Being a captive of the Archon wasn't as bad as it could have been. His half sister was taken care of well, even if she didn't carry the curse with her, her father a different man than his own father, a secret he had learned later in life, but the constant threat that she may be used against him was enough to keep him semi-chained. On a leash. Under control. It wasn't bad being a well cared for tool, in a set of tools that were precision instead of blunt force like much of the fools in this place were. But the best part of being a captive, was the cats that napped around him, peacefully -- as asleep as a cat would get being stroked gently, whispered to a bit of secrets here and there.
Malik didn't like people. At all. Animals though? All the cat children the Archon had? He trusted them much more than anyone else. So after each mission, he sought out Zizi, his favorite of the Archon's cats. The ragdoll had been napping in her favorite spot, when Malik went to find her, urging her keeper in yellow dress to take a few moments off her feet. He would accept responsibility for minding the muted seal point for a while. Stay near though, in case someone else comes along, otherwise I may have to take drastic measure. He didn't trust the servant not to one day talk about his visits to the cat, so a threat now and then, even if it was half hearted, was enough to keep the servant in enough fear to not speak of his visits. He wouldn't, of course, hurt the young girl, she reminded him too much of his own little sister, and was probably, in all actuality, a captive too. Not that he paid them any mind.
No, there in the garden he had scooped the little Zizi up into his arms, let her become liquid in his hold, before starting to whisper to her, bringing the dark edges of the garden in closer around him, just the soothing purrs and warmth the cat offered -- a balm to his inner turmoil. The curse was getting harder to ignore now that the barrier had fallen. He'd done so well for so many years of life, but something about that magic being broken had the near animalistic need to seek Seraphine out, to pull the blood from her to heal his own curse. He was sure that she felt the same need from him, had discovered the same disheartening facts that nothing seemed to work. It was in their blood. But having slaughtered her family, he couldn't get the girl to see what was plain to him, and he was the villain in her story, after all. Even if she hadn't been truly aware that she would have died that night had he and his father not raided their home, had it been a day later, she would have already been dead. And he didn't kill children.
Women, Men, sanctioned kills, yes. He drew the line at children, he had to hold on to some semblance of honor, didn't he?
After his confessions to the cat, he had let her down, animating a bug she had obviously tortured to death back to life, for her to play with again. The magic was easy enough, picked up when he thought perhaps he could avoid the curse by wild shaping into a simple beast, one that wouldn't feel the same pressing need, but that had turned out to be oh, so wrong. He had murdered half an entire herd before he had been able to pull himself out of the beast. His finger flicked the bug across the ground and under one of the bushes there in the inner garden.
Then there had been his studies into plants, if he could have slaked the need on plants, he would have studied into the path further, but, the first time he had practiced the magic he had killed an entire circle, nearly fifty feet across in need. No. The past ten years had taught him one thing, and one thing only. Once Zizi moved the bug out to where he could see it again, he flicked it across the room again, letting her give chase.
Summon Seraphine here with some tea, and treats for Zizi, her favorites, and a saucer of cream. Forcing her there to his side would give him some relief, minute, though it would be, but some. And some would be enough to keep going a bit longer.
They thought her a weak, frail thing when first arriving. The pale, terrified young girl had been swept through the halls unsure what her fate was until the day after, the day after her entire family had been massacred. Some of it had been explained to her, the process of what happened after the Eyes had descended on the Salvo estate, but for a few days after she expected this terrible nightmare to end, to wake up and see her brothers, her mother and father.
Grief had almost killed her until her memory recalled the faces of those responsible, a quiet vow declared to the dark and her family that she would avenge them. In ignorance Seraphine put one man who understood her pain most on the opposing side, her family’s enemy remained, equally broken and offering only one champion to continue the feud. Then her kinder nature would betray her, the doubt that had clung since being brought to the Archon’s estate, the seat of power over everything. Seraphine had seen enough blood, did she want to paralyse herself by drawing more? Would he continue to hunt her if not for the Archon’s protection?
She hated him. The Vrai. Yet he served diligently, coldly as if unaware of any alternative way, like the screams of the past never kept him awake at night. He had spared her, why? She had pondered that question for years, yet no answer offered an explanation. So, Seraphine had continued to serve, becoming a dependable noble lady serving within the palace of the Archon and ensuring the day to day running of the serving staff remained the well oiled machine to keep Tevinter’s leaders governing.
Her curse had remained largely dormant, only revealing itself as bouts of fainting during her childhood and adolescence. It slumbered completely when the barrier took hold, rebuffing the effects of the Dread Wolf’s ritual, enabling her to live a relatively normal existence while still struggling to progress her magic. With the barrier gone however, a sense of foreboding coiled in her gut from an unknown source, sensing that something was on the horizon. Perhaps it had something to do with the way her body thrummed at certain intervals, or under periods of stress, Seraphine only understood that in those moments she forgot herself, her mind becoming hazed by shadow while a deep hunger reared, clawing and fighting to be sated.
She had been training elsewhere when the call had reached her, and sheathing the fencing blade had reported to the kitchens without so much as a passing glance to the servant. Along with the milk and cat treats, Seraphine took a single cup, finding a way to spell out her feelings without having to utter a word. How long would she have to endure his company today?
Out of her usual attire she glided down the halls, the light and looser robes perfectly served for both her fencing and dancing, two passions that took up the majority of the young woman’s freetime. This was not the first time she had been singled out by him, nor requested to attend to him here as she approached the nearby table.
Your tea, Lord Vrai. Head dipping respectfully, Saffy laid the lacquered box on top of the stone table, halving the box into its various sections. His tea, cup and pot were produced from one, while the cat’s remained in the yet unopened section. Throughout, she kept her gaze lowered, focusing on her task rather than the man’s attention, until she had run out of things to set, and so stood aside finding interest in the grains of the table. The growing calm settling between them contradicting the dislike she had for him. Is there anything else I can do for you?
He spent the time waiting for her arrival thinking of what he might be able to say to help with how cold the two of them were to one another. A way in which they might at least be able to keep company with one another, maybe even draw comfort from the fact that they both knew what it was like to be a hostage in the Archon’s household. While he had embraced his role, his new life, because he had to -- his half sister and mother would have been killed otherwise -- he knew that it wasn’t quite that simple for Seraphine. She was hostage, but had the added uncertainty that Malachai or the Archon himself could decide at any point to marry her off to... well anyone. She had no surviving male relative to take care of little things like betrothal for her. And he was certain any fortune her family had left had been seized.
He at least, as male, was afforded being able to keep his meager fortune so that he could pay the dowry for his half sister. And with that he could be free to grow old and die alone. Childless and penniless, a cog in a machine that kept grinding forward. So when she appeared, and the thrumming in his veins eased slightly, he let the cold mask slide into place. It was better to keep her at a distance, to make sure that they remained at odds. If the both of them died, childless, the curse would die with them. It was a simple enough thing. And keeping her miserable and isolated was the best way to make sure she birthed no children, and for him. Well. Not even the comfort of a whore could be risked.
It would be too much to force a child to endure what they did. And as she poured his tea, he took the cup and smelled it, before taking a drink, and setting the cup back down. Show me you blade work. He told her, as he slid a velvet cushioned rapier across the wooden table, Zizi coming back to his lap now that the dead bug was no longer moving...again, so he took his eyes off the blade and her in that moment. It was a perfect opportunity for her to take the blade and drive it deep into his chest, and he knew it. He would welcome it, the release of death, if he could ensure that she’d never mother any children. I’m told you’ve improved greatly over the past months. Prove it.
The plate of fish snacks for the cat was produced from the box, as he set them out next to the tea pot, pouring himself another cup as he waited to see if she’d humor him. After all, he needed to make sure that his gift, for her name day, would arrive in her quarters, and be put in the same place he always left her name day gifts in. He never signed them, never claimed them, and let her think they had been from the Chancellor or another noble in the house that had a sweet shine to her. After all, after Ella, he knew that young women liked little things on their name days. And Seraphine’s name day just happened to be a bad one. So he did try. This year though, was a much deeper meaning gift being left.
A memory crystal, carved to look like a little fox, and on a cord of leather with onyx beads. Later that night, he would turn into the house cat form he could manage and go to see if she kept it, or threw it away, like with some of the past ones, would lay on the edge of her bed until she stopped crying, and fell asleep, before he’d slip back off. He wasn’t proud of what he did, using his wild shape form as a way to spy on her, but it allowed him to offer her comfort, without it being in the form she hated with such passion. Unless you’re too scared to be given proper feed back in your practice.
Her future was uncertain, tied with the whims of a man whose mind was slowly unravelling as time progressed. It was unlikely a match would ever be offered given her low status and the circumstances around her entry to the Archon’s household. Other prisoners were not often afforded the same luxuries that Seraphine had been bestowed, but none had the level of bloody rumours and whispers surrounding them. Perhaps that was why he sought her out? A fellow pariah among a host of pariah’s.
The furrow in her brow deepened as she continued to dwell on the why’s. Distracted by her thoughts, Saffy frowned as he demanded her blade, gaze shifting between him and the slid blade suspiciously. Her confusion persisted when his guard lowered further, removing Zizi’s bowl and treats to set out now the cat had returned, his attention on the feline rather than his supposed mortal enemy. It startled her how easy he allowed her the opportunity and instead of the fools goal of a swift end Seraphine traced a hand across her belt to the scabbard fencing blades hilt. That blade is not mine. It’s too heavy. Minding her words, she bit her tongue on adding, I have my own, believing it too rude.
Fingers flexed around the hilt but did not pull the blade free as the young woman decided. It’s true I’ve been practising, though I don’t think I’ve improved that much to impress you, Lord Vrai. There were plenty of other noble ladies who’d willingly throw themselves at him, but she was not one of them. All she wanted was to be left alone. In peace. While her future was uncertain, Saffy wasn’t about to allow it to rule her present even on this day of days.
Her name days had always followed a similar pattern with her family, until the last, an extra special one according to her mother. The pride Saffy had felt that day on finally being accepted into the family’s circle after years of her health denying her the right to take part. It had been a perfect day, until it wasn’t, until the screaming started and the blood began flowing and the running and hiding began. Then those cold eyes finding hers, the last thing she remembered before fainting. Now they were just days, what celebration she did enjoy was in remembering them, her family, by lighting a candle and a quiet prayer.
She could have retreated, if not for his words goading her, the rush of blood to her cheeks was undeniable. Nostrils flared and the blade was drawn, set behind her while her chin lifted defiantly. Come test me yourself then. Maybe she would get the chance to stab him... maybe he'd finally finish his goal, either way, she was going to show him who's footwork was superior.
He smirked at the complaint the blade was too heavy. A swordswoman should never complain about the tool she is given. If you're not practicing with heavier swords, will you be able to truly protect yourself? He moved Zizi from his lap, stroking the ragdoll a few times as he let her down on the table for the saucer of herring treats and milk, his features set to be as un-readable as possible. He pretended, of course, that he had his mask on, a small shiver running down his spine at how much the mask helped create the persona.
Whether he be wearing it or not.
I'm sure you'll do your best, Lady Salvo. He rose to his feet, taking the sword off the table and wrapping his hand around the hilt. As he rounded the table, he took special care to affix the scabbard to the blade, tying it to the hilt so that even if she used bare steel, he would not. He ignored her for a moment, as he swung the blade once in his right hand, before throwing the blade up, and catching it with his left. Yes. Scabbard in place, and left handed. He would give her the chance to best him. It was her name day after all, and she deserved to have a bit of a win for it.
Do take care not to hurt yourself in the process. He snarked back at her, at her little defiant display. He tried not to smile at it, it was irritating to be here with her currently, Malik reminded himself. He should not have fun at her expense, and he shouldn't be underestimating her. She was lighter than him, so she would be fast. Probably faster than he was, which meant that he would need to be on the defensive right away. She'd most likely open with a lunge, especially if she knew she was faster. Putting his right hand behind his back, he rested the hand in the small of his back, and rolled the sheathed sword in his left, coming to a ready stance.
She'd lead off with her right foot. She danced, he had seen her dance in the evening time, curled up on her bed, in his cat form. She called him Spook. It was appropriate, oh so appropriate. But from what he remembered, she usually lead off with that right foot.
It's your name day, is it not? You should have first strike. He offered, with a small quirk of his lips, inviting her to strike. And if he was right, he would be taking a step back almost immediately, to avoid that lunge. Of course, she could prove crafty, and have anticipated he'd know enough that an opening lunge to put him on the defensive right away would be obvious. And if that was the case, she'd open with a full force overhead attack, which would definitely give her the advantage with her speed, and most likely her intent to kill him for teasing her. He'd parry, and then he'd be left open to a kick to the gut, his sword up to high to block the foot in time.
Oh, clever, he thought to himself, as he changed his grip on the hilt. A third opening move came to mind that would be much the same as the first, but instead of a kick, she could side step and hit him in the side with a well timed slice. Also clever, but would put her in range for him to grab her arm and disarm her.
Her best opening was the lunge. And now confident in what she might do, he nodded. When ever you're ready, Lady Salvo.
A blade is to be the extension of your arm, that is not my arm, so it is not my sword, she curtly returned, biting back the harsh words she could have answered his question with. It would be mute, their families rivalry an old tune that she had no interest in singing to at this moment. He was goading her, luring her to drop her guard and humiliate her for his own amusement, that was why she was here.
His taunts only confirmed it, beginning the fall of di that took hours to build steeling herself instead of letting her true emotions slip through. His arrogant confidence only infuriated her more the way he decided to coddle her, tying hilt to scabbard so his strikes would cause her no injury. Saffy merely stared as he played with the blade, Show off, scoffing lightly. Even his following jab proclaimed any injury was her own doing. Ass. Glaring silently she turned to move into a space, blade turning in her grip as she readied an appropriate response.
The invite was immediately seized upon, but the strike was feigned, the goal of the noble lady to outclass him on footwork. He’d parry, and she’d let her blade slide along his while feet side stepped into a twist appearing behind him. Her foot would raise to kick backwards, taking in the opportunity with as savage a blow she could muster, if it landed, but it didn’t, the man’s block pushing her back.
A pirouette and Saffy recovered, blade raised in a readied defence though angled unusually, breath falling as a soft pant. Even in that short bout the heaviness of his swings and strikes weren’t to be fully met, it would only take one to sweep her feet from under her and Saffy would find herself meeting the stone paving. Come on then, they said you were quick, what was that?
Malik moved with a quiet strength that spoke of how skilled he was, turning away from the back kick, even as it grazed his leg, knowing it would smart latter, but it wasn't enough to stop him from continuing. He knew it wasn't a matter of foot work, or speed -- he was battle tested, had fought against people much better than him, and still had his ass handed to him on a regular basis; that still, even he had a moment when he realized that he had underestimated just how fast she was, how unprepared he had been for the pirouette out of his grasp when he had tried to grab her to end the fight quickly after he had turned.
There had been very little back and forth in that first skirmish, very little that should have him winded, nor her panted, but his ears heard it, heard her struggle to breathe in that moment. Are you feeling alive, then, Lady Salvo? His head tilted to the side slightly as he tried to read her next moves. She was classically trained, that was for certain, and she was weaving elements of her dance practice into her moves. It made her unpredictable, he decided.
That made her dangerous to someone like him -- battle readiness didn't give one the ability to predict someone who wove different arts into one. It taught how to fight someone trying to survive, how to anticipate desperation, how to anticipate calculation.
When she taunted, he lowered his sword some, raising a brow and smirking at her. I'm of moderate pace in the ways that matter, Lady Salvo.
But as he let that flirt hang in the air, a calculated move on his part, he dropped the tip of his sword, and stepped into her space, aiming to flick the sword upwards from the wrist. So many people made the mistake of hacking with a sword, like they wielded an axe. A true swords person knew that it was all in the wrist, and so if she allowed him close enough, if he was able to move into her defense, he would tap the tip of the scabbard covered blade to that hand holding her oddly stanced sword -- if she moved, he would twist the blade to try and catch between her legs, as he turned around her, moving to get behind her.
A life of seclusion was not one Saffy was unfamiliar with. Before the night's events that had brought her to the Archon’s estate, she had spent the majority of her life within the confines of her family’s home and lands. Dancing and music had been her escape from boredom, plunging her into a world of expression and beauty that she could only hope of one day being well enough to enjoy to the full. Now older, those passions continued on, incorporating fencing was only a natural extension of it.
There was a moment he paused longer, watching her, but in a way she hadn’t caught before. Was that surprise? It quickly melted away once he moved, regaining his footing and recovering. Lips curled at one corner briefly, tutting, To dance is to live and I’ve already had an extensive session today, My Lord. He was right, her combination of the two graceful acts made her dangerous, but only if she had the intent to kill.
A flicker of disgust swept across her face with his comment. Playboy. Just like any other spoiled noble brat who felt entitled to the world at their feet. I wouldn’t call your ways, moderate, she’d snap, voice quietly hissing at him.
Allowing emotion to rear it’s head distracted her from his advance, but out of instinct, instead of retreating by step, Saffy’s drew her blade backwards. Scabbard blade missed her wrist by a hair’s breadth but the weight behind it had the young woman eventually lose the bout. His strength dwarfed hers and she strained, fighting back being forced to take a step back while his sword pressed down against hers. Still, she couldn’t let him win cleanly, foot once again aiming for the same leg she’d caught earlier as he turned away to move behind her. If contact was made it opened up the opportunity for a stand off, her blade at his neck while his… at hers.
You first. she panted, chest rising and falling with the effort of holding him back.
I assure you, Lady Salvo, they are as moderate as you will find. He followed through on the strike, the scabbard coming to her throat, even as he leaned into the her own blade, so that he was able to get his free arm down under her. She was bend back too far at an unnatural angle, and he was, even if she didn't think it, a gentleman, and would not let her come to rest in the dust. His chest heaved with the effort -- it certainly had been a short fight, but one who didn't fight could never understand it -- even a few strokes of a sword, a few moved, could turn to exhaustion. A sword fight was as much mental as it was physical. And the brief bout with someone on par with his own skill, was exhausting. In the field against the fodder that came with being a foot soldier, he would be able to mow down at least twenty or thirty people before becoming exhausted. But a single fight like this? He wasn't surprised by either of their exhaustion, either of their positions -- as much as he hated to admit it inside, she had done exceptionally well. He felt relief at that.
He hadn't thought her blade had bit into his skin, but he felt the sting long after beads of blood had started to well up along the edge of her razor sharp blade, as it rested on his skin. Ahh, no, dear one, ladies are always supposed to come fi.. He had gotten worse shaving before, it's why the cut never registered in his brain, that and the exhaustion, why he pressed further into the blade until he saw the first drop of blood fall from his neck and splatter on her cheek, the blood freezing the words in his mouth, taking the teasing expression from his face, where it had been light hearted, his features were once again ice. He drew up on his inner willpower, the strength he kept in check, to get ready to restrain her. He was dumb, he decided, as he dropped his sword to the side, grabbing her hand still wrapped around her hilt, and forcibly moving the blade away, quickly.
He could feel it in the air now, could feel his own carefully restrained tether to reality starting to pull taut, ready to snap, ready to be broken in a moment's notice, even as the next few drops from the slice along his neck welled up and dropped along her pale face, into the dirt below. Dark eyes following the blood, how easy it would be to just bend her back a little more, to let his teeth find purchase in creamy tender skin, even as he leaned down, further, intent on capturing that small rivulet of blood back with his tongue, reason and restraint gone to the window now.
His weighted strike and pressing advance eventually had her succumbing, legs folding to a crouch to then leaning back at an uncanny angle. Contorted in this way would have her eating the dust if not for his arm snaking behind her. Saffy glared indignantly, sword arm trembling with the effort of keeping his scabbard blade off her neck. Amongst her panted breaths, she could hear his heave. Curious. Had she really tested him, or was this out of frustration? The answer was unclear, leaving the young woman to lean into the most logical conclusion, she had to endeavour to hone her skills enough to best him.
He was staring and… was that a hint of a smile? Surely not. Seraphine blinked rapidly in search of an escape while keeping her body still. An impossible feat with how his touch caused her to heat up suddenly, without warning or clear reason. The words he began to speak were arranged so crassly her cheeks began to flush, her mouth opened to launch a rebuttal but as her eyes shifted the droplet budding and falling caught her eye, ensnaring her attention.
It was as if time slowed and all her previous complaints vanished the moment it splashed across her cheek. Her heartbeat… no, his heartbeat, became a thunderous boom within her mind, eyes widening as a unquenchable craving to consume it pulled a gasp from her chest. On the edge of her senses Seraphine was slightly aware of the Vrai’s body shifting, their weapons tossed aside or pulled out of reach into an iron grip. Her gaze locked on his with a ferocious intent, the usual docile, sad browns replaced by a wild, wide-eyed madness and equally terrified confusion.
It faded as he lapped at her cheek, replaced by something Saffy couldn’t quite place for the moment, but it caused the beginning of a rising panic, her breathing becoming erratic. Get. Off. Me… I can’t… I can’t… Bre… She’d give a last ditch effort to tug herself free from him before the young woman lapsed briefly into unconsciousness, her entire body falling limp, eyes rolled to the back and closed while her head wilted to one side.
The flutter of her heart beat was captivating, a siren song, calling to him so much so that he felt the surge of arousal through his body at the wildness in her calling to his, like prey, he wanted to give chase, to capture, to make his and his alone -- where ever she fled to, he would give chase -- it was as much a part of him as it was of her, and he would never be rid of it, never be rid of the rising disgust at how his body reacted to that gasp, to the erratic breathing, the flush of her cheeks. The way her pupils were blown wide even as the coppery taste of blood flooded through his system, he wasn't far enough gone that he wasn't already starting to retreat when she demanded he move, to let her go -- he had already been moving to help her upright when she became dead weight on his arm.
Seraphine.., confusion and worry slammed through his gut as he caught the young woman, letting the weapons fall to the dirt as he moved to get a leg under her back, his now free hand helping to shake her slightly. Seraphine. Honorifics were gone now, as he patted her cheek, lightly, he didn't want to see her sporting any sort of bruise the next day. A few more heart beats, and her completely lax form had him looping an arm under her legs, and pulling her upright. This was exactly why he had asked Malachai to stay in the Capitol for the next few days -- neither of them could predict how this anniversary of her name-day would be with the barrier down.
His own success at restraining himself from the maddening call of the curse was at best tenuous now that the barrier had fallen, and her own, she hadn't had incident in a long time, he had assumed she never felt the compulsion such as he had. But now the rising demand of the curse to force blood along those lips, to give her a taste because it would help ease her back into consciousness, away from the panic she had just felt, had him growling in frustration as he shouldered his way into the adjoining library, he was looking for water to dribble on her face, to help wake her back up.
He had spent too many times being smacked awake in the past that he wouldn't visit that on the woman, couldn't, so as soon as he found the crystal decanter of water, he had it in hand, and then back down to the floor with them both. Kneeling, he propped her upright, doing his best to minimize any head rolling, before he turned the decanter over on his free hand, wetting the digits for him to flick onto her face gently. Lady Salvo, it's time to wake up.. she spoke softly, as he took the cuff of his robe and removed any trace of blood that remained on her cheek. I shouldn't have pressed you so hard after your dance lessons, wake up now, Lady Salvo, I'll press you no more.
The sudden darkness was always a terrifying prospect, but this time felt different. While she lay limp in Malik’s arms Seraphine’s subconscious ran rampant as the curse attempted to rear its head. The barrier had played a part in masking the effects, subduing its hold to let her live relatively normally, unaware of the monster, the hunter, underneath. She had been told her fainting disorder had corrected itself, her past episodes of collapsing under stress now lay behind her, but with the barriers undoing it had eventually returned. This third time was different however, the unwavering craving for his blood, his destruction, almost blotting out all reason entirely while his touch, the slick lap of his tongue against her skin seemed to calm her, call out to her, and arousing her in a way that would have caused the maiden to blush darkly had she been aware.
Sickly as a child, she had been written off by her family. Her magic was nominal at best, the curse altering her ability to channel it effectively rendering her less than useless to the Salvo’s. Seraphine’s only value was to feed the rest, sate their desire for a period in which they would eradicate the Vrai. None of which the sheltered girl was ever aware of, viewing her family through a narrowly constructed lens and so, blinded by her ignorance, blamed the man she believed responsible.
Her version was fragmented, however, distorted by various scant accounts and her own blurry memory, but he had tried to kill her she was sure of it. Why should she trust the man who saw to her family’s destruction? Yet even in darkness she could sense his scent lingering, suffocating the air around her, the concern seeping from it drawing her to respond in solace, to ease the pain? This flip flop between revulsion and concern confused her, only cementing as she slowly woke.
Her eyes would flutter open slowly, disorientated she would peer around before freezing, gaze trailing up to meet his. As limp as she was, a heaviness came over her, sad eyes that were swimming with uncertainty and confusion shifted to hands gathering in her lap playing with the fabric of her robes. Defeat and irritation of her failure threatened to take root, but then the reality of their situation began to be realised. His proximity stirred something awake and after taking a deep breath Saffy attempted to suppress the purr of approval of being under his touch, against his body.
Even his words caught her off guard, stiffening to stifle the pleasurable shudder that threatened to crawl over her. No. She found him a disgusting, unfeeling brute. But he isn’t? Swallowing, she spoke softly, surprising even herself with the gentle and genuine reply, Th-. Thank you. For catching me that is. She made an attempt to move, to sit up but the petrification hadn’t abated resulting in her barely able to offer a tremble.
When her eyes finally opened, it was like the entire world was suddenly lifted from his shoulders and the relief that flooded through his limbs make them weak -- if he could have, he would have sank down into the floor with her, but for proprieties sake, he knew the rules of court, of their lives, both as captives and as heirs to their households. As much as he could feel better to pull her close, to hold her to him, tenderly, possessively, he couldn't. And the thought of such both sickened and excited him to no end. This damned curse, it was going to be his death, and probably hers too; why couldn't they take comfort in one another?
Because she knew not the full depths of fuckery that had rose up over the years, and as long as she didn't remember as much as he did about that night, he could carry it quietly, nay, silently to himself until she did. If she did, he corrected himself, cuff still caught between fingers to mop away the last trace of water from her face, content now that it, and the blood were long gone. His fingers paused with her thanks, his jaw working as he stopped himself from saying the first thing that came to mind.
Masks. Fronts that must be maintained, illusions that would have to be kept in place, while she didn't know the full extent of that night so many years ago. I wouldn't let you fall, he finally supplied, looking away as she realized that she wasn't going to be able to move for a little while. He, too, had suffered the same effects the first few attacks he had after the curse started to thrum more insistently in his veins. Even now, if he let it come too far off the care leash, he would end up still, for hours after.
He kept all this to himself, as he remained motionless there, keeping her upright. Yes, until you have your strength back.
Malik kept his eyes averted, trying to give her some semblance of privacy while she was at her weakest. As a fighter, he knew the feelings of shame and upset that could come with being weak around someone, especially someone one hated, or was subordinate to. Going to Malachai every time he felt his own world upending like that had long ago lost the sting that he had felt in the beginning. Now, Malik knew when to send word ahead, knew when to go straight to the cage in the depths of the palace. He couldn't continue to fight it alone.
And it was coming close to time that she wouldn't be able to fight it alone anymore either.
He only had four more years before the curse would turn him into a literal monster. He was running out of time to find a way out of it.. for the both of them. I would move you, but if it's muscle cramps I'm afraid it would trigger a worse one. Did you have something to drink after your workout. You shouldn't.. I shouldn't have pushed you so soon after your lessons. Forgive me for being insistent.
The usual indifference that masked her face had slipped with her lapse in consciousness, the weight of fatigue robbing the energy needed to hide. Her mind was abuzz with conflicting emotions and thoughts displaying across her face openly, a frown deepening the lines across her brow. Why did she feel like this? Why had it started happening again? Why did he stalk her shadow, as if waiting for something to happen?
Seraphine did not lack intelligence, it had to do with the blood feud, but this felt deeper than that, the connection - whatever it was - more intimate and inescapable.
She believed his answer because it made him awkward, and as expected the maiden stiffened, adjusting her gaze back on her hands. Why is this happening? What is wrong with me? because she had long given up on swallowing the repeated ‘fainting’ diagnosis for fact. People told her without saying it, something awful surely, the constant sympathetic glances began to turn acceptance into frustration. Because everyone avoided the big question.
Why had she lived?
Why would you care so much for an enemy? avoiding his gaze still, she spoke quietly, as if afraid to hear a particular answer. I’m hardly a threat to you either, my magic is nominal at best, or.. Or did… did you keep me alive out of some twisted amusement? Her face was awash with questions, searching among the endless reasons for being kept in the dark about every aspect of her life. ”You aren’t ready to know, darling. When you’re better.” But ‘better’ never came, did it, Mother? Dancing had been the only thing to keep her going and was that too to be taken from her now this ‘sickness’ had returned?
It's not twisted amusement. He said quietly as he twisted, to take the carafe of water from the table, a sender finger hooking one of the crystal glasses as he did, before turning back and handing the glass down to her. As soon as she had hold of the glass, he would pour the water from the crystal carafe into the glass, before setting it back aside. She wanted answers, and she deserved them, but he knew she wouldn't take them easily, wouldn't like what he had to say -- would probably even tell him they were false. And, he had no desire to trap her somewhere with him, once she knew what was happening. He didn't want her to feel like she couldn't be free of him the moment she knew.
He knew what that was like -- to be told of the curse and what it would eventually do to her, and have no place, no where to run too -- made all the more difficult by the fact that she literally could not move to get away if she needed to run from what he had to say. He was callous, and rude, but he was never intentionally cruel. Never to a woman, he was a gentleman after all, and he would be one, even to someone he was supposed to hate with so much vigor and fervor. It was never for twisted amusement, never t.. I couldn't kill you that night because you were a child still. I don't kill children. I balk at killing women. But children? He drew up some, looking away from her, she had been a child that night, but she wasn't a child any more. He made a frustrated sound, looking back down at her hands, shaking his head a few times. Never a child. They were too precious, too.. It was bad enough he yearned for a child of his own, or at least one to raise, the jealousy he had for Novella and her wife, their child. How badly he wanted that all for himself.
I will tell you more of the details later, as to the what, did your family never tell you of the blood curse we share? The stories my family told was that centuries ago, our families made a pact.. to meld bloodlines, to create a perfect Archon candidate, no matter how many generations it took. The magic used to make the curse was, He stopped, the hand of the arm behind her back, the one holding her up flexed once, before curling back into a fist, he didn't trust himself not to place fingers on her arm, to touch where none was welcome, so a fist he would keep for now.
Dark. Malik finally finished, dark eyes finally seeking hers out, intensely scrutinizing her own, looking for any sign of recognition, or remembrance. Had her family truly told her nothing, nothing of what would happen to them both? Darker than even I would venture into it, and I'm sure you already assume the worst of me when it comes to magic. There was no secret in the palace of him being a necromancer, he assumed she knew the extent of his reputation, and wouldn't offer more to her on that front. The next time you ask, I will tell you it all, and to seal his word, he leaned in, and gently pressed his lips to the top of her head. I swear it to you.
