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It was very dark by the time Murata Ken reached his chamber, and he had to fumble for the small lamp that sat on his desk. His fingers felt cold and overthick as he tried and failed several times to make a spark. When he finally did, a tiny blue flame sputtered to life and the greasy smell of oil tickled his nostrils.
He settled stiffly into his hard wooden chair and a tiny frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Never mind that he could have summoned a magic flame - never mind that he could have filled the whole room, the whole temple, the whole kingdom with fire and illumination. Terrible, beautiful, illumination.
But he knew better than to do things just because he could. It was a lesson he wished certain other people in his life would learn.
A sigh escaped his lips and he reached for a worn leather-bound book that lay open on the desk. His fingers traversed the pages, savoring the feel of the ancient parchment as his mind wandered over the magic contained therein. His uneven breathing began to slow. He felt himself unravel over the familiar feel of the tome, grounded by the greasy lamp oil and the uncomfortable chair.
It was a ritual he performed when he was nervous or upset. It comforted him. And he had been feeling very on edge ever since the last incident with Shibuya.
Suddenly the image of the boy's disarming smile and stark ebony eyes fluttered through his mind, and for just a moment, he lost touch with his meditation. His mind grew uncomfortably dark, and the brilliance of the arcane visions flowing through him dimmed and faded into nothingness. He sighed again and closed the book.
"Damn it," he said aloud. The empty room shuddered softly in response, a breeze drifting in through an open window and stirring the curtains up into a waving, ghostlike form.
He decided that what he needed was sleep, and it wasn't until he had settled deeply into his plush bed that it occured to him that he never left the window open.
He barely had time to worry about it before a large, calloused, and all-too-familiar hand clamped over his mouth.
"Don't struggle," a deep velvet voice purred in his ear. Murata's eyes widened and a horrible, seizing fear coursed through his body.
There was only one person who could make the Great Sage feel afraid. Only one person with that voice as deep as tar, with hands so large, and with that overpowering smell of burnt cinnamon - the sickly sweet flavor of his power.
Only one person, and he was supposed to be dead.
You bastard, he thought fiercely, projecting his thoughts into the mind of his captor. He tried to sit up, but the larger man simply chuckled and tightened his grip.
"Now now," he commanded softly, pushing Murata's thin frame back into the mattress. A lone candle next to the bed flared to life, casting a tawny glow over his face. The light twinkled in his cool violet eyes. "Aren't you glad to see me?"
Don't talk to me like that, Murata hissed. Don't think for a minute I need the use of my arms to kill you.
"Oh, but my dear sage..." the king whispered, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I am already dead, am I not?"
And yet you keep coming back. You always find me. You always... Murata turned his head to the side in disgust. At least talk to me like this. You know I can hear you.
Shinou clucked and released his grip, taking a moment to run his hands down the boy's sides and around his thin waist. I like this incarnation of you, he thought appreciatively, savoring the tremors provoked by his ministrations. It's very... innocent.
Murata fought back the urge to vomit, which churned in his stomach along with several other emotions he was trying very hard to resist. It wouldn't work. It never did. Four thousand years and he had never managed to say no. Four thousand years and he had never really wanted to.
"Do you... like innocent things?" he asked aloud, in a quiet, tremulous voice. His eyes locked on violet orbs, on a gaze as sharp as diamonds and just as seductive. His lips twitched once, and their secret want was answered immediately by a hungry, stifling kiss.
His body jolted as though shocked with electricity. His mind sprung awake, sprung into motion, his nerves sang with tension and his blood raced through his veins. Your Majesty, he thought desperately, four thousand years and countless lifetimes of need and lust spiking straight through his heart to his groin.
Simultaneously the ancient lovers gasped for air, their eyes still locked on each other hungrily. I've missed you, the king thought fiercely, burying his face in the boy's neck, nipping at virgin skin and a pronounced collarbone. Murata cried out and his hands flew up to tangle in long, golden, impossibly soft hair.
I don't want this, he thought with tears in his eyes. He winced at a particularly vicious love-bite and rough hand between his legs. I don't, I want...
"What?" Shinou growled. He stopped his ministrations long enough to search Murata's face with narrowed amethyst eyes. A harsh laugh bubbled out of his throat. "Don't tell me you've got your eye on that new Maou? Shibuya, is it?" He pressed pointedly against the boy's obvious arousal and a cruel smirk crept over his face. He's taken, you know. By that pompous, arrogant progeny of mine. Isn't that just so perfect? Looks just like me too, don't you think?
Suddenly an image appeared in Murata's mind. The king smirked and rubbed him harder as his vision was blocked out by a dizzying view of Blood Pledge Castle. It bobbed and waved as though he were a bird on wing, circling the grounds once before spinning towards one of the towers. He gasped as the view passed right through a wall and proceeding to plummet down the spiral staircase, one torch after another flaring to life in his wake. When he managed to orient himself and the destination became clear, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the vision.
"No!" he half-sobbed, fighting the invasion of his mind, fighting the feelings of arousal that were tearing ruthlessly through his body. The whirlwind trip through the castle finally ended at a single door, a familiar door in a painfully familiar corridor, and despite his resistance they passed through it easily. The vision held him, completely transfixed, in Shibuya's chamber in Blood Pledge Castle.
His heart broke.
What he saw was an image so hauntingly familiar it would have been nostalgic if it weren't so twisted a circumstance. Shibuya and Wolfram were tangled together on the bed, the young king's hair tossed about his flushed face like a dark veil. Above him, the spitting image of Shinou, his Shinou, pushed into his king over and over again. At that moment, the hold on Murata's mind was released, but however desperately he wanted to turn away, all he could do was watch helplessly as the story of his life, all his lives, was played out on the cruel canvas of the now.
"Stop it," he managed to murmur, his eyes glassed over as he watched the scene before him. Shinou just smiled and rubbed him in time with Wolfram's thrusts, driving his body to the brink of insanity. "I... love... him..."
Look carefully at his face then, Shinou purred, leaning down to capture the young boy's lips. Look at how beautiful he looks when he comes. Remember it well, because you'll never see it again. At that, Shibuya cried out, and his voice echoed like a bell in the large chamber. His eyes squeezed shut, his toes curled, and his cheeks flushed a color of rose that nature reserved solely for this moment.
At the same time, Murata felt himself break, and he emptied himself completely into the hands of a man that he hated. Hated, and wanted, and needed.
"Shinou..." he gasped. The vision faded, and he fell from great heights to land softly on the bed, in himself, sticky and covered in sweat. The king answered him with a gentle kiss, something almost like what they once shared. Something so close it hurt.
Shibuya is his king, Shinou thought. He reached up and stroked Murata's hair softly. He stays in the castle. You, however, do not. Do you know why?
Murata squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears of anger and release. "Because," he rasped, "you want me here."
"That's right," Shinou cooed, wrapping his arms around the boy's frail shoulders. "I am your king."
Yes, Murata thought. He let his head rest on his king's chest, his arms and legs limp like a ragdoll. Always and forever.
He fell asleep like that, wishing that he could understand love, but only knowing possession.
When he woke, he was alone.