The Serpent and the Sovereign: Pt. 5
(NC themes, dark, no minors allowed) [AO3]
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Knock, knock, knock. The sharp rap at the parlour door shattered the suffocating tension, the sudden intrusion feeling like a church bell in Syvis’s ears, making her flinch. A low hum vibrated in Messmer’s chest, a twisted amusement in his eyes, unbothered by the risk to them both. “Should I grant them entry, little lord?” he mused aloud, his gaze lingering on Syvis’s dishevelled state. “To observe their esteemed sovereign in such a… delectable predicament?”
Syvis shot him a furious glare. He’s actually insane. Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached, the words a strained hiss fighting against the tremor that threatened to overtake her voice. “Don’t be a fool, Impaler. This charade cuts both ways. Remember my injured shoulder, so apparent after I extended my invitation? They won't see some clumsy tumble or a lover's spat. They'll see the brutal reality of how you ‘serve’ your Elden Lord. One glance at me, and the whispers of your… zealous duty will become deafening accusations. Your welcome here will turn to ash.”
Another sharp knock echoed. Messmer looked at Syvis, a calculating glint in his eyes, as if weighing his options. Then, with brutal swiftness, he leaned down, his fingers digging into the chain across her breastplate, yanking her roughly to her feet. Thank the lan- His other hand clamped onto her jaw, tilting her head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. In a deliberate violation, he slowly licked the side of her neck, the wet heat causing Syvis to whimper. His mouth lingered near her ear, breath a chilling caress as he whispered a swift venom: “Savour thy reprieve, little lord. It shall be fleeting.” Then, releasing her abruptly, he stepped away with an unsettling nonchalance to lean against a nearby chair, as if their violent interaction was merely a casual aside. His serpents, mirroring his composure, smoothly uncoiled and returned to their positions on his body.
Syvis stood frozen, every muscle screaming in protest, her hands clenched so tightly her armoured knuckles ached. Move. Another knock, longer, a demanding intrusion. Messmer spoke, his attention fixed on a distant tapestry, his voice laced with a detached amusement. “Haste, then, Elden Lord. Wouldn't do to disappoint thy eager audience. Let us see that renowned composure. Perform.” A subtle, involuntary shiver traced its way down Syvis’s spine at his command, a reaction she desperately tried to conceal, pressing her trembling hand across her mouth, clamping her cheeks, a futile attempt to contain the roiling emotions within. Ignore him. Control it. She forced shallow breaths through her nose, her chest feeling constricted, as if an invisible weight pressed down on her. Pull it together. Now. The thought was a desperate plea. No one can see this. No one can see how easily he… how weak you are.
“Enter,” Syvis managed, her voice a low, shaky whisper that betrayed the frantic hammering of her heart. A wave of self-loathing washed over her as she registered the lingering heat in her limbs, the phantom sensation of his touch. A terrifying question slithered into her mind: Had a part of her… yielded? The thought was a bitter poison. Not the time. Window, now. She pushed herself away from the table, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if her own body were now an enemy. Your hands are trembling; hide them. As she reached the window, she deliberately clasped her hands behind her back, forcing her shoulders square, attempting to adopt a regal lord's pose – a shield to the trembling mess she felt inside.
She stared out at a distant, blurry point, shame burning in her chest. Elden Lord. The title now felt like a cruel mockery. Strength, dominance – those were supposed to be hers. Yet, in that moment against the table, a terrifying surrender had flickered within her, a disgraceful yielding to his power. You let him. She pressed her back against the cool stone of the window frame, taking deep, shuddering breaths. She felt the faint stickiness on the side of her neck where he had licked her, and the fact that she hadn't instinctively wiped it away sent a fresh wave of self-disgust through her. She noticed the faint mist of her breath blooming on the cold glass, the delicate cloud trembling visibly through the condensation.
Speak up. “Enter!” she repeated, forcing her voice to be louder, though it still wavered. Her fingers clenched tightly behind her, the pressure a small anchor in the storm of her emotions. He touched me. He tasted me. And I let him. The raw violation should have filled her with pure revulsion, and it did, but beneath it, a disturbing awareness lingered – something weak, something unwanted. The sight of her own unsteady breath on the glass was a reminder of her lack of control, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil that he had undoubtedly witnessed. He knew.
The shame intensified. She was disgusted, by him, yes, but even more so by the traitorous desires her own body had betrayed, desires made sickeningly real by the dampness on her neck she refused to erase and the lingering sensation between her legs. She glared at Messmer’s back in the window’s glass. Overindulge… what did that even mean?
The heavy door swung inward, revealing Godfrey, dressed in his usual attire, his eyes immediately scanning the room, assessing their proximity with a keen gaze. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his gaze swept between Syvis and the casually leaning Messmer, his usual stoicism marred by a flicker of disapproval. He held a polished wooden box carefully in his hands. Syvis glanced at him through the window’s reflection. He wasn’t pleased; the distance between her and Messmer didn’t look good. Give me a break. She kept her head high, pointed to the window, she needed every second. Godfrey moved with a clipped efficiency, the tap of his rough fingers against the wooden box betraying a thread of weary impatience, closer to Messmer than her. Traitor. “Lord Syvis,” he began, his tone laced with strained diplomacy, she turned from the window, having pulled together enough composure for about 5 minutes. “Following our discourse – our deliberations – on the paramount importance of presentation, of a manner befitting an Elden Lord who has seen fit to… welcome Lord Messmer into their fold, I confess I anticipated a more generous display of grace. A shadow of the respect owed.”
Syvis’s jaw tightened. I didn’t even get that far, old man. She pulled her best smile, strained, but Godfrey didn’t seem to notice. She offered him a curt nod, forcing an even tone. “Of course, Lord Godfrey. We had simply drifted to other matters. Lord Messmer has been… most enlightening .” The half-lie felt heavy and brittle. She took a step towards them, but kept behind the table in the room, refusing to look at it. Syvis held her head to the side, tracing over the door. Four minutes.
Godfrey’s gaze flickered to Messmer, a silent apology in his eyes. Fuck you, he didn’t even like the stupid bow. “Indeed.” He then presented the box to Syvis. “A token sourced from Lord Messmer's stronghold. A gesture of amity, he assures me, as thou both tread this delicate path of alliance.” Syvis turned to Messmer, who had returned a hand to one of his pets, a sardonic lift to her brow. Messmer slowly moved his gaze on her, her body shivered involuntarily, his eye was unreadable. “It is customary” he stated, his voice smooth, “that such tokens serve as emblems of accord.” Syvis released a long exhale from her nose but managed to resisted the urge to roll her eyes, more of this court shit. Her tongue probed the inside of her cheek, how to artfully tell him where to shove it… She stole a brief glance at Godfrey and wished she hadn’t, quickly dropping her head towards the box now on the table. His face was a perfect mask of control, but something about that emerging blood vessel suggested he was not impressed. Right, perform. “As befitting such an occasion of newfound amity. Lord Messmer, I accept this gesture.” Her delivery was wooden, she didn't bother looking at either of them, lips curled slightly downwards, not having the energy to even pretend to care. A wave of embarrassment stirred at Messmer’s earlier words at her ‘attempt’ of lordship, she had never felt more humiliated, feeling his eye on her as she spoke. Stiffly, Syvis stood before the box. I have to open it, don’t I? Their stillness answered her question; this was another performance, another owed smile. 3 minutes. She reached a hand across the lid, the wood feeling strangely warm through her gauntlet. Hopefully, it is something I can deny. Syvis flicked the lid up, the wood hitting the table with a heavy clunk. She blinked, momentarily confused to see exquisite clothing. Not a weapon? Or some strange impaled heart? Her hand slowly traced a dark, flowing ensemble of dragonhide leather, accented with intricate golden embroidery, a long red silk sash between the layers, the material supple under her armoured fingers. He definitely stole this from someone. A wry smile threatened her careful mask of composure, Perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Her mind momentarily clipping with countless lootings of tombs and graveyards, all necessary of course. It smelled faintly of herbs, one she struggled to place… Fulgurbloom? Godfrey tapped his foot discreetly. Her gold eye twitched, red eye socket itching. Right, yes. Straightening her shoulders, she opened her mouth, ready to release a poorly rehearsed response. Look again. Her eyes were forced down, searching the layers of black hide, then freezing. Remember? The blood drained from her face, a deep, dark thrum, calling from within her as she saw it. Nestled within the folds, attached to an ornate silver thread and silk, was a dagger. Blade crafted from what looked like a shard of polished white bone. The room seemed to both expand and contract, senses overblown as a cascade of fragmented images flooded her mind.
Darkness, a suffocating void that swallowed all light and stretched beyond the edges of sanity, suddenly collapsing down from all sides. Arcane symbols, raw and glistening, carved into slick black stone, Hands, so many hands, on her, around her, reaching, looking for something. A pool of absolute black, viscous and still, pulsing faintly, its edges slick with a constant, viscous drip. Did it hurt? The question echoed in the oppressive silence of her mind. Chanting voices, ancient and guttural, clawing at the edges of perception from a vast, unseen chamber. The hands are harsher, nails dragging, they sense it. Syvis moved a hand to her abdomen. A gaunt figure lay splayed on a blood-soaked altar, a heart is beating, so loud the room vibrates. A slow, churning movement disturbed the stagnant blackness, something pale and slick beginning to breach the surface. The hands dig, clawing and scratching, they found it. Syvis felt her stomach rip open. The coppery, overwhelming stench of blood choked the air, thick enough to taste. A bone blade, smooth and stained, was raised high in a trembling hand. I hope it did. From the depths of the inky black, a single, malevolent red eye snapped open, fixing its gaze.
Enough! A weight smashed against her ribs, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, blood trickling onto her tongue. Look. She willed herself to still, crimson eye alight and focused on the dagger, like someone holding her head above a blade. She felt something try to lurch up her throat. More blood. This fear was unlike the stirring heat Messmer had preyed on; this was a bone-jarring agony, as if her very essence was being fractured, her soul itself crying out in pain. They’re watching. She gasped, forcing herself to breathe, a strangled yelping sound, clutching the edge of the box, fighting to maintain her outward facade. Speak… do something! Can you?
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