined and obligated to do their bidding? To divulge all of your deepest secrets?
"Tell me, amicae, you have heard rumors of the gladiator called Spartacus, yes? The mighty Champion of Capua?" the Senator took a step forward, cocking his head to the side as he studied your expression.
Another violent wave of dread crashed over you as you fought against urge to glance at the amicae at his side. "Yes. But he himself is unknown to me."
The Senator watched you for many moments, the sharp turquoise of his eyes crushing down into the very essence of your being. "And yet, I see the fire of his cause burning brightly inside of you."
A painful, disorienting chill of terror coursed through you, the blood in your veins turning to ice water. Did he know? Did he gain knowledge of the conversation between you and Greta? Had she told him, painted you as a rebel? Or perhaps by mysterious means only known by the gods he somehow learned of your conversation with Adrian at market?
A gentle chuckle fell from his lips as he stared at you for a moment longer before reaching his hand out towards his wife. Sypha gracefully took it and stood, but not before smiling gently at you.
"Gratitude for looking after my wife and unborn child." the Senator finally met your eyes again before meeting Sypha's own. "Come, dearest. I think it best if we retire to our villa for the evening. Gods know we have countless busy days of celebration ahead of us."
Senator Belmont and Sypha did not look at you again as they turned and began to walk through the gardens once more. Greta, however, maintained your stricken stare for half a breath before turning on her heels and following after them.
a/n: To the wonderful reader who sent in the anon ask about this fic last night, I want to thank you ☺️🫶🏼Last night I stayed up making all the edits I needed for the final draft and that I was originally going to post this during the weekend, but I couldn't leave yall hanging hehe. I hope you all enjoyed. 🌿🙏✨️
A SUFFOCATING, HEAVY SILENCE swallowed the Hold as the violent aftershocks of the castle settling upon the surface wreaked havoc in the underground chamber. The distant booming of bookshelves collapsing and countless objects shattering was muffled in your ringing ears, your body numb to the sensation of the thunderous tremors shaking the floor. You clumsily stumbled away from the glowing mirror; eyes wide and sight blurred before dropping exhaustedly onto your knees, the agonizing chill that gripped your being finally running its course. You could barely feel the softness of Roya's fur against your cheek as they braced your weight against them, nor could you hear the discordant voices of your companions when they called your name.
"Priestess?"
"-hear me?"
You hazily sensed something shift beside you, saw a whirl of blue when you blinked once, twice, a third time before Sypha's aquamarine eyes shifted into view.
She leaned forward; her own shaking hands clutching the end of her sleeve as she began to carefully dab your nose and upper lip. "Are you alright?"
You blinked again, barely managing a nod before you forced yourself to stand, your awareness snapping back into place the moment the stabbing pain fully ebbed away. "Yes."
Sypha's brows furrowed as she mirrored your movements and stood. "Are you certain? You-"
"I'm certain." you affirmed, roughly wiping away the final traces of blood from your face. "Are you alright?"
The Speaker-woman nodded wordlessly, wiping her forehead of sweat with the back of her hand. She huffed a sigh before a small, incredulous laugh escaped her, pointing behind you. "We did it."
You followed her line of sight before stilling, your weakened breath ripped from your lungs as you drank in the horrifying visage of the castle looming sinisterly over the Belmont lands. Your stomach knotted as a dark, foreboding weight settled over your being. You continued to stare at the undulating surface of the looking glass, your mind beginning to conjure all the horrific things that awaited you. It wasn't until a blur of gold and black obscured the mirror from view were you able to pull away from the precipice of overwhelm. At once your eyes found Alucard's, and for the briefest, minuscule moment, you swore you were looking into the radiant eyes of the young boy with a wooden sword. When you blinked, the radiant young boy was gone, and in his stead was the form of a hardened warrior whose eyes seemed to glow brighter than the sun.
"Sypha," the dhampir's eyes narrowed on you until they slowly slid and found her gaze.
"Yes? Oh!" she straightened to her full height, turning on her heels to face you. "I...I should go check on Trevor."
Before you could respond, Sypha turned on her heels again and ran for the stairs, leaving you, Roya, and him suspended in a charged, uneasy silence.
The moment she was completely out of sight, he found your eyes again, his expression unreadable. "I must ask something of you."
Your breath hitched despite yourself, the mangled talons of despair and dread once again beginning to claw their way to the surface. With a sharp inhale you steeled your back, your eyes never leaving his own. "What is it?"
He bowed his head and he turned from you, a curtain of his hair now shielding his face. "Allow me to be the first to confront my father," Alucard's hand found the hilt of his sword, the fabric of his coat stretching tautly over his broad shoulders before he lifted his head and found your eyes again, "so that I may honor my mother."
A lump began to form in your throat as you fought against the rising storm. A burning tendril of resentment began to unfurl from the deepest parts of yourself as his request settled over you, but despite its ravenous hunger, it could not fester. Your anger and pain were no match for the pulse of warmth and grounded understanding that flowed in the space between you that was born from your love for Aunt Lisa.
You could not bring yourself to speak before you inhaled and nodded.
Alucard nodded once in return, the molten depths off his eyes darkening. "Until the end."
You straightened, inclining your chin. "Until the end."
The dhampir held your gaze for one final moment before turning and beginning the journey of ascending to the surface. Wordlessly you followed him up the winding staircases of the Hold, Roya close on your heels. You barely took note of the broken banisters and strewn corpses of the night creatures Trevor had felled, your mind only able to conjure enough cognizant thought of putting one foot in front of the other. When you finally crested the landing that was now painted crimson, you chanced one final sweep of your eyes around the Hold and all its wonders before ducking beneath the bloodied threshold.
Within moments your were witness to the absolute carnage and destruction that was born of Trevor's efforts of holding the line. Thousands of pieces of splintered wood mixed in gory piles of ruptured intestines were strewn about, culminating in a massive heap where a gargantuan hellspawn corpse lay with its innards spilling from its belly. Trevor stood in the middle of the wreckage, a deep sigh escaping him when his blue eyes landed on your emerging forms. "The staircase is a wreck. We're not getting up there without ropes. Start looking."
Your head spun as you peered around and then skyward where bright, crimson light blinked at you from the heavens, the rays illuminating the severe damage inflicted upon what was once the grand staircase that led into the Hold. Now it was nothing more than a deep cavern in which there was no apparent escape.
"I do not think ropes would be of any use, Belmont." your eyes fell back down to meet the hardened gaze of the hunter. "The height is impossible to scale."
Sypha made a small sound at the back of her throat before closing her eyes and channeling her magick. You felt the light tremor of her powers pulse in the cool air before the bloodied floorboards and debris beneath your feet were suddenly covered in a thick layer of crackling ice.
"We don't need ropes." she flourished her hands elegantly, focusing on channeling her magick. In a single breath the inch of ice that had formed began to rise and grow in height. "Here we go."
The platform began to shift and rumble as it slowly rose, lifting the five of you higher and higher towards the surface, closer and closer towards your unknown fates. The ascent was heavy as no one dared speak, each of you settling into yourselves in preparation for what was to come. Your eyes stayed downcast on the shiny blue beneath your feet, your heart thrashing wildly in your chest as the gravity of all that awaited you began crush and suffocate your resolve.
With a shaky breath you forced yourself to close your eyes and tune into the sensation of being lifted, to the frozen tendrils of cool air that emanated from the ice beneath your feet, to the small clinking of stones that were dislodged from the surface and structure around you. You willed any and all thought from your mind as you forced yourself back to center, forced yourself to truly embody the role of Champion. To fully prepare yourself for the beginning of the end.
You only opened your eyes again the moment you felt the dull thrum of the underground give way to the jarring pulsations of the surface. The platform of ice jerked to a standstill and all at once your vision was flooded with the hauntingly beautiful vision of a full blood-moon hanging low and heavy in the crimson sky.
Wordlessly you followed your companions off the platform, your boots squelching loudly as they made contact with puddles of water and pockets of mud. Distantly you heard Sypha and Trevor speak, their words unheard by you the moment you felt a strong, off-putting pulse of energy run down the course of your spine. You turned to face the source in the direction of the nearest bank of trees, eyes widening when they settled upon the writhing forms of hundreds of nature spirits that undulated beneath the towering canopies. Their mournful, terrified whispering overlapped and drowned out the sound of your own thoughts as you were overcome with the all-consuming, palpable fear of the forest and land.
"Oh, look!" Sypha's gasp forced you to turn away from the tree line, your gaze finding her pointing form only a breath before your eyes landed on the castle in all its horrific glory. Your stomach twisted painfully as you slowly roamed every inch of the castle's jagged edges and towering spindles before settling on the grand threshold and the familiar stone steps that led into the foyer.
Your heart stuttered as you stared at the stone archway, memories of that fateful day bombarding your mind and stealing your breath. Flashes of Alucard's mutilated body bleeding endlessly from his wound, how you carried him down those very stairs, heartbroken and spiraling as you were both banished from the only home you had ever known. The castle itself hadn't changed since that day, and yet, nothing about it was or would be the same ever again.
"Alucard. Priestess."
You flinched at the sound of Trevor's voice when he stepped towards you. It took every fiber of your willpower to tear your eyes away from the stone steps and meet his own.
The Belmont inclined his chin before his attention shifted to the dhampir, the shadows across his face darkening. "Are you ready for this?"
"No." Alucard's eyes narrowed in the same breath he pulled himself to his full height. Slowly his golden irises slid to you, his hand once again finding the hilt of his sword before focusing on the castle. "But let's put an end to this anyway."
You could not bring yourself to offer your own reply as you unsheathed your blade from its scabbard. You and the dhampir surged forward at the same moment, your footsteps muffled by the grass beneath your feet. You dared not focus on the wild thrashing of your heart nor the shakiness of your legs as you drew closer and closer to the stone steps. Within the blink of an eye, you were ascending them, and were soon face to face with the chaos and carnage within.
Nearly one hundred vampire soldiers battled within the confines of the grand foyer, their battle cries and shouts reverberating nauseatingly off the stone walls, the shrill cry of steel against steel rattling in your skull. Countless fallen were strewn about, their blood soaking into the fine carpet that led farther into the castle. You immediately recognized the black and red livery of Dracula's forces before noting the unrecognizable colors of their apparent foes. The immortal armies all stilled as you and Alucard crossed the threshold, now fully flanked by Roya, Sypha, and Trevor.
"I terrify them, Sypha and Roya disorient them, Alucard and Priestess go over the top and we support them." the Belmont announced as he grabbed the metal whip from his hip, his shoulders squaring as he prepared to strike.
"Yes." Sypha affirmed the moment Roya howled their own affirmation.
Your hand tightened on your blade in the same breath you conjured a ball of your light in the other. You turned your head to the left just as Alucard turned his cheek to the right. You held onto each other's stare for a half a breath as you inclined your chin.
He betrayed nothing before he tore his eyes away and settled on amassing bodies, unsheathing his blade as he did so. "Begin."
The flow of time warped and folded in on itself as you all rushed forward, a wave of retribution and death, before slamming violently into the thick throng of immortal soldiers. Your own body moved of its own accord as it danced and weaved through countless vampires, as if you yourself were as malleable as light. With every exacting swish of your sword arm and perfect radiant beams, countless enemies were felled, sliced, and pierced until their bodies were engulfed in the warm silver-white of your power. Their shrieks of agony filled the air in the same moment the chaos around you grew to a grating crescendo when roaring walls of towering flame emerged from the sidelines, blocking any entry or escape for those you sought to vanquish.
You briefly pivoted to peer behind you, eyes landing on Sypha's determined expression as she channeled her magick. A blur of black and gold surged forward not a moment after, breaking through the wall of fire and paving a safe way forward. You wasted not a single breath as you followed after the dhampir, and in your peripheral, a flash of metal soared above you. Trevor's whip writhed and reared over your head before making explosive contact with the wave of enemies who dared vault over the extinguished path, their corpses swelling and bloating before erupting into balls of flesh and flame.
From one breath to the next Roya was by your side, the familiar's growls alerting you to the newly arrived enemies that made to attack. You moved as one, Roya's maw ripping into the throat of an enemy dressed in silver and black as you fought against one of Dracula's own, parrying the vampire's pathetic attempt to disarm you. With a curse you spun on your heels, thrust your blade through the soldier's neck and wretched it out, his blood spewing from the gaping wound and spraying into the air.
You and the familiar continued your dance of death, the foyer whirling by in indecipherable smears of color as you met each strike that was wrought upon you, destroyed every enemy that dared stand in your way. It came to a fever pitch when two dozen soldiers suddenly surrounded you, effectively separating you from your human companions. Roya was forced from your side as they attempted to breach through the blockade of bodies, their large form immediately swallowed by another half-dozen enemies that entrapped them. The soldiers surrounding you brandished their spears and swords all at once, drawing closer and closer. You were forced to take several steps backward, a snarl contorting your lips.
You sensed the moment before they pounced, and with an exerted shout of effort, you conjured a half shield in your empty hand and wielded your blade with expert precision. Effortlessly you blocked, parried, and cleaved your way through half of their numbers before a hard, explosive ache erupted on the right side of your ribs. Every ounce of air was punched from your lungs as you were flung backwards, landing roughly on your side. A groan escaped you as you forced your gaze up, landing on an elder vampire adorned in a fine metal chest plate, armed with a broadsword. He hissed at you before channeling his speed, a flash of red against the grey stones of the foyer. You rolled out of the way and regained your footing just as his broadsword came into near contact with the junction of your shoulder. You quickly pivoted before he was upon you again, this time attempting to cleave your head from your neck. With a grunt you ducked under the large blade at the last possible moment before whirling on your heels and rushing forward, thrusting your sword through the exposed underarm that was unprotected by his armor.
A choked, mangled scream escaped the vampire lord as he was forced to drop his weapon, the large sword clattering to the floor uselessly. Torrents of blood coursed down his left side, staining his chest piece crimson. With a hiss, his uninjured arm pulled your blade from his ribs, making to charge once more, but it was too late. The moment his bloodied mouth opened and a war-cry bubbled from his throat, slices of silver light pierced through his gaping mouth, severing the top half off his skull from that of his lower jaw. Both halves suspended in the air before separating, his corpse dropping to the floor like heavy stone and erupting into white flame at your feet.
You huffed a breath, chest rising and falling in rapid succession before you dashed to retrieve your blade, wildly scanning your immediate surroundings as you did so. You could see the flashing of a metal chain across the corridor, vague shifting of white-blond fur, distant flourishing of bright blue robes, the final wave of undead soldiers that descended upon you all, led by another elder vampire whose kimono billowed around her like smoke. And there, standing in the middle of the fray, facing down the entire hoard of undead was Alucard. The dhampir channeled his speed and cut through the first line, felling the nearest enemies with cutting precision.
The vampire general seized her opportunity and rushed him the moment his back faced towards her, transforming herself into that of a noxious cloud of smoke and descending with cruel vengeance. You ran as fast as your legs could carry you before your back was to his own, your palm faced outward as a wall of silver materialized between you and the immortal general. Her vapors hissed against the shield of light before she rematerialized, her dark eyes boring into your own. The general's gaze narrowed on you as a chilling smirk pulled at the corners of her lips. When you blinked, she was gone.
You had no time to attempt to locate her before more soldiers were upon you. With a a graceful flourish of your hand the shield wall fell and transformed into hundreds of shards of pure, twinkling moonlight. Sensing the air shift as you channeled your magick, Alucard called forth his speed and returned to your side. In the next breath, dozens of bodies dropped to the floor, your light making its mark. Where it had missed, his own magick blade severed heads from spines.
Your eyes met, an involuntary, inspired smile at your lips. He titled his head, a coy smirk beginning to take shape until it sharply fell. Before you could comprehend his movements, the world shifted on its axis at a dizzying speed. For a moment your vision crossed before it settled. When it did, you froze the instant you saw what had shaken him so. The elder vampress had re-conjured her form of smoke and had nearly been upon you. But now, instead, she was upon him.
Your heart catapulted out of your chest as searing panic engulfed you. "Adrian!"
The dhampir steeled himself, preparing for what was to come before a chilling blast of frozen wind washed over you both. A ragged gasp escaped you as you witnessed the vampire general's intangible form suddenly be transmuted into solid ice. A heart beat passed before the frozen foe was shattered into thousands of ice crystals that shimmered and gleamed through the air. A sudden, apprehensive stillness descended upon the foyer as you were forced back into the moment and regained control over your toiling emotions.
"Is that the last of them?" Trevor panted from beside you, newly arrived and slightly out of breath. You blinked, tearing your eyes away from the stern and stony face of the dhampir who now faced you.
"Yes, I think so." Sypha confirmed with a huff, the blunted icicles hovering over her palm disintegrating into crystal when she closed her hand.
You turned fully from the three of them as you felt Roya amble up beside you. You knelt swiftly, pressing a kiss to the top of their head. When you pulled back, you inspected their bloodstained fur, eyebrows knitting in worry. "Are you harmed?"
"It is not my blood, Priestess. I am well." the familiar assured with a gentle nudge into your shoulder.
You rubbed their neck before nodding. "I wish for you to remain so. Will you go and secure the forest? There still may be enemies lurking in the shadows. And if there are, and they emerge victorious, you are to leave this place and seek refuge with the nature spirits."
Roya's silver-gold eyes widened as a small, sad yip escaped them. "Priestess-"
"You must." your eyes gleamed with unshed emotion before you blinked them away and dipped your chin. "Please, Roya. Swear to me you will carry out this task. Promise you will return to the land and people if we do not succeed. They need your protection."
The spirit wolf growled their dissent before it turned into a mournful whimper. "Yes, High Priestess."
You released the breath you hadn't realized you had been holding before pressing your forehead against their own. "It has been an honor to fight and live by your side, my friend. I promise to fight until the end."
Roya's head bowed as the sound of your name filled your mind. "The honor is mine. Be careful, Priestess."
You embraced the familiar one final time until you stood and re-centered yourself. They too rose on all fours and glanced sidelong at your companions. Roya inclined their head in farewell before turning from you and making their way towards the forests that surrounded the Belmont lands and castle.
"Anyone else have an itch to say their final farewells? Best to do it now while we have the chance. Not that I'll get choked up about it." Trevor drawled behind you. You turned to face the trio once more, your face now schooled into forced neutrality.
"We've wasted enough time as it is." Alucard's curt reply sliced through the air, cutting the warmth of the gesture at the root. "It would be foolish to waste more."
Trevor grunted in annoyance. "Oh, fuck-"
Before he could finish his reply, the beastly growls and snarls of night creatures echoed through labyrinthian halls. In an instant you all steeled yourselves, casting aside any and all remaining diversions. With a collective glance shared between the four of you, you and Alucard began to lead the way into to the twisting, winding halls of Castle Dracula.
For countless, unknown moments your party carefully stalked the hallways, every so often slaying the remaining night creature forces scattered throughout. Step by step, inch by inch, you could feel the suffocating pressure of despair pressing harder and harder against your ribs. A sharp lash of bitter dread coiled and writhed in your belly as you realized you traversed through the familiar halls with ease, your mind and body recognizing every curve of stone, every corner, every archway and room you passed by.
It was when you reached the third floor, home to the countless galleries you had spent endless hours gazing in as a child, that you felt the energy of the air around you grow horribly taut. The hallway was empty save for one glowing room in the center of the corridor. The orange-red glow of hearthfire undulated across the walls, beckoning you within.
You felt Alucard shift minutely beside you before you peered up, unexpectedly meeting his molten eyes. There was something indescribable swirling within them, and he gave you no opportunity to deign their meaning before he continued towards the glow of fire. Silently you turned to Sypha and Trevor, a severe frown carved onto your features. With a partial shake of your head you turned on your heels and followed after the dhamipr.
You reached the threshold of the sitting room, eyes at once fixating on the towering form who stood before the hearth. He was facing away from you, unmoving as stone and still as death. Flashes of the past flickered across your mind as you gazed around the familiar sitting room, conjuring memories of countless evenings spent enveloped in laughter and lively conversation among plush couches, an evening of gift giving where you were bestowed the very scabbard attached to your hip. Now it was nearly empty, save for a single high-backed chair, dust-covered bookshelves, and a lone portrait of Aunt Lisa hanging on the farthest wall beside the grand fireplace.
The moment you and Alucard dared cross the threshold, Dracula slowly turned to face you.
"Father." Alucard's deep voice cut through the thick silence as he stepped forward, fully revealing himself. You dared not move nor breathe as the coil of despair tightened in your stomach.
"Son." he acknowledged, voice void of emotion before the glowing crimson of his blood-lusted eyes slowly slid to you. "Ward."
Your grip on the handle of your sword tightened in your attempt to fight against the urge to choke on air.
"You war is over." Alucard shifted, shielding you from his father's direct line of sight.
Dracula chuckled darkly, a taunting smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he regarded his son once more. "Because you say so?"
The dhampir took another step. "It ends in end the name of my mother."
"It endures in the name of your mother." Dracula seethed, red-glowing eyes growing impossibly brighter. "Everything I have done has been for her."
"You lie, Uncle." you shook your head, the hurt and anguish that was building up in your chest acting as a conduit for you to finally find your voice.
"Do I?" he taunted, his heavy gaze once again settling over you.
You inhaled a shaky breath before stepping forward, a frown of horrified anguish contorting your face. "Every innocent you've tortured, every child you have slaughtered, all the pain and suffering you have caused and all the blood you have shed has all been for yourself. If Aunt Lisa was here, she would be terrified of you and what you have become."
His shoulders squared, growing impossibly taut beneath the thick material of his black cape. The shadows of the room cut severe lines across his face, a snarl curling his mouth. "You dare speak her name to me, witch? You dare dishonor her and her memory?"
You shuddered, sensing the surging power that emanated from his being, dark and unrelenting. But no matter how much you wished to turn and hide, to look away, you dared not break from his monstrous stare. "I speak her name aloud to honor her. You invoke it to wage unholy war. You are the one who dishonors her, King of Night. Not I."
Dracula tilted his head, a predator mocking his prey. "Unholy war? Are those your words, Priestess, or that of your goddess?"
"You seek to commit genocide against my mother's people. What other name could it be given besides unholy?" Alucard countered, his own frown beginning to take shape.
"Justice." the elder vampire snarled. "Justice to parasites who plague the world."
Alucard stepped forward once more. "We won't let you do it. We grieve with you, but we will not let you commit genocide."
"You couldn't stop me before," the King of Night's demonic stare darkened, "what makes you think you can stop me now? You are nothing but children playing at war."
Your chest painfully constricted as you took a single step, then another, until you stood at Alucard's side.
"You truly believe you can stand against me? A fledgling," he tilted his head in his son's direction before his eyes slashed across the room and held you hostage, "and a devotee of a feeble goddess, conjuring nothing more than useless parlor tricks?"
You forced down the urge to back away as he took a step towards you, clutching your sword hard enough your knuckles ached. Alucard inched forward, sword arm tensing.
Dracula pulled himself to his full, imposing height, his eyes darkening into blood rubies. "You wish to fight for the lives of pathetic, barbarous, and immoral vermin? Fine. Fight for them and die for their sins!"
You felt the moment before Alucard began to channel his speed, brandishing his blade with deadly precision. You moved as one, summoning beams of light just before the dhampir dashed forward. In the blink of an eye Dracula clawed through the silver discs, causing them to veer off path and shatter into the wall of bookshelves behind him. Alucard collided with his father not a second later against the fireplace, the force of the impact cracking the mantle.
The dhampir's blade failed to meet its mark, the edge of his sword held steadily by the elder vampire's taloned palm. The King of Night began to inch forward, his hold never wavering on Alucard's sword before the dhampir attempted to brandish his blade once again. Dracula dodged it effortlessly before his fist made explosive contact with the side of his son's face. The force of the blow knocked Alucard off his feet, his blade clattering to the floor in the same breath his face smashed into the iron grate of the fireplace.
You had no time to react before he was upon you. He channeled his speed so that he crashed into your body, your heart free falling into your stomach at the impossible speed in which he moved. Before you could make a sound or fully comprehend that your blade was no longer in your hand, your back collided with the stone walls of the hallway, your head bobbing forward the instant Dracula's talons wrapped around your throat. You rasped a choked grunt as you tried to rip his hand away, your nails clawing into his stony flesh in attempt to break free.
Dracula's monstrous eyes narrowed on you, his hand tightening around your neck. "I made a vow, Priestess, that should you ever return to Wallachia, I would tear your heart out." he raised his other hand, preparing to strike. "I always honor my vows."
With every ounce of your willpower you channeled your strength the moment his claws made to pierce your chest. Your left leg swung up, the soles of your shoes glowing blinding white as a slicing half-disc materialized around your boot. You felt the moment it collided with his forearm, a grunt escaping him as he was forced to release his hold on you. You landed roughly on your knees, shooting pain rattling up your legs. Heaving coughs wracked your burning chest as you gasped and sputtered for air. You were forced to roll out of the way when he made to rush you again, feeling his talons whistle passed your ears as you narrowly escaped. Suddenly a searing gust of hot flame erupted from behind you, halting his attacks.
"Speaker-magician!" Dracula rounded on his heels to face Sypha, forced to shield behind his billowing cape as she wielded her fire. When the flames were extinguished, he dashed forward as she attempted to conjure a shard of ice. The King of Night easily shattered it into glowing dust before his talons mauled her flesh and sent her flying through the air.
Molten panic lashed through you as you watched her land limply many paces away, three deep gashes clawed into the flesh of her bicep. With a rasped breath you stumbled to your feet, the sound of Trevor shouting her name lightly muffled in your ringing ears. Your head swam as you reoriented yourself, your vision clearing as you watched Trevor rush Dracula, hands desperately reaching for his cape in attempt to redirect his attention away from Sypha.
When the human hunter's fists connected with the side of the immortal's face, he slowly turned, lips curling into an amused smirk. "You must be the Belmont."
Trevor had no time to react before he was doubled over, blood spewing from his lips when Dracula's fists came into brutal contact with his abdomen and encircled around his throat. "The end of your line."
You growled, crossing your arms over your chest before sharply extending them outwards, a scythe-like disc bounding towards the junction of Dracula's head and spine. He was forced to drop Trevor and pull himself from the path of the beam, but not before a small cut sliced upon the curve of his jaw. A single bead of blood pooled before dripping down his chin.
An angered snarl escaped him as he turned to face you once more, but was immediately shielded from view when Alucard appeared before you. In his left hand he wielded his blade across his father's chest, in his right, your own thrusting between his ribs. Dracula effortlessly out-maneuvered the dhampir before turning and making to attack you. You ducked out of the way, dodging in the same moment Alucard whirled to face you, pressing your blade into your hands.
Sparks flew as Dracula's nails scratched along the surface of your sword when you blocked his attack in the perfect moment. Alucard was instantly by your side, and in a single breath, you became one. You and the dhampir danced around each other in perfect unison as you met each strike Dracula commanded, parrying and blocking with exacting precision. From behind you, you felt something shift and stir before the metal chain of Trevor's whip arced above your heads, a shining, writhing metal snake that collided with Dracula's chest when he was forced to dodge another beam of you light.
A blinding, deafening explosion shook the stone walls of the corridor, forcing you and Alucard to stumble backwards, away from the searing cloud of smoke that suffocated the air. You watched on, eyes wide, chests heaving as the smoke settled, revealing the moment Dracula fell to his knees, claws slashing gashes into the rug beneath him.
"The Morningstar Whip." the immortal rasped darkly, slowly rising to his feet, his eyes hidden from view by the curtain of his hair. "Well played, Belmont."
Dracula's shoulders and torso finally straightened, his movements overly controlled and heavy with his bubbling rage. A shuddered breath escaped you as you finally found his eyes again, the beady, glowing blood-red irises no bigger than pinpoints.
"But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magicks." his voice dropped, dripping with otherworldly malice. "I am Vlad Dracula Tepes, and I have had enough!"
The Lord of Night extended his arms as a towering, hulking ball of molten flame and fire was conjured before him, burning with the intensity of a hundred suns. Howling wind whipped across your cheeks as the sphere bounded towards you, its heat searing down into the marrow of your bones. Your body moved before you could think, dropping your blade before your palms outstretched towards you as a glowing, undulating ball of moonlight took shape, rivaling the size of the sphere of flame. The two spheres collided in the middle of the corridor, a blinding mix of silver and gold as they fought for dominance.
A shout escaped you as you grounded yourself to the floor, attempting with all your might to stay rooted between the spheres and your companions. You heard Dracula's vengeful snarl as he forced his sphere forward, making to overpower you. The heat born of the two spheres became excruciating as the ball of fire began to melt through that of your own. Your arms began to shake and waver as sweat poured down your face, another grunt leaving your lips as you called forth more of your power. Exhaustion began to creep up your legs and course through your arms before you were roughly pushed out of the way, your back landing with a thud against the wall. Alucard and his sword suddenly flew into the sphere of moonlight, catapulting both towards Dracula. You watched, eyes wide with shock, as his blade tore through your light before the fire sphere erupted in an explosive, blinding denotation.
You were forced to shield your face as ash, smoke, and debris engulfed the hallway. The moment it cleared your heart thrashed painfully in your chest when your eyes landed on the burning chasm that had been blown into the wall Dracula stood before only moments ago. Now, only embers and Alucard's sword remained.
"Hurry! This way!" you heaved yourself forward, your mind finally catching up to reality as you pumped your legs as fast as they would allow. You bent down in one fluid motion, grasping Alucard's blade in your hand before conjuring an orb of light around your being. Without a second thought you made to breach the smoking cavern that had been carved into stone. You did not hear nor heed the warning cries of Sypha and Trevor who attempted to stop you from entering the tunnel, your blood whooshing loudly in your ears. With every step you took, white light refracted out, extinguishing the smoke and smoldering stones beneath your feet.
You emerged in one of the many libraries within the castle, your wild eyes barely taking in your surroundings as you listened to the distant and violent tremors that shook the walls and ceiling above. You pivoted sharply out of the library and continued to run, led by the horrific, booming sounds of father and son tearing each other apart.
Your erratic breathing was drowned out by the thunderous cacophony that reverberated down the winding halls, the sides of your ribs burning as your body fought and struggled to swallow lungfuls of air. The stone walls, archways, and carpeted floors whirled by you in indecipherable smears of color as you willed yourself to move faster, the sound of Dracula's mocking chuckle echoing down the hall spurring you forward.
"You mean to stake me?"
Immediately following his taunt, the floor rocked after a nearby rumble shook in the hallway across from you, alerting you of their precise location. You sharply turned the corner closest to you the moment the dhampir's rough voice sounded out.
"You want me to." another violent shock shook the ground, nearly knocking you off your feet. "You didn't kill me before. You're not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do!"
Another catastrophic quake shook the walls. "Do I!?"
"You died when my mother died, you know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history's longest suicide note!"
Your teeth rattled as the sound of Dracula's rage-filled bellow ricocheted off the walls and another violent tremor shook the castle. With a cry of effort your hand tightened around Alucard's blade as you pushed your body beyond its limit. You did not stop until you finally reached the eastern wing, did not allow yourself to be taken aback by the familiar threshold of your childhood room. You dared not allow yourself to breathe until you were finally upon them.
Bathed in the crimson light of the blood-moon filtering in through a lone window, Dracula's sinister form towered over Alucard, one hand cruelly squeezing into the dhampir's pale neck, the other making to smash his head against the stone walls. With a curse you called forth your magick, shouting with exertion as a perfect disc shot out before Dracula whirled, raising his son and brandishing him as a shield against your might. Your heart stopped as a frozen wave of dread crashed over you the moment your beams made contact with the dhampir, sending him backwards into a crumbling wall.
"There you are." the elder vampire's face contorted into twisted blood-lust as he took in your stricken form.
"Here I am." you rasped, tightening your hold on Alucard's blade. The King of Night growled and before you could even blink, he was before you. You tried your best to out-maneuver him, but the immortal speed in which he wielded far outmatched your own. His claws made to slash across your throat, only prevented from doing so when you weakly parried with the dhampir's sword, but the exhaustion of your body and limbs won out. You were thrown backwards, overwhelmed by the force of his ferocity, the weapon slipping from your grasp before you had a chance to attempt to correct your footing.
Shakily you scrambled to your feet and began to run down the winding halls, narrowly dodging Dracula's fists that crushed stone, the deadly debris raining down upon you in his wake. Every so often you turned, beams of light slicing down the hallway in attempt to slow his advances. Some made their mark, forcing him to dodge out of the way, but most were cleaved in half before exploding into the walls behind him. His snarling drew closer and closer until you were forcefully yanked back by the collar of your armor, the world tilting nauseatingly on its axis.
In one breath he held you high above the floor, kicking and thrashing in attempt to break free. In the next, you were flown backwards at such horrific speed your body went limp, unable to make a single sound.
You crashed into something warm and solid, your awareness at once flooded with the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you the moment before you crashed through stone. Your head throbbed when you heard a moan of agonized exhalation, the grating sound of cracking stone, the feeling of your head and spine being painfully secured by some immovable force. You suddenly exploded through a final, unseen obstruction before you crashed through to an open space, the velocity of your landing causing you and Alucard to separate. You felt yourself in free fall until the world blinked black when your back smacked against something made of wood. White, searing pain erupted in every part of your body as you tried and failed to open your eyes and move. You heard another groan somewhere close in your vicinity, but you could not maintain your focus on it as your consciousness teetered in and out. You nearly succumbed to the heavy, murky depths of unconsciousness before you heard it again, the desperation of the sound tethering you back into yourself.
A choked and pained sob escaped you when you were finally able to force your eyes open, your sight blurred by tears and grey dots that danced across your vision. You blinked, the action an agonizing effort, until the dots faded away and you could begin to make out your surroundings. The edge of a bed, whose sturdy wooden frame you had crashed into. Polished wooden floors, a dark carpet just out of view, thick beams of crimson light filtering in through a rounded window. And there, beside you, Alucard's hunched form shakily trying stand to his feet by bracing against the bedpost.
With a strained whimper you tried to push yourself up again, but the shaking and weakness of your arms prevented you from doing so, forcing you on your side once more. The sound of your efforts stole the dhampir's attention, his wide and stricken eyes finding your own the moment he attempted to reach out to you. Before he could take a single step, he collapsed back onto his knees, totally overtaken by exhaustion. A pained grunt escaped him as he tried to straighten himself before immediately stilling, the nearly inaudible sound of creaking wood soon giving way to slow, heavy, stalking steps.
With every nearing thud, terror and dread coiled tightly around your soul, sapping every ounce of remaining warmth and bravery from your heart. Time stilled to a concussive halt as Dracula finally emerged from the darkness, half shrouded by shadow, half illuminated in the red light of his blood-moon. His towering form clawed his way through the shattered walls, carving deep gashes upon the stone in his wake.
Silent rivers flooded down your cheeks as you watched, frozen in place, as he took one step, then another, until he was fully revealed and bathed in crimson. The sounds of animalistic blood-lust contorted his jagged breathing into that of the growling and groaning of a demonic beast. You could not control the broken sound that escaped your lips as he drew closer and closer, eyes blown black with fear as you were unable to look away from the monstrous being who would be the harbinger of your death.
Your mind whirled as both familiar and unrecognized memories flashed across your mind. A hazy moment from your toddlerhood standing in front of a snow-covered headstone, your small hand held gently in the hold of Dracula's much larger palm, a prayer in your mother language falling from his lips in a sweet, comforting melody. A stormy afternoon in your adolescence as you walked the forests that surrounded the cottage, he kneeling to your height as he reassured you, he'd always keep you safe. Sweltering summers where you practiced under his careful and shrewd instruction as you learned the art of the blade. Frozen winters spent curled up by the hearth while he read the most fantastical stories aloud, the sitting room buzzing with the warmth and love of a home and family you would never, ever be blessed with or lucky enough to experience ever again.
Your head began to swim as memory after memory continued to bombard you until you forced your eyes from his prowling form and dazedly focused them onto the wooden floor before you. You exhaled, the breath shaky and weak as you felt the moment you finally succumbed to the crushing realization that the end was truly near, that you had failed. That there was nothing else that you or Alucard could do to end the war, to save humankind, to protect the world. You were certain, now, that your heart would be ripped from your chest by the man who once raised and cared for you, that you would die an agonizing death moments before everyone you cared about was eradicated from the very fabric of existence.
The floorboards shook and rattled as Dracula took three more steps before suddenly halting half a dozen paces away. A strange, hollow sound escaped him as he froze, drawing your petrified attention back to him.
The ruby pinpoints of his blood-lusted eyes seemed to dim as he took a single, uneasy step forward, his distant, faraway gaze fixating onto the dhampir beside you. He stumbled a half-step before another strangled sound escaped him. "It's your room."
You dared not move nor breathe as Dracula continued to stare at Alucard, trembling in place before his twisted, blood-lusted face contorted into stricken horror. "My boy I-"
The glowing rubies of his eyes slowly died and faded back to the familiar crimson of his irises. In the same breath, the haunting red light of the blood-moon gave way to reveal its original silver splendor. The elder vampire's shoulders slumped as he stumbled towards the dresser on the opposite side of the room, away from you both. You followed him with your eyes, your heart thrashing painfully against your ribs as you saw him amble up to the portrait of him and Aunt Lisa holding a beautiful golden-haired infant.
"I'm - I -" a broken, wretched breath rasped from his lips as he clutched his trembling arms to his chest, his face hidden from view by the thick curtain of his raven hair. "Lisa I...I'm killing our boy. We painted this room. We...we made these toys. It's our boy, Lisa. Your greatest gift to me."
Dracula turned, so, so slowly until he faced you and Alucard before he fell to his knees beneath the portrait, the force of the impact rattling inside your chest.
His shoulders slumped forward when he finally peered up, eyes wet with unshed tears."It's our boy Lisa, and our dear girl. They've come home...our family has come home. Our greatest gifts and joys in life have come home...and I'm killing them."
You stared petrified at the kneeling vampire before you, tears streaming down your face as you were completely overcome with wave after torrential wave of agonizing overwhelm. You did not move a single inch as your mind tried and failed to make sense of the scene before you, make sense of the broken man whose eyes and voice were that of Uncle Vlad, not that of the beastly King of Night that terrorized you moments before.
His eyes softened as he peered at you before looking at his son. "I must already be dead."
A horrid, deafening silence descended upon the room before a loud cracking sound tore through the air. You felt Alucard shift beside you, a low, pained groan escaping him as he weakly shuffled forward on his hands and knees, a makeshift stake held firmly in his grasp. You watched, unable to move or breathe as he drew closer and closer until he was within arm's reach. He kneeled before his father, shoulders shaking as he steeled his back. Dracula's eyes never left his son as Alucard brought the makeshift stake to his chest. He wavered, a sob escaping him as the wooden weapon clattered to the floor. Your heart and soul shattered at the sound.
You bit your lip, a whimper bubbling in your throat as you pushed through the blinding pain that bloomed over every inch of your body and forced yourself to crawl and claw your way towards father and son. Within moments you were on your knees beside Alucard, and with every ounce of your remaining strength, you picked up the stake and lined it perfectly with Dracula's heart.
Your vision was too blurry to notice how Dracula's eyes softened when Alucard's hand clasped around your own before you both began to sheath the stake through the squelching tissue and muscle of his torso. You could feel the flesh give way the deeper the stake was driven into his chest, could hear every ragged and pained note of his jagged breaths, could smell the sharp, acrid scent of blood that endlessly poured from the wound and drenched your clammy hands.
"Adrian," he wheezed, before your own name escaped his lips in a nearly inaudible whisper.
"Father," Alucard rasped, his hold on the stake wavering once more.
"Uncle," your bleary eyes peered up to meet the wet crimson of his own. They gleamed with unknown, countless things before he blinked and a single tear rolled down his stony face.
For a moment, an odd sense of calm and peace enveloped around you as your and Alucard's hands stilled before you made to push the stake deeper. Dracula's head and neck bent forward at a horrific angle, tears of blood spilling from his eyes. You felt the dhampir's shoulders tremble, barely containing another choked sob that threatened to escape him. You furiously blinked your tears away, vision now cleared enough to notice the rivulets of blood that poured from the corner of Dracula's mouth and the quiet pleading in his eyes. A terrible, gut-wrenching cry sounded from your lips the moment you found more purchase on the stake and called forth your light, imbuing the wooden weapon with your magick. As the smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air, you and Alucard pushed the stake fully through to the other side of his father's chest.
Dracula's heart beat eleven more times before you felt the shudder of incoming death. Alucard gasped a horrified breath before pulling you backwards and away from his father's immediate reach, the sound causing you to flinch and look up. The King of Night's flesh began to deteriorate right before your eyes, a horrid mixture between ash and dust. He swayed, his mangled, emaciated arms and hands attempting to reach out towards you. Both of you were rooted in place as you watched with wild eyes as he drew closer before a skeletal hand slowly reached for your own, the bony fingers against your warm flesh sending a painful chill down your spine.
You were unable to move as Dracula's exposed carpals gently took hold of your own, forcing your palm to face up. In the other, he took hold of Alucard's hand before placing it on top of your own. His deteriorating form wheezed and gasped as he leaned forward until the bony and ashen surface of his forehead brushed over your joint hands.
Your mind was too muddled with horrified confusion to fully register the sight before you, nor notice the flash of silver that cleaved in a downwards strike from your peripheral. Your joint hands were forced apart, the weight of Dracula's head severing from his spine too much to bear. His corpse continued to turn to ash and dust the moment it fell forwards, landing limply before you and the dhampir.
"Priestess, Alucard. Step back." Sypha murmured from behind you both, newly arrived with Trevor at her side, who brandished your blood-soaked weapon. "Let me finish this."
You could not hear her, not when your eyes fell back down to the severed head at your feet. Your body began to tremble, your mind too far gone with overwhelm. Strong arms encircled you again, bringing you to your feet. You did not fight against Alucard's hold when he crushed your back to his front, your eyes never leaving the growing flames that began to consume Dracula's body.
Sypha's fire roared to life as otherworldly shrieks and dark plumes of contorting shadow burst forth from his corpse. Alucard's room was fully consumed by the howling darkness and before you could stop yourself, you twirled around to face him and sagged against his chest. He instantly drew you closer, nearly painfully so, as you shielded yourselves in each other's arms against the dark.
It ended as suddenly as it began when every wisp of shadow was swallowed up by the bright, golden rays of rising sun that now began to filter in through the window. You pulled from his hold, limbs trembling as you turned to face behind you. All that remained in the wake of the King of Night's destruction was a singed, charred carpet and the gleaming silver of his wedding band.
"Is…is that it?" Sypha inquired, her clammy face contorting in pain as she clutched her injured arm.
"Alucard? Priestess?" Trevor's blue eyes swept over to you, lowering your sword as he did so. "Is it done? Did we...did we do it?'
Your eyes never left the carpet or ring, still unable to speak.
Alucard shifted, joining you at your side once again. "We did." he murmured, his own eyes finding fixating on the metal band. " We...I…I killed my father."
"You ended a war on humankind." Trevor amended. "Don't get weepy about it."
A searing bloom of anguish and rage roared inside of you as you peered up. "Be silent, Belmont."
Sypha held a gentle hand up to you, her eyes wide. "Trevor is right. You've both saved countless lives. But is it alright to mourn the man, too."
Alucard sighed heavily, his fingertips barely brushing your own. "He died a long time ago."
You willed the lump in your throat to disappear before you were finally able to manage to speak again. "Yes."
The Speaker and Belmont regarded you both for many moments before you and Alucard began your silent exodus from the room and your descent out of the castle. With every step you took, you felt as if the walls were pressing in all around you, your unsteady and weak limbs barely keeping you upright. It wasn't until you returned to the foyer, welcomed by the blushing sight of the rising sun filtering in through the grand entrance did your breath finally return to you.
A warm and gentle hand laced into your right, drawing your attentions to Sypha's small, sad smile of understanding. Trevor's arm was wrapped around her own, his own smile at his lips as you briefly met his eyes. You mirrored it, blinking back tears as you took in both your companions with humble, profound gratitude. Suddenly Alucard stood to your left, his golden eyes swirling with something you could not name. You drank in his beautiful face, your heart skipping a beat before your empty hand grabbed his own. His gaze widened the most minuscule amount before softening, returning the gesture.
You turned away at the same time the sun fully rose above the horizon, and for the first time since Aunt Lisa's death, you felt an ember of hope begin to flare in the deepest parts of your soul. And all at once you were bombarded with the sobering, numbing realization that you had fulfilled your destiny. That you and those you cared for most lived to see another sunrise, lived to continue the fight to protect humanity against the dark.
a/n: Hello my loves, it's been a while ☺️🌿✨️ I hope you have all been doing well and are taking care of yourselves. I myself have been navigating the confusing and difficult world of health issues/scares, recovering from minor surgery and just figuring out how to best take care of myself. I'm doing so much better than before and I am so fucking happy to be back.
Thank you all so much for your patience, it means more than you know 🫂🙏🥹 I hope you all enjoyed and are ready to buckle in. There's so much more in store for Priestess and Adrian. We are nowhere near the end of their story 🤭👏🌿
