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astaryss · 8 months

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Discipline bid him go no further. Renathal swept it ruthlessly aside. There was no reason not to take what he wanted now. Elisewin would soon be gone. The least they both deserved was to enjoy themselves before the end. Read on Ao3 here. Warning: M-Rated smut.

Renathal sat in his trousers and shirtsleeves in one of the little-used chairs by the unlit fireplace in his bedroom, waiting for Breakfist to arrive and turning his medallion over in his hands, wondering if there was any point in wearing the useless thing to court at all.

He liked to think he controlled the other Harvesters as much through his own abilities as his Master’s imparted magic, but he could not deny the Medallion of Dominion had always helped keep the more unruly Venthyr in line. A slight lean into its irresistibly imperious power could stop the Fearstalker and the Stonewright coming to blows; the Countess circulating some vindicative rumour; the Tithelord pocketing unattended anima rubies. The ethics of this might unsettle the likes of the Accuser, but Renathal slept just fine. It was his job, after all, and, unlike many Harvesters over the eons, he had never used his powers for personal gain.

Although...

He toyed idly with the fine, filigreed gold and imagined how different things might be with Elisewin if this were a rule he was willing and able to bend. He did not think it was coincidence keeping her from him the last few days. Since her nightmare, she had refused to remain long in any room Renathal entered and always had a ready reason to excuse herself from conversations he attempted to engage. Embarrassed at her display of weakness, or the unintended misconduct it had birthed, Renathal supposed; and with court preparations the top priority of all Darkwall Tower, he had permitted her behaviour to pass without comment. But it rankled him, nonetheless.

Might a gentle pressure from the medallion - so light in his hands now its reservoir was depleted - have persuaded her back to his side? Allowed them to resume that comfortable companionship he relied on to stave off his more dangerous cravings? Perhaps not. Perhaps the mortal flesh preventing her soul from being harvested also possessed the ability to resist even the Master's dominating power.

Hypnotised by his own aimless train of thought and the glint of the dull purple jewel in his room’s dim candlelight, Renathal heard the soft, tentative knock only distantly, and called “Enter, Breakfist,” without registering its implications. The click of unfamiliar shoes jerked him from his reverie. He twisted in his seat, caught sight of the figure in the open doorway, then shot up with an alacrity that sent the chair tumbling backward onto the hearth.

“Breakfist is busy, Your Highness,” said Elisewin, closing the door behind her and politely failing to notice the clatter of wood on brick and Renathal’s muttered oath as he hastily righted the chair. “There is some sort of last-minute disaster in the kitchens. He was quite frantic about it, and since I’m little use with food, I volunteered to come and… assist you in his stead.”

There was a stilted, formal note to her usual impassivity, and she stood awkwardly just inside the room, the door at her back, as if reluctant to venture any deeper inside. But Renathal barely noticed her nuances of demeanour. His eyes were busy adjusting to the sight of her new and entirely unexpected attire.

"Where did you get that dress?" he asked, the question staggering between astonishment and awe.

Elisewin blinked, then looked down at herself.

"The wardrobe," she said simply. "It's quite lovely, thank you." Her fingers traced the corset's bronze buckles and trailed into the swell of red satin skirts beneath. "Mind you, it did take two dredgers to help fasten me into it, but it’s surprisingly easy to move about in once it's on, and…" She glanced up at Renathal, violet pinpricks glowing on her cheekbones. "It's a perfect fit."

That was obvious. From the hem that fell just above the top of her brocade boots to the graceful, gold, winged shoulder ornaments positioned precisely not to scrape her pointed ears, every inch of the ensemble looked as if it had been tailored to Elisewin's exact mortal specifications. Which made it all the more perplexing.

"You say you found this in your wardrobe?" asked Renathal, his words as uncertain as his steps as he made his way towards Elisewin, dropping his medallion carelessly onto the chiffonier as he passed.

"Yes," she replied, warily watching his approach. "I... assumed you left it for me to wear?"

"Ah."

It was not really an answer. But Renathal had no answer. He had not left her a dress, specifically commissioned or otherwise, and he could not think why one should be there. He could barely think at all. He reached Elisewin before he realised, standing far too close than strictly proper, but reluctant to retreat and unable to tear his eyes from the entrancing sights: her dark hair in its elegantly arranged high pile, the little red jewel set against black lace fastened around the exposed skin of her throat, the plunging neckline that clung to the swell of her breasts as if painted on...

…until Elisewin coughed, a little pointedly, and waved a dubious hand at the dress form on which Renathal’s armour waited.

“Shall I help you into your armour, Your Highness?" she asked. “I... would not want to make you late for your own court.”

Renathal closed his eyes briefly and wrestled his thoughts, a tangled knot of confusion and desire, back to firmer, safer ground. Court was the top priority now. All other mysteries could be dealt with later.

“Of course,” he conceded. "Come. I will... guide you through the process," and, with the faintest of audible sighs, Renathal steeled himself for what he was sure would be a most exquisite torture.

He was not disappointed.

Besides the anticipated cruelties of long, warm fingers pressed firmly to various parts of him - his back, his chest, his upper arms, his lower stomach where fiery anima pooled and every fibre of Renathal's being was required to keep his body's natural responses in check - there was something highly sensual about watching Elisewin handle his armor. Her hands moved across each green and gold piece of plate with easy grace, positioning them precisely, and almost before he had issued instructions - exactly as they did not when wielding a duelling rapier. Half in curiosity and half to distract himself from the sight of her sinking to her knees to affix his tassets, Renathal remarked:

"This is not your first time working with plate, I see."

“It is that I recall,” Elisewin contradicted absently. "But I suppose I may have done it before and just cannot remember."

There was none of the morose frustration that usually accompanied such admissions. She lapsed back into studious silence, wholly focused on his legs, and Renathal searched frantically for another distraction. His eyes fell on his medallion, abandoned atop the chiffonier. Moving carefully so as not to upset her work, he reached for the simple gold chain and slipped it over his head. Light though it now was, something about its familiar feel against his chest plate strengthened Renathal’s sagging self-control.

"What is that?" asked Elisewin, rising and straightening her rumpled skirts.

“The Medallion of Dominion,” he answered, pleased to hear his voice resonate with well-composed pride. “My allotted portion of the Sire’s power. Each Harvester is given one to assist in the execution of their duties.”

Elisewin eyed the unassuming purple gem.

“It has powers?”

“Well. Usually,” Renathal admitted. “But the drought has required sacrifices from us all. I am afraid the medallions’ powers are… not what they once were. But I have never attended court without wearing it before. I should feel quite naked without it.”

Elisewin ducked her head abruptly, ostensibly adjusting the drape of her skirts, but with her hair pulled back off her face she could not hide her creeping violet blush. Renathal turned tactfully away, allowing her time to recover, and inspected the reflection of his irrepressibly smug smile in the mirror of the chiffonier.

This was no expertly crafted, anima-imbued Venthyr creation, but a slightly warped mortal looking-glass, acquired from the Night Market epochs ago and chosen specifically for the way it lent Renathal’s torso a slightly more generous breadth. He admired it for a few satisfied seconds, then flicked his gaze to the image of Elisewin straightening up behind him, and wondered if the dark, almost hungry glint in her blue-white eyes as she appraised him was simply another trick of the imperfect glass.

Immoderately pleased regardless, he gestured towards the door and announced, "Shall we?" at the same time Elisewin blurted, "Shall I do your hair, Your Highness?"

For a few frozen heart beats, each stared at the other through the safe medium of the wobbly glass. All Renathal's smugness had evaporated. Even Elisewin's impassivity seemed to quiver at the edges. In the end, it was Renathal who found his tongue first.

“What would you do it?”

“Oh...” Elisewin blinked. Apparently, she had not expected this response. “I... don't know.” The red jewel in the hollow of her throat quivered as she swallowed, then reached up to run a cautious hand through the long, loose strands of pale hair cascading down Renathal's back. “Is there anything you would prefer? Something... elegant? Impressive?”

She pronounced the words like questions, as if the Dark Prince might be above such frivolous concepts. He was not. But Renathal knew he would have agreed to almost anything to keep her touching him just like that.

"Surprise me," he heard himself say, and allowed Elisewin to lead him to his vacated chair by the fireplace and ease him gently down.

And if having her dress him had been torture, this was a punishment worthy of the Sire himself. And one Renathal knew he deserved, for how easily it could - and should, he berated himself - have been avoided. But once Elisewin sank warm fingers into the mass of hair across his scalp, stroking gently as she parted and gathered, all thought of courts and resolutions and time itself drifted away, and it was all Renathal could do to keep himself from moaning aloud.

When was the last time anyone had touched him like this? Soft and sweet and unassuming, entirely free of hostile machination or unpleasant ulterior motive? He let his eyes flutter closed, forgetting to affect even the slightest breath as he tilted his neck, offering himself up to un-self-conscious pleasure, until - far too quickly - the fingers ceased their work, and a throaty voice murmured in his ear, "There. See what you think, Your Highness."

Renathal rose and followed Elisewin to the chiffonier, his movements steady but perception hazy, as if he had stepped into the realm of dream. A sensation compounded by the unusual reflection staring back at him from the mortal mirror: his yellow eyes gone anima-red with heat, his pinched features relaxed and cast slightly into shadow by the raised and intricate braid adorning the top of his head like a crown, the rest of his hair falling gracefully about his noticeably less-tense shoulders. It was almost, realised Renathal, the reverse of the Master's signature hairstyle. He wondered if Elisewin had done that on purpose. He wondered many things about her as he caught the eyes of her reflection again, even darker than before.

“Do you like it?”

"I..." In his dream-like state, it took Renathal a minute to sift through his store of words and find an appropriate sentiment. "I am... immensely pleased. Thank you… Elisewin." The little compulsive blush at his use of her name made Renathal's lips twitch. "Perhaps, we ought to make this one of your regular tasks."

The mirror caught a brief glitter of blue-white fire as Elisewin's eyes glowed at his reflection, then paled just as quickly. Renathal wondered if she, too, battled a set of conflicting emotions at the thought of repeating this scene every day.

But her response - "As you command, Your Highness," - was demure and devoid of undercurrent. And with a short dip of her head, Elisewin stepped backwards, redrawing inscrutability around herself like a cloak. “I should check in with Breakfist, now. Guests will be arriving shortly. I will see you in the courtyard, Your Highness.”

Renathal waited until the door clicked closed behind her, then counted to ten - then ten again, when his simmering anima had not quite settled - before following her out the door and down the passage at a more dignified pace.

As he walked, he made a concerted effort to corral his wildly racing thoughts about his mortal: her unexpected talents, the mysteries that seemed to spring up in her tread, her recent reticence to be alone with him compared with her surprising eagerness to serve. These were all intriguing topics due long and serious contemplations, but they would keep until later. Renathal could not afford to be distracted.

He had a court to host.

Harvester's Courts were a time-honoured Revendreth tradition, a chance for the busiest and most heavily burdened of the Venthyr to relax, mingle, and entertain - or impress - their peers. Court offerings differed depending on the unique style of the hosting Harvester: the Fearstalker's, a hunt; the Stonewright's, feats of martial strength; the Countess', a generous sampling of lascivious activities; and the Accuser's, some staid, formal, and traditional - in other words, dull - display.

The Dark Prince had developed a reputation for offering a court that catered to every taste. The atmosphere was lively, but refreshing, the provided entertainments interactive and accessible. Guests were handpicked by the Prince and chosen for their expertise, conversation, or charm - the Sire himself could often be seen in attendance. There was music and dancing in the Tower's modest ballroom; fencing demonstrations and occasional duelling tournaments, outside. Food was a quaint addition at which the other Harvesters initially sneered, but which had become quite the trend in the last few centuries, even the Countess forced to capitulate to its utilitarian decadence.

It was an exquisite event, always weeks and months in the planning, and Renathal might not have bothered with any of it. For this particular court, at least. Each guest who ascended the stairs or stepped from the lift or emerged from the shadows through which they had wended ignored the fastidious finery - the shadow of a thousand flickering candle flames dancing across the spotless terrace, the heavy, ornate tables laden with anima-infused food and drink - and spared only the briefest of required greetings for their host before taking up strategically placed positions around the courtyard, the better to watch the work of the realm’s newest and most noteworthy resident.

But if Elisewin felt the weight of the hundred odd eyes, she gave no indication. She flitted between clusters of guests in time to the distant strains of sweeping music with barely a wobble on her high-heeled boots, offering trays of drinks and foodstuffs, allowing herself to be gaped at and even, occasionally, touched.

Renathal, monitoring her carefully from his own post by the courtyard's central anima font, wrinkled his nose in disapproval as one brazen noble traced the length of her exposed lavender neck with a curious, gloved hand. Renathal's own tightened on his glass of anima wine; an uncommon indulgence, but necessary for settling his still-electric nerves. Elisewin's, however, remained perfectly steady. Her tray did not even rattle as she curtsied and extricated herself from the Venthyr's attentions. Her implacable demeanour was, Renathal conceded, particularly well-suited for a formal court. And, making a note to find some sin with which to condemn the noble in question to an especially dank crypt for a fortnight at least, he tore his gaze reluctantly from Elisewin's competent perambulations and turned his focus to the rest of the terrace and its sea of rustling, muttering guests.

"Everything seems to be going smoothly," remarked a gravelly voice from over the Dark Prince’s shoulder.

"Yes, it certainly does," Renathal agreed without turning. He knew the General's voice, and the hulking, winged shadow he cast across the square, paved stones, by heart. "I expected a few squabbles over anima conservation, allotments, and the like, but… nothing so far. No fights, no rumours, no plots. It would appear the other Harvesters are on their best behaviour."

He sipped idly at his drink while the General digested this observation.

"They are up to something, then," Draven concluded.

"My thoughts precisely."

Renathal’s expression was half grin, half grimace as he made a subtle survey of the four Harvesters currently in attendance over the rim of his glass.

The power struggle for control of the most medallions had been a favourite pastime of his for many an age. Everything from securing loyalties and wielding their powers by proxy to outright theft of the coveted gold-bound gems, the Dark Prince had done it all. And better than most. But even before the mortal’s arrival, he had felt the game’s appeal beginning to wane. And now, where once he enjoyed, even encouraged, instances of in-fighting for a bit of fun, Renathal’s foremost concern was ensuring court ran as smoothly as possible, without any - his eyes flicked to the circulating Elisewin and her easily-marked mortal skin - collateral damage.

Shifting slightly, so he might face Draven and still keep an eye on the courtyard at large, Renathal cleared his throat and began with a show of polite hesitation.

“My friend… you are here as my guest, and I would hate to put you to any undue trouble. However-”

"Which one should I keep my eye on?" the General interrupted decisively.

"The Stonewright," replied Renathal at once. "I do not think the Accuser or the Curator will deign to attend. And Chelra is keeping watch on the Fearstalker and the Tithelord."

Both Venthyr and Stoneborn shot identical glances at the shadowy corner of the terrace where the latter two Harvesters stood together, side by side in awkward, silent companionship, noticeably unattended by their usual requisite bands of hovering sycophants.

“It is strange to see them so… friendly with each other,” said Draven, voicing Renathal’s thoughts.

“Yes, and both have been ominously quiet of late. If those two particular harvesters have formed an alliance, it can be for nothing good. Which is why I have assigned Chelra to keep an eye.” Renathal flicked a finger at the sky above where a lone Stoneborn figure glided in low, eerie circles. “Of all quarters, theirs is the one from which I most suspect potential attack. As Princeguard, monitoring their activities has become part of Chelra’s duties.”

Draven nodded briskly, noting, “That still leaves one major player,” and Renathal did not need the Stoneborn’s rough jerk of the head towards the courtyard’s most fashionably dressed contingent and the Harvester holding court in its center to know to whom he referred. “She is still seething that you managed to capture the mortal for yourself. She will want to interfere.”

As if guided by some supernatural sense, the Harvester in question lifted her beady eyes to where the Dark Prince and the General stood. And, whether informed by the same uncanny power or simply guessing at the nature of their private conversation and taking it as her cue, she leaned languidly across the table to murmur something in the ear of a nearby noble who jumped from their chair in a rattle of gold bangles and scanned the surrounding terrace for something or someone.

Renathal, eyes narrowed, guessed who.

“Leave her to me.”

He downed the rest of his wine but held tight to the glass as he descended the anima font’s high platform. Gliding sedately across the terrace, formal coat billowing dramatically behind him, Renathal rearranged his features to reflect an equal degree of regal composure. He anticipated battle. And a cool head and cooler demeanour were the greatest weapons he could wield against his epochs-old nemesis: the Harvester of Desire.

Historically the least among the seven harvesters, this particular incarnation - the Countess - had elevated the position to one of fear and grudging renown. She oversaw festivities, entertainments, and carnal privileges; approved - or disapproved - relationships of all sorts and reported illicit examples to the Master. She had spies in every corner of the realm - including, Renathal was certain, his own estate - and an appetite for new and interesting experiences to rival even his.

The skin on the back of Renathal’s armoured neck prickled as he watched the Countess stand in a swish of narrow hips and dark skirts to greet his mortal charge. Hunger gleamed in her black, beady eyes, and a snap of her fingers had some socialite whisking Elisewin's tray from her hands, leaving her open and unprotected from the Countess' salacious inspection. She looked the mortal up and down with undisguised greed, ran a wanton hand across the fine material of her skirts, her sleeves, her corset; reached up - Elisewin was several inches taller than most Venthyr - to adjust the red jewel sparkling in the hollow of her throat. Catching sight of the Prince’s approach, the Countess smiled - wet and predatory - and locked a proprietary arm around Elisewin’s waist to prevent her escape.

"Well, well, Renathal," the Countess gushed in her languorous alto. "Just look at the delicious prize you have tucked away up here. I was just saying to the Duke, you must lend her to us for one of my own little parties. It has been such a long time since any of us laid hands on a living mortal."

From further down the table, Renathal could hear Theotar's attempts at jovial protest sliding in and out of the hearty agreements and lascivious catcalls from the rest of the Countess' coterie.

"A charming idea," said Renathal, and the table was suddenly struck with an expectant hush. Leaning casually against the nearby candle-covered archway, he lifted his empty glass to his lips for a moment before continuing, "But... I fear the mortal is still pursuing her atonement. Such decadent pleasures are beyond the privilege, and, indeed, the appreciation, of new, unrepentant souls."

"Oh, I offer as many punishments as pleasures," purred the Countess. "If it is suffering she deserves, that can most certainly be arranged."

Her crimson-painted, claw-like nails closed tighter around Elisewin's waist, digging into the bodice just above the protective corset. Elisewin hissed with the unexpected pain, and Renathal's carefully modulated control abruptly snapped.

"No."

It was too blunt, too brusque. It went against all Venthyr tact. The nobles at the table looked scandalised, the socialities tittered, and even the Countess had to work hard to conceal her offended shock.

"Tut, tut, Renathal," she chided, tossing back her corkscrew curls. “Such rudeness unbecomes a gracious host.”

"And openly purloining a host's staff unbecomes a gracious guest."

The Countess laughed; a lusty, practiced sound.

“Share and share alike, Renathal. Or have you not yet learned your lesson?” She retracted her claws from the flesh of Elisewin’s waist in favour of stroking her delicate cheek as she mused “Such warmth. I can certainly see the appeal. Perhaps I should apply to the Master for my own turn with the mortal. Where is he?” She made a show of peering around the courtyard. “Oh, that's right. He did not come! What a monstrous slight. Although...”

The Countess' small eyes flicked from a nearby band of roving dredgers to the candle wax dripping down the brick of the archway beside Renathal's rigid form. She gave a small sniff of distaste.

“This is hardly your best work, Renathal. Spending a little too much time on unsanctioned distractions, are we? I doubt the Master will be pleased. But his methods of correction have proved painfully effective in the past, have they not?” The implications of her threat uncoiled horribly between them like some enormous serpent rearing its restless, hungry head. “Or…”

The Countess caught Elisewin’s chin in her crimson claws, tilting her head down to breathe her words obscenely into the fixed and unblinking lavender face.

“I suppose I could take the mortal off your hands myself. We need not involve the Master at all. And, of course, you would be welcome to pay a visit. When you are not busy attending to your own, far more important duties, of course.” She cocked her head at Renathal, black eyes glinting in triumph. “What say you, Prince of Revendreth?”

Unbroken silence reigned through the courtyard. No dredgers moved, no guests dared speak, even the distant music from the ballroom had ceased. The only sound was the dull thump of the motionless mortal’s hammering heartbeat as every living and unliving thing in Darkwall held its breath, waiting for the Harvester of Dominion to pronounce his judgment.

Renathal did not notice. Heedless of anything but the two females watching him in wildly different examples of tense expectation, he pushed off from the candle-lit archway. All his writhing knot of repressed concerns and confusions were stilled as he stalked toward the Countess. There was room for only one thing within him. He set his glass on the table, prised the Countess’ fingers from Elisewin’s chin and tightened his hand around them, enjoying the feel of bone splintering under the force of his fury.

"If you touch her again..." intoned Renathal, and the dread and dominion in his voice made the very air across the courtyard shudder. "You will find yourself Countess of the Ember Ward, your greatest indulgence licking scraps of anima off burning glass."

This time, the Countess' laugh was bitter and brittle, her face contorted in an attempt to conceal her fear and pain.

"So possessive, Renathal. Such an unappealing trait. I never did enjoy it." With an unglamorous spasm, she ripped her hand from his and stumbled back, bumping into the chair behind her and tucking her broken fingers into some hidden fold of her gown. "I would reign that in before it gets you into trouble. Yet again. Come."

She spat the last at the breathlessly waiting table. There was a sudden flurry of capes and gowns and a clatter of scraping and sliding chair legs as the nobles and socialites stood and hastened to follow their Harvester's instructions. The surrounding courtyard too, sprang back to frenetic life. Summoned servants jostled elbows, dredgers scurried underfoot, fetching coats and sinrunners and carriages. On instinct, Renathal grabbed Elisewin's waist and hauled her back toward the brick archway, safely out of the fray.

But not out of danger.

In the clamour and chaos, no one could hope to prove for certain whether the Countess' elbow jostled the tower of red tapers off the arch by accident or with deliberate intent. But Renathal, whose coat the candles just happened to land on, had his suspicions.

"Whoops," she said as she passed, swelling fingers pressed to her cheek in entirely unconvincing chagrin. "How clumsy of me."

Renathal had no time to retort, or to hurl the Countess off the edge of Darkwall. The hem of his coat had ignited, flames creeping toward his hair at an alarming speed. Dredgers were yelling, socialites were screaming, and Elisewin was twisting in his arms, crying something he could not understand. Hands working in tandem, they managed to extricate Renathal from the burning garment, with many indecorous contortions on his part and more than one rude and raucous laugh from the gawping crowd.

Finally free of the threat of flames, Elisewin's warm hands found Renathal’s face. He could hear her this time as she asked, “Are you alright?” in a strained and urgent hush, but he did not answer. His attention was gripped by the figure in the distance, watching Elisewin stroke back his wayward hair with beady, vindictive eyes. Renathal read their intent. And as she was ushered into her carriage, he knew exactly where the Countess was going and what she going to do.

It was, unquestionably, the worst court the Dark Prince had ever hosted.

The best that could be said was that the fire did not spread to any of the guests. And a combination of mud and liberal stamping eventually extinguished the flames. Renathal’s coat was a filthy, smoking ruin, of course, and he had been forced to forgo it as he bid his guests early and unceremonious farewells. The ones who bothered to give him notice of their leave, that was. The Stonewright took flight with her Stoneborn attendants after throwing a cursory look of disgust the Prince’s way. The Fearstalker and the Tithelord had simply disappeared, and the Accuser and the Curator - as well as the Master himself - had never bothered to arrive.

Which was lucky, even if it was a glaring slight, Renathal considered, as he dragged himself up the staircase to the quiet sanctuary of his bedchamber. Unkind of him, perhaps, to leave the mess of the courtyard to the dredgers and Elisewin, but what was the point of having servants if one could not assign them such tedious chores? Especially when one was weighed down with other, heavier burdens, and Renathal’s back was practically bent under the day’s frustrations and confusions and… other things.

The memory of the Countess' fingers on Elisewin's skin….

A bolt of vicious jealousy like a red-hot brand seared through Renathal’s chest, sending him sprinting up the last flight of stairs and down the hall as if it were an enemy he could outrun. Reaching the safety of his rooms, he ripped the useless medallion from his neck and threw it against its velvet stand. Even a fraction of its usual power would have had the Countess as far from Elisewin as the terrace allowed with a single, murmured word and no unnecessary fuss, sparing Renathal a mortifying scene, and him and Elisewin both its inevitable repercussions. Even now, the Countess would be reporting their visible attachment to Denathrius, the essence of which was true even if the salacious details she inevitably imagined and would relay as fact were not.

He would lose her. He had failed, in spite of all his efforts. If he was lucky, all the Master would do to them both was take her away. And if he was not-

A quiet knock at his door interrupted Renathal’s miserable spiral. This time he recognised the quiet, cautious rhythm, and his anima vibrated in simultaneous excitement and dread. He should send her away. He was in too dangerous a state for this. He did not have the proper mental equilibrium necessary to resist what he wanted.

Although… a new and intriguing thought wormed its way to the front of Renathal's mind... did he really have to, anymore? Now that punishment loomed regardless...

“Enter, Elisewin,” he heard himself call.

The door creaked open, then closed with a gentle snap. Heeled shoes clicked nervously across the wood floor to the Ta’Zavesh rug.

“I… came to see if you needed any help. With your armour. Your Highness."

Elisewin's voice was oddly jumpy; her breathing, slightly uneven. Renathal fancied he could hear the rapid fluttering of her mortal heart, and the pitch and toss of conflicting emotion within him coalesced into something clear and urgent.

“Yes, thank you.”

His own voice was steady, his face calm and collected when he turned to face her. He even managed to conjure up a small, encouraging smile. Nevertheless, Elisewin approached with more trepidation than was her usual idiom, and kept her eyes fixed on each piece of soot-stained armour as she unfastened them from his body and replaced them fastidiously on their stand. This time, Renathal did not shy away from watching her, even when she dropped to her knees in front of him to remove his dusty tassets. The visual was stirring, and he let himself be stirred, the anima-rousing sensation a welcome distraction from impending dread.

“I’m sorry, for… everything. With the Countess,” said Elisewin quietly to his knees. “I didn’t know what to - I mean, I didn’t mean to-”

“Do not apologise. You were exemplary,” said Renathal with genuine earnest. “The Countess was always going to make trouble, one way or the other. There was nothing more you could have done.”

His reassurance seemed to hearten Elisewin enough to lift her gaze as she worked.

“I do hope an… an imperfect court won’t hurt your reputation with the other Harvesters. I know this was important, and they did seem… displeased.”

Renathal laughed at that. Elisewin blinked, and fumbled the final buckle.

“Oh, please, think nothing of my reputation. It will not suffer. This was a very minor setback. One loss in a long-standing game. There will be an eternity more, and I have the advantage.”

“I see,” she said in a tone that belied her words. “I was only worried because… well, the Countess mentioned the Sire. I hope you won't suffer any… repercussions?”

Renathal swallowed hard, his brief surge of humour drained.

"None to which I am not well accustomed."

Rising awkwardly, arms laden with green and gold plate, Elisewin cocked her head at Renathal as she brushed past him to replace the rest of his armor. But Renathal could bring himself to confess no more. He wondered if he ought to warn her what was happening, what consequences awaited them both. But perhaps she might not mind them. Certainly, the other souls the Sire claimed never had. During the act, anyway, and what became of them after Renathal had never permitted himself to think about or discover.

The memories twisted his face into a ghastly grimace, one look at which made Elisewin swallow any further questions. Averting her eyes, she ducked quickly around him and reached up to undo his braid, the rhythmic caress of her fingers a pleasant balm against the upswell of agonising despair.

When she finished - again, too quickly for Renathal’s liking - she inhaled raggedly and met his gaze in the chiffonier’s warped mirror.

“Is there… anything else I can do?”

Renathal turned slowly. He wanted to be sure the darkening tint in Elisewin’s blue-white eyes as they wandered over his loose linen shirt was no trick of the glass or the light. But the glitter in them lingered even as he faced her, worrying at the buckles of her corset, waiting breathless for his invitation.

“No,” said Renathal, and the disappointment that danced briefly across her impassive features decided him. “But perhaps I may do something for you, since the dredgers are occupied. Let me help you out of your dress.”

Without waiting for her response, he spun his finger in a circle, indicating she should turn. Elisewin, eyes wide, did so, tripping on her heels; a clumsiness she had shown no sign of during court. Renathal closed the distance between them in a single step, his trousers brushing against her skirts as he leaned in to undo the overdress’s many fastenings and tiny clasps. “Lift your arms,” he murmured in her ear, and reached around her waist to unbuckle the complicated corset. It fell to the floor with a muted thud, followed by the rustle of satin as the overdress slid from her arms. All that remained was her thin, vermillion shift. Elisewin shivered where she stood in her pool of shed garments, but did not otherwise move.

On a sensual whim, he unlocked the clasp of her lacey necklace, then slid his fingers up her newly bared neck and unfastened her hair from its high-piled knot. Dark silky waves fell across Elisewin's exposed back. Renathal brushed them over one shoulder, leaving the other entirely bare. He traced long, sharp fingernails delicately across its inviting dips and planes, drinking in her sharp gasp like a redolent wine and catching her waist with the other hand as her back arched against him. The feel of her body pressed instinctively to his with so little left to separate them evaporated whatever inhabitations he might still have maintained.

Dipping his head without thought, anticipating without regret, Renathal let his lips find the madly beating pulse beneath the mortal flesh of Elisewin’s throat.

It was warm. A living heat radiated through her Renathal would happily, gratefully burn in. He opened his mouth wider, trailing wet, sharp-edged kisses up the lavender skin he had dreamed of since the first time he saw it. Elisewin’s legs shook like willowy tree limbs beneath him, his arm around her waist all that kept her from collapse, and the tortured cry that escaped her - “Your Highness!” - seemed excessive for how little Renathal was really doing. He could not tell if it begged for more or begged for him to stop.

Drawing his lips reluctantly from her skin, he spoke against her ear.

“What do you want, Elisewin?”

There was a delightful, full-body shudder at her name, then the briefest hesitation, before Elisewin craned her neck to find Renathal's anima-hot eyes and whisper raggedly, “Don’t stop, please.”

Such short, small words to shatter the Dark Prince’s epochs-old resolve. But his body took her request as a new and truer law. He pressed more firmly against her as his mouth resumed its work, tasting every inch of skin it could reach while his hands wandered the quivering curves of her body through her shift. And that had to go. It all had to go. He would permit nothing to keep her from him any longer. Undoing the laces of her underdress with frantic speed, Renathal kept his lips on Elisewin’s jawline, lapping up each breathy sigh and needy whimper, every high-pitched sound she made for him sending anima singing to his core.

When the last of her layers hit the floor, he spun her to face him, dragging her mouth to his, and giving their lips the relief they both sought. Her taste was refreshing, the blunt edges of her teeth and the heat of her mouth, a strange blend of exotic and somehow familiar, like coming home after eons away. Too soon, Elisewin was tugging her head to the side, gasping for the air Renathal had forgotten was not an affectation for mortals. As she panted, her lust-clouded eyes met his, then fell to his chest where her hands waited, trembling, and he knew exactly what she wanted. He tugged his shirt over his head, saving them seconds of undoing buttons, and reveled in Elisewin's open-mouthed stare of longing as she traced his cold flesh, entranced.

But there was no time for long, exquisite explorations. Any moment could bring the Master to his door. Renathal claimed her lips again, and Elisewin eagerly complied, though now she was sure she had permission, her hands continued their journey, mapping the harsh angles of his torso and arms. Nor could his own could not stay idle for long.

“Your Highness,” called Elisewin hoarsely as his fingers kneaded and dimpled her warm, naked flesh. And Renathal paused, one hand cupping her chin, tilting her gaze to his and reclaiming the skin from the memory of the Countess.

“Say my name."

It was as much plea as command. Renathal had longed to hear the distinct way Elisewin said his name since crying it after her nightmare, and -

“Renathal…”

- he could not suppress his moan of satisfaction. It was every bit as delicious from her now as it had been then.

“Again," he growled.

“Renathal,” Elisewin gasped, as Renathal lifted her into his arms, wrapped her bare thighs around his trousers, and stumbled with her to his bed. He set her down as gently as his desperation allowed him, divesting himself of the last of his clothes, and “Renathal,” she moaned again as she drank in the sight of him ready for her.

Her mouth hung slightly open and Renathal gave himself up to pride. What was one more sin?

“That’s right,” he murmured, his voice a low, guttural purr. “Call for me.”

And, attentive to his needs as ever, Elisewin obeyed. For hours. Long into Revendreth’s socially constructed night. There were wards on Darkwall Tower preventing even the Master’s eavesdropping, but, even so, there were points where Renathal was certain her cries must be heard across the district. Not that he minded. Elisewin’s encouragements only spurred him to greater, deeper, harder heights. He wanted to discover every sound he could draw from her, every beautiful way she could say his name.

Renathal’s stamina surprised him. After all, he had been sadly out of practice for thousands of years. But even he had a limit, and, at last, he could do no more than collapse back, panting, against his silk pillows, holding Elisewin to his sweat-slicked chest and running his fingers like a ritual over and over through her own damp hair. He knew he was spent, but he wanted more. Mere hours of pleasure were not enough. The despair Elisewin had held at bay crept back up Renathal's ribcage, and he clutched her tighter to him.

Where was Denathrius? Surely, he was on his way. The Countess had plenty of time to relay the story of his court by now.

In the distance, the grandfather clock's deep chime reverberated through the Tower, and Renathal strained his ears to catch its sounding time. A quick calculation informed him nearly all of Revendreth’s resting hours were gone. And there had been no interruptions. No Breakfist knocking to inform him the Sire was waiting, no messengers with summons. A tiny flicker of hope, deadly as Light, licked at Renathal’s resignation. If he had miscalculated the Countess… if the Master had not spared the time to see her… if he had not believed her...

“Come here,” Renathal rumbled, beckoning Elisewin to his lips. She complied, slowly, meeting him in a kiss clumsy and weary from their hours of satisfying exercise. “Stay here tonight,” he murmured into her mouth. He could taste her teasing smile as she breathed, "Is that a command, Your Highness?" in reply.

“Yes," said Renathal with equal jest, but even as he said it, he thought better of the joke. “No.”

Elisewin's lips froze against his, then pulled away. She blinked down at him as Renathal struggled to find words for concepts he had never in all his countless years had occasion to explain.

“This is… not a command," he said. “This…" He let a sweep of fingers toward both their naked bodies illustrate the indirect pronoun, "is not part of your atonement. If anything, it may take you further from it. This - us - together - it is... ill-advised,” stuttered Renathal, choosing a word at random. “If the Master discovers us, there will be consequences for us both."

"What sort of consequences?"

But even admissive as the mortal inspired him to be, Renathal could not bring himself to put those memories into words.

"The Sire possesses a wide selection of lessons," he said cryptically. "Most of which are unpleasant. And all of which will certainly set your atonement back. Any intimacy is... dangerous. I cannot command it - or, even, in good conscience, ask it of you..."

Renathal's voice trailed away as Elisewin peered down at him through her reaffixed inscrutable mask. He fought to keep his eyes on hers, watching what little could be gleaned of her thought process, but her parted lips were an unfair distraction. It was a struggle to keep himself from leaning up to capture them again, to lose himself in more of her warm, elysian pleasure, to forget what was coming just a little while longer...

“Do you want this?" asked Elisewin, interrupting his wayward thoughts. "Do you want... me? I mean... us?" she fumbled the word as if unsure of its correct pronunciation.

“Yes,” said Renathal, infusing his agreement with every ounce of his endless, sinfully possessive longing.

“Then it’s worth the risk,” she decided, placing a kiss on his forehead before drawing back to observe her handiwork - Renathal's dazed, slightly punchdrunk face. “You are worth the risk, Renathal. As long as I’m here, as long as you want me, I’m yours."

With a sigh, Elisewin let herself fall back, exhausted, against his pillows, and Renathal, her words igniting some hidden reserve of anima within him, followed her down. She was wrong, of course. Everything in the realm belonged to the Master. Her included. But for here, for now, for the moments he still had her, it was the thought that counted.

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