cw/tw: sexual content

She was liquid warmth under his icy hand, his Llara. He felt the strange, soft smile tug at his lips as he stroked the smooth skin of her back. She was nude save for black silk stockings and on her stomach. Dark red silk covered her eyes and served as a gag. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied to her ankles. She was trussed up like some Wildling sacrifice. Had he blood that flowed through his veins, it would race at the erotic sight of her.

It wasn't that he wanted to restrain her. He wanted her to touch him, to kiss him. But she had run her fingers over his lifeless, flaccid manhood and he had felt shame like he'd never before experienced. He couldn't please her. She had, for a splinter in time, wanted him. And he had ruined it with his very nature.

No, he couldn't allow her to speak or touch him again. Not while they shared these moments together.

But he was just as cold and unmovable, passionless, as always. Her crimson hair spilled over the pillow, over her back as he touched her. She trembled and moaned. It had taken a long time to get her this way, wet and eager, hot for him. He was certain her arms were aching and hurting, but he didn't care. It was better this way. Better that she couldn't see or touch him. She had touched him the last time. Touched him in the place that made him a man. But he was just as dead there as he was everywhere else. It served as a reminder that he was no longer a man at all, but a thing. It felt like touching a scar, numb and tingling. Blood would never quicken and harden that flesh again. And thus he couldn't please her.

He desperately wanted to fuck her, his Llara. Her legs were splayed, her sex parted with his rough, cold thick fingers as he stood behind her, stooped over the bed. He could only have her this way, could only please her like this. Her hips worked against the mattress as he dipped a finger inside her. She was so wet. Tight around the digit as he drove it more deeply inside. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her arousal, thick and sweet. Ashtorath imagined taking her slim hips in his hands and driving his manhood into her wet, wanting body, drawing her up on her knees and fucking her as roughly as she could handle.

She would love him then. There wouldn't be fear or barely veiled disgust in her eyes. There would be desire. She would make a professional mistake as she had when she'd been younger. He vividly remembered their first and really only conversation. Llara Lily would fall in love with him and beg him to make her an honest woman, his wife and lady. The image was so sweet. Too sweet. He groaned and fisted his free hand in her silky hair. He yanked her head backwards. It made her back arch. How vulnerable, how warm and alive she looked.

And just as he fantasized about some sweet, happy life with her, he imagined snuffing it all out with his bare hands. Tearing her throat open with his teeth. Drinking from the font of her hot, pulsing life, crushing her. Snapping her bones. Devouring her flesh as he fucked her. And now he trembled. But not in passion, no. In restraint. He couldn't hurt her. Wouldn't. Not while he still clung to the thin threads of sanity.

She was a light in his darkness. She was cold clarity. She drove away the red haze. He felt stable, solid when he was with her. When he drank her breath and his skin was warmed by her skin. It was a small price to pay, giving her pleasure, for the priceless service she gave him. She didn't weep nor did she cower in terror before him like the other girls. She was a pillar of ivory. She was steel. Llara was the strongest woman he had ever met. For the same reasons he admired his cold and brutal half-sister Lillandyr, he admired Llara. If only fate had been kinder to her, given her more instead of taking everything.

Dimly, it occurred to him he couldn't give her much. He could give her more time, her life. But he couldn't provide much beyond that. He had wealth, but it was tied up in formalities and legalities. He was dead and thus not entitled to it. His wife and son would've been the beneficiaries, but they too were dead and gone.

But it wasn't just about what he could give her. In fact, that had very little to do with it. He didn't wish to do it out of a sense of gratefulness; it was greed. Pure and simple. He wanted to keep her, a little bird in a golden cage. As long as he had her, he thought, he would retain his sanity. She was soft and lovely, far more beautiful than his plain and plump wife, whom he'd loved very much. She was his treasure, his Llara. And he would be a miser and keep her in some room somewhere and have her any time he wished.

He could taste her skin on whim and feel her against him. Make her love him. It was the only way. The thought of her dead and lifeless excited him, he couldn't lie to himself, but then to have her wasted on sacrifice to a god he didn't even worship? Well, that was too much to bear.

A wild, wolfish grin split his cold, blue-tinged lips as he felt her come around his finger, felt the pulse and grip of her sex, felt her mouth suckle against him as he relentlessly drove his finger in and out of her sweet sex. He drew his hand away from her and drank her nectar, groaning at her taste. He wondered then which was sweeter. Her come or her blood?

Ashtorath groaned again, but now she was struggling, moaning in pain. It was just as sweet, but it wouldn't do to have her fear and hate him even more than she did already, so he snapped her bonds and jerked the gag from her mouth and the blindfold from her eyes. With predatory ruthlessness, he watched her sit up and rub her wrists. She peeked up at him, her gaze troubled, her brow furrowed.

“Today,” he told her gruffly. “Pack your things.” He smirked when she looked away as he snaked his tongue out to taste her on his fingers again. She flushed. Good.

“My things? What for?” she asked him, her voice plain. She didn't simper at him so much now. Now that she knew how much it displeased him. He despised lying and whores were the worst liars of them all. No, she was far above the rest of the rabble in the Gilded Lily. He expected better of her.

“I'm taking you from this place today. You will be mine. Mine alone.” He repeated the last bit to make sure she understood him. He wouldn't tolerate her laying with other men. The bitter jealousy that rose like bile in his soul wouldn't allow it. He'd kill her. Ashtorath made sure to give her an equally poisonous look to make sure she knew he was serious.

Llara balked and cringed away from the fearful glance. “Of course, Lord Sunmourne.”

He hardly found her bland and depressed tone suitable. He was saving her life. It seemed a smidgen ungrateful. It aroused his temper and ire in a red, angry tide and he swung his fist brutally at the wall to keep from swinging it at her. Ashtorath smashed the plaster and wallpaper until his fist was bleeding dark, black blood, and the wall had a whole the size of her head in it.

Ashtorath loomed over her so that his shadow eclipsed the light of the room and cast her trembling figure in darkness. He called her terrible names in his mind. Whore. Slattern. Filth. How dare she rebuff him so? Was death preferable?

But then he caught sight of his reflection across the room in a gilded mirror. Slowly, he turned and faced the horror of what he was. His thin, blue-tinged lips drew back from his white, sharp teeth. His eyes were wild, glittering with malevolence. I don't look like a man, he thought as he made his expression neutral and dead again. I look like a monster and she has every right to fear me.

He dragged his gaze away from his fearful, terrible reflection and looked down at his little bird. Llara trembled and cowered, her arms over her face. Chunks of plaster were in her hair and dust from the destroyed wall was about her pale shoulders. With a heaviness that felt cold and awkward, he plucked the debris from her hair and cast it away. “You will be mine,” he asserted. “You've no say in the matter.” He scowled when she flinched. “Best get used to it.”

He left then, left in a fury of self-loathing and despair. She would never love him. He supposed he shouldn't care one way or the other, but for reasons he didn't quite understand, he desperately wanted the whore with the crimson hair to love him. Adore him. He wanted her to be his lady. She was the only thing that made all of this all right. He should, he thought, tell her that, and it gave him pause. The Gilded Lily shone behind him like a jewel in a sea of filth, but he wouldn't turn back. He couldn't make his legs move. It was a weakness, what he felt for Llara. She didn't need to know how badly he needed and wanted her.

Besides, he had to go to his half-sister to make his demand. He knew the capricious Lady Shadowglade would make this difficult for him. But he wouldn't worry over it. He would do as the Lady asked and Llara would be his.

His thoughts were dark as he saw his sister's spire glittering in the lights that the Quarter cast up at it. He half wanted Lady Shadowglade to say no. Say no, he thought. Refuse me. And I will paint the Quarter red with your blood. He was glowering and clenching his fists and baring his teeth by the time he'd been ushered into Lillandyr's drawing room. He was offered a seat which he batted away. He broke the leg to the chair and only the sharp cracking sound of the wood (how like bone it sounded) drew him out of his maudlin, crazed reverie.

Lillandyr was before him, her hair wet and drawn into a severe ponytail. She wore no cosmetics and her face looked puffy, her nose red. She'd been crying – he could smell the salt of her tears – but Ashtorath knew better than to point out any weakness. The cold glitter of her bright green eyes was a challenge.

So he remained as stoic and silent as ever. He knew the woman didn't want comfort and she'd find none with him besides. His little sister was largely a mystery to him. He'd never met her in life. Only heard of her. His father had written him often and she'd been the only legitimate child he'd had. Plain and wistful, Father had described her.

Strange. She was neither. But perhaps she'd grown into her beauty and grace.

“Well?” she snapped. “What do you want, Ashtorath?”

Lillandyr glowered at him sourly. He'd likely been staring again, spacing out. His little sister clearly had no patience or tolerance and that was fine. He couldn't blame her. He noted her hand. It clasped her robe tightly just under her throat. White knuckles. She feared him. Good. It would make asking her for things that much easier.

“I wish to purchase Llara Lily's bond,” he stated matter of fact.

Lillandyr moved with her easy grace to a small couch, which she splayed out on. She was dressed immodestly in her navy silk robe and wet hair. She was very young and sometimes he wondered if she was aware of how lovely she was. But then he caught the clever, cruel gleam in her eye and knew that she must be. Another reason he respected the woman so much. She used her beauty as he used a blade.

“Who?” she asked blandly, pouring herself a glass of wine.

There was movement behind her. The dark red curtain rippled and from behind it stepped a man in black leather and a scowling, frightful mask. The figure placed his long-fingered hands on her shoulders. Lillandyr didn't even startle. “One of your whores at the Gilded Lily, my glittering Serpent,” the man said, his voice a musical purr. “In a few weeks she will be a sacrifice for Baellith, as her time has drawn to its end.”

Lillandyr nodded and sipped at her drink. She eyed Ashtorath curiously. “I'm afraid, then, that I can't possibly sell her. She's too valuable. I know you have vast wealth, brother, but even you cannot afford her.” A small smile played at the corners of her lips and conveyed only her cold malice.

Ashtorath frowned, the lines of his face etched even more deeply. “How much?” he demanded.

The smile on his sister's lips soured and she eyed him over. “You are slipping, Ashtorath, aren't you? Has the madness come for you already?” She taunted him, and he felt like smashing everything in her room. Including her. “The signs are all there. Fixating, Obsessing. Staring.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “How much?” He refused to be distracted.

Lillandyr closed her eyes and mmm'd as the masked man rubbed her shoulders. Eyes, sharp and cruel, sparkled behind the mask. “Lord Sunmourne, we believe the Lady insinuates that Llara Lily is not for sale.” His voice was melodic and rich, and very, very mocking. He could see his sister's shoulders stiffen. She knew better than to arouse his ire.

Batting away her masked servant's hands, Lillandyr sat up stiffly on the couch. She set her wine glass aside and peered up at him. “Brother, she is promised to Baellith. You would have me insult a god for your whimsy?” Her tone was serious this time, not mocking. Her brow pinched. She was, as far as Ashtorath could tell, being genuine.

He folded his arms behind his back, his metal armor clanging and scraping plate over plate. He paced. His footfall was heavy, and little crystal lamps and set-arounds clinked when he walked. He paused and looked at his sister and her menacing, masked servant. “What would satisfy your god, sister? Name it. Your god will have it in abundance.”

Lillandyr quirked a dark, sculpted brow and shrugged her narrow shoulders. She waved a hand that was deceptively fragile looking. Ashtorath knew better than to underestimate his half-sister. Delicate and lovely though she may be, she was also lethal and cunning. “Bring me three to take her place. Young. Beautiful. This will please Baellith.” She looked him over, a bemused smirk curling her lips. “And if you defile them first, brother, do it in the flesh god's name. Not your god of death. No. If you hurt them, do it for Baellith.” She rose from her seat and scooped up her glass. Lillandyr headed back to her curtained room, her inner sanctum where few were allowed. The masked man trotted merrily after her.

She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Baellith enjoys pain just as much as he enjoys pleasure.” Another cruel, cold smile and she was gone.

He waited, watching. There was movement in her room and baleful, yellow, glowing eyes. A serpentine hiss followed and the sound of scales sliding over marble, which was a soft, swishing noise. Ashtorath frowned darkly. Were he still living, he wouldn't abide his sister to live. She consorted with strange magics and demons. But in his current state he had few scruples left. Who was he to judge, after all, when he feasted so often on blood and flesh and the marrow of bones? When he had become a nightmare story to scare little children? When he was a butcher of women?

Dimly, Ashtorath was aware that this was a lot of trouble to go to for a whore who was past her prime. He knew that he could trade three women for any of the lovely girls in the Gilded Lily, but no, it wouldn't be the same. Only Llara would do.

Do I love her? he wondered as he made his way out of the Quarter and then out of the city proper. He trudged through the hilly graveyard, running his cold, dead fingers over the tombstones. “No,” he murmured. No, because he couldn't love. He had to believe that was the case. For if he could love then he could hate, and if he could hate, how could he let himself continue on?

No. She was merely a stopgap; she was a tool and a device. She was a light in the dark of his gnawing, encroaching madness. Nothing more. Nothing less. Love had nothing to do with it.

But he felt unsettled. He felt. And he supposed that was enough to bother him. As the cold air of the Wastes and the Wildling Wood whipped at his hair and cloak, he shook off these questions. He had work to do.

Ashtorath understood what he was doing was largely treason. Two years ago he frequently led war parties into the Wood to capture women and men. The Flesh Temples were always hungry and the Imperial Quarter always had need for slaves, gladiatorial or for pleasure. But it had incited too much rage with the Wildlings. And it had given them purpose. Before, they only retaliated in fits and starts, but as he had pointed out to the Emperor, when they had living relatives and loved ones in the City proper, well, nothing would stop them. So in a massive, grand sacrifice, they took all the Wildling slaves and beheaded them at once. They burned the bodies in the Flesh Temples and then mounted their heads on pikes. Ashtorath had glutted himself on the tender flesh of their women.

Since then it had been forbidden to steal Wildling captives. But his sister had said three must take Llara's place and he couldn't very well kill his own people, which would be a disaster – not that he was opposed to the act itself out of some misguided patriotic nonsense.

So he stalked the woods. Deep, deep into the Wildling Wood he plodded. He didn't take a horse, and besides, horses were generally not fond of Unquenched and it made them spook easily. There were a handful of undead steeds, but they had to be purchased from the Speaker of Nehmain. And Seralah Bloodhaven lived and ruled in the Underground. Her favor was not easy to garner and he simply didn't have the time. Thus he would walk.

The moon was high as he waded through the underbrush. He knew that the first encampment of Wildlings was close by. He smelled their cook fires and saw their torchlight through the thick copses of trees. He knew that he would run into their patrols and watchmen before he'd find himself toe to toe with one of their women. Not that the women sat idle while the men defended, no. The women were fierce warriors in their own right, but typically the women looked after their young and he was certain that this encampment was no different from the rest.

Too late, Ashtorath heard the zing of the arrow whistling through the air. There was a twinge, but he couldn't really call it pain as the arrow found purchase in his throat. Agitated, Ashtorath yanked it out. He stalked to the scraggly underbrush from where he thought the arrow had come, as he snapped the shaft in two with his bare hands. It was slick with his blood and he'd have to be seen by necromancers again, but he hadn't expected to come through this unscathed.

Ashtorath tore through the brush, pulling up plants by the roots, snarling. He could smell the blood and fear of his target. It was a boy, barely a man. The boy fumbled with his arrow, tried to notch it, but Ashtorath's very presence caused him to tremble in fear and he floundered. It gave Ashtorath enough time to stake out a big, thick hand and wrap it around his throat. He crushed the boy's windpipe first – couldn't have him raising alarm. Then he leaned in and tore at the dying lad's face with his sharp, vicious teeth. He chewed on the fleshy part of his cheek and devoured his lips. He left the boy twitching and bleeding at the base of a tree.

He was not subtle or careful. A large, lumbering beast of a man like him had no stealth. His armor was meant to withstand siege weapons and thus was not built for silence. He tromped through the brush and broke into the camp.

Unable to be certain how many were there, he swung at the first attacker. He was fortunate that his blind pawing hit the man. He took the flailing Wildling down, tearing into his dark skin and dashing his head against the ground, until bone bit at his fingers and brain spattered over his arm. Someone was on his back and he snatched at long, tangled hair. A woman. Good. He smashed his heavy, plated fist against her temple and, though it took great restraint, he managed not to further damage her. She lay unconscious as he loomed over her. One.

A baby cried, bright and sweet in the cold night. He wondered, briefly, if the woman he'd just clubbed was its mother. It didn't matter. Slowly, he turned. Four women, two of them very young, whose bare chests had nothing worth noticing. Three men. One of them a boy. Good.

The Wildlings shouted, trying to raise alarm perhaps, trying to call more brothers and sisters to them. Their cries, the stink of their fear, and the copper tinge of blood, brought his madness to the fore.

He tried to remember himself. Tried to keep calm enough not to tear all the woman to pieces. The men were dead already and their gore and viscera spattered his chest and stomach, gleaming lurid crimson in the moonlight. He snapped their bones and opened their skulls. He made a feast of their stinking, snot-slick entrails. Their blood steamed in the air and he moaned in pleasure. This was better than Llara. Better than delving his fingers into her sopping heat. Nothing was better than eating the flesh of the writhing, screaming living.

Time left him, consciousness abandoned him. He was a thing, a dead husk animated by sheer malice and hunger. It was not slumber. It was not a dream. It was like, he presumed, being truly dead. When he “woke” he had a young woman's tongue in his mouth like some twisted, macabre kiss. She was under him, alive but bleeding out. Useless. One of the younger girls, now wholly unsuitable for sacrifice.

Other than moaning and gurgling and the wind, the camp was quiet once more. A fire crackled in the center and he stood, lifting the girl by the throat. He cradled her to him and turned, looking at what he'd done as he sank his shark-sharp teeth into her throat. He chewed and drank until she twitched and died and he saw that somehow, in his madness, he had saved three women. They were all unconscious. One of them was missing her right arm at the elbow. The other was missing her upper lip. But they were alive and that's what mattered.

Ashtorath tied them, lashing wrists and ankles with leather cords as he muttered prayers to Baellith. He named this slaughter for the Flesh God and dragged his captives, bleeding and groaning away to their fate in the grand, glittering city of Belshalara.

He took his captives to the Flesh Pits near the Temple and handed them over to the guards and priests. The men who greeted him looked dubious and disgusted, but he didn't have time, nor did he care about their opinions.

It was still before midnight as he made his way to the Gilded Lily. People skittered away from him, recoiling. He snapped and snarled at a few onlookers, which sent them yipping and gasping. Served them right. He was no side-show to be gawked at.

As per usual, he didn't knock on the heavy, gilded doors. He pushed them open. Only now was he aware of his reek, inside the perfumed walls of the whore house. Blood and gore was washed over his armor, his face. He could feel it, sticky and cold now. He smelled like a slaughterhouse. Raw and stinking.

The sight of him made a few women weep. One screamed.

“Llara,” he barked. “Bring her to me!”