TW/CW: Sexual content

Ashtorath never slept, but he did dream. This night he dreamed of a little Wildling girl with hair the color of a fiery sunset. He could still smell her fear, taste it on his tongue, copper and salt. She was all lanky limbs, skinny and pale like the moon. Her eyes had been the color of a lake in winter, deep, deep navy blue. He could not keep the dream from wheeling to its inevitable conclusion. He would kill the girl, as he did every single time.

Many thought that when the Pale Witch released her control over the Unquenched that they were “safe.” He'd killed that little girl only a year ago. And now, instead of the little girl haunting his head, it was that courtesan. Llara. She had the same shade of red. Copper and wine curls. Her beauty and calm struck him deeply. His madness wanted her smooth skin and blood. The man he'd been once desired her flesh too, but not to hurt, no.

He stood with his brothers, blinking himself out of his waking dream. It clung like cobwebs to his thoughts, warm and soft. He tried to brush them away knowing they'd only bring him pain or madness. They were rebuilding the earth and stone wall the Wildlings had dismantled. It gave him no small measure of pause when he realized he'd been holding a large stone for a very long time. Just staring. Unmoving. Dreaming while awake. It didn't bode well for the condition of his mind, and more than a few of his brothers cast him knowing looks.

There had been other signs he was slipping. His blood rages lasted longer and longer. Devouring flesh didn't sate him as long as it formerly had. The memories of his ill deeds flooded his thoughts and it was beyond his control now to stop it. Even now, he kept seeing Llara the courtesan and that little girl. He looked down at his hands. They shook and trembled.

Ashtorath closed his eyes and he prayed to Turtih. Let him see more battle. His debt was not yet paid. Without word, without making excuses, he left his brothers. He walked to the Lost Quarter, which was outside the City. The Lost Quarter was a tall rise of earth. Steep and winding. Tombs and gravestones covered the hill. Thousands and thousands of them. A good many of them were so eroded the names could no longer be read. It was a place kept by magic. The air was always warm and wet no matter what time of year it was. It smelled of earth, ripe and rich. Pyre flies danced between the graves, lighting them in fiery greens and blues. Hanging oil lamps cast flickering, golden shapes over the craggy earth.

Up and up. She was near the top. He was careful as he picked his way towards her. The newer graves crested the north face of the hill. At the top were the seventeen golden spires rising fifteen feet above the rest. The former Emperors of Belshalara. They were always buried amongst the common folk. The tradition said it was because they had served the people, so let them be with those they so loved in death.

It made him sick. No Emperor ever cared beyond his own wealth and power. The common man of Belshalara suffered and starved. His half-sister was the only noble he could stand. In life, he had been born of the union of Lord Ithyn Shadowglade and Helitha, a famous courtesan. Bastard born, he was given land and a wife. He was told to get her fat with his sons. And so he had. He'd always been a man of duty. But there had been no love for his father. All his father had given him was the name “Sunmourne,” the name all his bastards had, and the land he had once worked and tilled before his death.

Lillandyr, for all her self-seclusion and haughty manners, held many secrets. Only Ashtorath knew. She would press bags of coin into his hands and send him to Cannery Row. Or even Red Row in her own Quarter. He would give the coin to whores without houses. Lepers. Beggar children. Lillandyr quietly shared her wealth with the destitute in her own Quarter. She would never tell anyone, he knew. She did this because something in her was good, perhaps the only thing about Marquis Shadowglade that was. Thus he held a soft spot for her. It had stayed his hand several times when he thought only of striking her lovely head from her shoulders.

There. Her stone was streaked from a recent rain. Gilliana Sunmourne, beloved wife. Turtih Sunmourne, honored son. He'd had them buried together. His hand still trembled as he placed it on the stone and breathed the few words that would activate the spell. Shimmering in the air at eye level was a wavering image of two skeletal remains. A larger one curled around a smaller one. It always wounded him to know they were naught but bones now, but then the magic wove flesh and hair over them until his wife and infant son only looked as if they were sleeping.

He wondered sometimes what they had seen when he'd come to kill them. He had been freshly dead and newly raised. Shambling and near mindless. Bloodied.

He remembered the look of terror in his wife's eyes.

His son's cry as he dashed his skull against the wall of his house.

Ashtorath jerked his hand away from the stone and the pain tore at him. It fed his madness and hunger. But he knew giving in would not sate it. It wouldn't make the pain stop. Nothing save the final death would bleed that from him. And he hoped that there was no forgiveness in death. He hoped that whatever hell took his soul tormented it exquisitely for what he'd done.

Raw, he began to sing. At first it was the sound of a ghost's sighing. His soul was thin and tired and it held no strength. But it soothed him and tasted bittersweet. Gilly had loved his singing. Loved him. Her hands had been soft, her hair smelled like summer sun and the sweetness of her. It ached him fiercely. As he sang, he remembered her laying on the floor, blood seeping into her golden hair.

Crimson locks.

Llara.

Panic washed over him and he wasn't sure why. He touched the grave stone again and said the words. It was the same, the same sleeping mother and child. He closed his eyes in relief, but when he looked again, the sad, drawn face of the courtesan greeted him. She needed... she wanted... her lips were softly parting and –

He snarled and had to take several steps back so that he wouldn't dash his big fists against the stone. Let them rest in peace, he told himself. You killed them, is that not enough? You shouldn't even be allowed these visits, you monster, he told himself until grief tore him to pieces.

Wind, too warm and scented with moldering death, whipped at his long, long hair, nearly tore his cloak from his shoulders. He felt like a creature possessed. He had to see the woman. The courtesan. He wanted to touch her. Feel her warmth. Smell her hair. He couldn't explain what came over him, only that her unassuming demeanor and soft voice that held so much iron strength drew him. If he held any fancy for her at all, he told himself, he'd let her be. She didn't need a monster at her door. He closed his eyes again, resolved not to see her.

But when he opened his eyes, he'd lost more time and his feet had carried him deep into the Flesh Quarter. He couldn't remember the guards or what he'd said. The last thing he remembered was brushing his cold fingers over his wife and son's grave. He was standing, stiff and still over a golden flower on the street. With ice dread crawling in his guts, Ashtorath raised his gaze to the towering gold and crimson of the Gilded Lily. The perfume of the place whispered to him like a wanton woman, warm and sweet.

Ashtorath had coin. Coin enough to buy her.

But what would he do with her? He was barely a man anymore. No amount of writhing and touching would ever quicken his flesh again. It was dead. And the desire should be dead with it. Oddly, it wasn't, and all he could think of was her fiery hair and slender throat. Her delicate skin. Her painted lips. He wondered if she would refuse him.

If she would weep when he touched her. Ran his tongue –

He found himself inside the building, the doors hanging wildly off their hinges. He'd broken them open. He held a golden knob in his hand. Dropping it to the carpet, he saw the fear on the faces of the women. They were wide-eyed with terror. It fouled the air, their fear. He didn't want fear. He wanted desire. Most of them crowded together in little huddles, holding each other. Has he come for me? their eyes said.

Ashtorath wondered, as he turned in a slow, deliberate circle, if any of the other girls would do, as he didn't immediately see Llara.

No. They were vapid. They'd trembled before him, but she had held her chin high. So brave. The woman with the soft, sad eyes and the mane of fire. Ashtorath had to taste her. Touch her. Just once. Just once to feel alive again. To feel like a man, not a monster. It would be a bright shaft of light in his darkness. If he were truly losing himself to madness, he wanted that sweetness before the end. He wanted soft fingers along his skin. To feel her warmth and know the softness of a woman again.

He shrugged off a guard and sent the armored man toppling into an end table. Dimly, he heard the women screaming. He supposed he'd best allay their fears. Holding up one broad hand, he took out his coin purse with the other. “Llara,” was all he said.

The room went silent. Fear and confusion. A tall, slender woman with ash blonde hair and a severe face approached him hesitantly. “May I ask,” the woman began meekly, her tone mousey. He hated it. He wanted to dash her head against a rock. “What you're doing here again, Lord Sunmourne? I had thought that nasty business was all over and done with yesterday.” She kept her gaze lowered and she trembled. He snarled, desperately wanting to strike her.

He felt it coming over him, the rage and the hunger. He knew, rationally knew, that he should leave. He should run. He was going to kill them. All of them. Rip the women and the guards and clients to shreds with his bare hands. And then? They'd put him down like a rabid animal. Darkness was crowding and tunneling his vision.

A vicious, cruel smile curled his blue-tinged, bloodless lips. “Why... am I here?” he asked, echoing her question. He dropped the purse of coins to the floor. The head Mistress's gaze fell to the ground with the coins. “I'm here for the same reason as any other man. I want to see a whore.” He paused, sneering, silently daring them to disobey him. The door creaked, hanging listlessly on its hinges. “Llara Lily. Bring her to me.”

No one moved. His fury built, the furnace inside him stoked until everything narrowed down to a pinpoint. He stepped forward, fingers like claws as he reached for the Head Mistress's throat. A few frantic looks were exchanged with the guards and then the woman nodded and wisely hurried away from him, taking his money. He didn't care. Let her have it all. Just bring him that woman. He had to have her. Now. Now. Now. He didn't realize it, but drool hung from his lip, slicking the front of his dark armor. His sharp teeth were clenched and his big hands were curled into tight fists. The guards were ushering women into other rooms, locking the doors. As if that would stop him should he want to devour them all.

He smelled her first. Like honeysuckle. Warmth and life and femininity. The scent of her throbbed through him and he trembled. He turned and was immediately struck by how afraid he was. He was certain he was going to kill her. Tear out her throat.

But then he saw her.

She stood, more conservatively dressed than most of the other whores. Her hair was pulled up in a demure bun, a few scarlet tendrils escaping to kiss around her lovely, oval-shaped face. She didn't look aging to him; she looked like some old painting from a softer, gentler time. “Llara Lily,” he said. His voice was the avalanche down a mountain, rumbling and cold. She flinched.

She had a smile that looked painted on: it didn't reflect in her wide eyes. Her fingers trembled. He saw them before she clasped her hands behind her back. The room they stood in was garishly decorated. Crimson and gold. Violet satins and velvets. Too much color. But it all washed to gray and black before the woman with the shock of red, red hair. She was the only color in all the world. Llara Lily. He repeated the name in his mind like a prayer to a hungry and greedy god.

It took the woman a long time to react under his scrutiny. Her lips curled into another plastic smile as she dipped into a low curtsy. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Sunmourne.”

Lies, he thought with a sneer. Before she could utter another single, dishonest syllable, his big hand curled around her slender upper arm. She made a small, strangled sound of pain. He knew he was squeezing too tightly. But it was better than breaking her jaw so she couldn't lie to him any longer. Red misted his vision with sparks. Ashtorath was far too angry to be rational and he knew that too. A small voice inside him urged him to run, leave her and this place before someone got seriously hurt, but he drowned the voice in rich and vibrant desire dressed all in red.

He yanked the woman after him. With a large, plated boot, he kicked open the first door that he encountered, pivoting to his right and slamming the metal boot against the wood. Two women scuttled, naked, back against the cushions, the flush of pleasure draining from their faces as they screamed. Occupied.

Ashtorath moved down the hall and tore open two more doors before he found a room that was empty. It wasn't even a bedroom, but that didn't matter. He didn't need a bed. Ashtorath released Llara with a shove. Stumbling away from him, she quickly regained her balance and with it her near effortless grace and poise. Unflappable. She had no idea how he admired it. Admired her. She stood in the face of a raging monster and she didn't bend nor quail. She stood tall and straight as a reed. She was beautiful. He wished, with a sudden, stinging ache, that he were a mortal man. Not just mortal, but a good man, too. For he was neither of those things now and she would not enjoy this.

Barely repressing a shudder, he watched her stand there, unreachable. Watched her lie with her very posture and neutral, pleasant expression. No. He couldn't bear to see it. “Take off your clothes,” he instructed, his booming, rumbling voice cold, direct and impersonal. He took some satisfaction then as her mask slipped a little and there was disobedience and confusion in her gaze. Her hands stayed at her sides a moment too long. “Now,” he added, sounding as authoritative as always.

He supposed it was her training that she relied on now as she stripped for him. She moved sensually with practiced ease and grace. She made an art of taking off her clothes. The straps of her dress slid down her pale shoulders, and she moved to music that he couldn't hear, the beat of life and lust, and she was sublime. Never in all his life and the state of limbo of dead flesh had he ever wanted a woman so badly.

They were in a storage room. It was full of dresses on racks. Rows and rows of jewel-colored silks and glittering gems. Feather fans and tassels. The smell of stale perfume was cloying in the small room. With a practiced ease of his own, Ashtorath unbuckled the straps that held on his thick, black spiky armor. Without care, he let it clatter and clash to the floor and watched Llara jump and fidget every time he did so. She wore very little now, just the soft kiss of black lace over her breasts and sex.

She pulled the golden pin from her hair and her long, curling crimson locks spilled down around her face and shoulders. Entranced, he forgot himself and neared her, brushing his plated hand down her arm. Flinching away, she couldn't completely hide the fear and disgust in her eyes at the sight of him. “Face the wall!” he snarled. He couldn't take her lies. Stumbling in her haste, her disgust and her fear, those things were real. She couldn't hide away her trembling and the way she smelled. He could almost taste the blood just under the thin veneer of her skin, the electric salt tang of her terror.

Her back was smooth, though he resisted the urge to touch it as he wanted to. Unable to trust himself not to tear at her skin, Ashtorath remained where he was dressed only in the leathers he wore under his armor. He could feel her warmth wash over his cold, scarred skin. “Don't speak,” he said, his deep baritone harsh, a growling snap of words against her ear. “Stand still.”

And so he lost himself to staring into the soft curls of her crimson hair, let his bare fingers drink in the taste of her hips, the swell of her backside. She was unbearably soft. Vulnerable. Lovely. His. The very thought of another man having her nearly ended all this. But he kept a tight rein on his anger.

The room was quiet, muffled by all the fabric and dresses lining the walls. All Ashtorath could hear was Llara's measured breathing and the frantic racing of her pulse. It was a delicious juxtaposition. She couldn't hide all her dishonesty. He brushed his fingers through her hair, pushing it over one shoulder. He tasted her skin with a long, cool lave of his tongue. She was life and spring. She was all he was not. Her colors were golden and red and she was a light in the darkness. And so he bathed in this light. He washed his shabby and tired soul in her until it was drenched. Until it burned him and tore at him, but it was all right.

Ashtorath stared and breathed her in for hours. He did this until dawn pinked the sky. Oh, it was madness he lost himself in, but not the kind that would eventually end him and consign him to a thoughtless wretch doomed to do little else but hunger and feast. He was aware and happily lost. He let himself drift in her warmth. With a growling groan of pleasure, Ashtorath dragged his lips over her rounded shoulder up to her pointed ear. “I will come again... for you, my Llara,” he murmured. There was an edge to this. It wasn't sweetness; it wasn't the soft promise of a lover.

Oh no.

It was a threat.

In a flurry of furious, sharp movement, he strapped his armor back on his hulking, patchwork-scarred body. He kept a hand on the back of her head while he dressed, pressing her cheek hard to the velvet flocked wall paper. “Do not turn around until you are certain I am gone.”

With a last stroke of his fingers through her hair, he left. The brothel was utterly silent, like a gilded tomb.

No one saw him out. And in the gray, predawn hours, Ashtorath returned to his brothers.