Chapter Text
The pen in Essek’s hand is a heavy piece, made out of silver and rubies. It's luxurious, with a generous ink chamber and a springy tip that lets his words flow rich and smooth over the top-quality paper. Both it and the paper will disappear when Caleb dispels his tower, but that doesn’t matter; he is only writing nonsense anyway. He is working through a warm-up exercise that he learned in school ages ago, to minimize stains in his spellbook. Of course, it wasn’t executed on such good paper then, and the waste, even though imaginary, is thrilling.
The Elven letters he writes are beautiful and intricate like the fine tendrils of sweet peas, flowing into each other with swirly lines and delicate dots. They differ completely from Undercommon, the language he first learned to write. The alphabet of Undercommon is crude, basically a simplified Common written with Abyssal letters, with harsh-sounding consonants fit for conflict and war, not for the beds of lovers. Caleb disagrees, and he hungrily swallows the rolling r’s and deep k’s straight from Essek’s lips whenever he gets the chance, but Essek prefers to whisper to him in Elven, in which there are so many more words for love and beauty. Caleb appreciates that too, and usually shivers when Essek–
No, don’t think about Caleb. Not now.
The pen flows smoothly over the paper without that sharp scrape of a quill. Elvish is a pleasure to write. It's almost like drawing, and how the text is written is just as important as what it says.
Honored Commander, he writes.
I am the owner of Rovah Steel, and I write out of concern for our country.
He wears the heaviest robe he could think of. Something shaped out of memories of merchant delegates, dressed in their finest when granted an audience with the Bright Queen. Ostentatious and sparkly, meant to impress when bringing their modest requests before a perfect soul. It has a straight cut that obscures his form, with a high, stiff collar and sleeves down to his knuckles. The inner fabric is visible at the seams: a deep magenta that contrasts beautifully with the shimmering dark purple silk of the outside. Ornamental epaulets hold a web of silver chains that drapes elegantly down his chest and shoulders, and they tinkle faintly when he moves.
His hands are covered with gaudy, gleaming rings to emulate the rich merchant he plays tonight. They don't have a script for their roles, because he is a terrible actor and it wouldn’t matter. He just has to trust himself to follow his intuition and his impulses when it comes down to it. At least he remembers the prayers. His heart hammers in his chest.
I have heard rumors that the Empire’s military is preparing for war. That their forces are moving east under the guise of training, which I understand increases tension. I am a devout follower of the Luxon and the Light, and I hereby offer my services to the Dynasty. If the army needs steel, I will provide it immediately and free of charge.
Essek looks down at the paper and adds,
May the Light be with you.
Damien den Rovah
He swipes his thumb over his eyelids as he was taught to do. That would normally make Essek feel like a hypocrite, but not tonight. Tonight he is Damien, a devout man.
Just when he folds the paper to put it into an envelope, an ear-shattering explosion shakes the floor, making him almost fall out of his chair. Did Caleb actually Fireball his own tower? Immediately after that brief, shocked thought, he starts hearing loud screams, fires roaring, and soldiers’ boots running in the corridor outside.
It's happening. His pulse starts galloping.
He puts down the letter and grabs his spellcasting focus. The silly man. Caleb should have tried sneaking up on him instead. This will be too easy.
Damien gets up from his chair and straightens his shoulders and neck. He knows he looks imposing, with his long, trailing robe and the Deep River warpaint of two red lines down his cheeks. What’s more than that, he also has his magic, so he readies a casting of Hold Person.
There is a heavy thump of boots in the corridor outside, a few seconds of silence, and then his door explodes inward in a cloud of dust and wood splinters. Damien activates his spell as soon as he sees the outline of a figure, but his magic fizzles.
Caleb, no, an Empire war mage steps into the room. He is dressed in an official-looking uniform in dark red, with two rows of black buttons down his chest, gold embroidery along the arms, and a cut that brings out his wide shoulders and narrow waist. His shaved face is set in a grim mask, and his blue eyes find Essek in a heartbeat.
“There you are,” the man says and steps forward, framed by the fiery chaos behind him. Damien takes half a step back and tries to cast Magic Missile, but that spell fizzles too. It looks like his magic can't even target the man, and Essek suddenly remembers that Caleb has been tinkering with a variation on Anti-magic Field. He was trying to prevent it from unraveling stable magic, and to only hinder the creation of new. So he did succeed? How very clever. And very unfortunate for Essek at this moment.
The intruder launches himself forward, and Damien yelps and stumbles backwards until his back collides with the bookshelf behind him, making a marble bust wobble. The war mage is up in his face in a heartbeat, glove-clad hands grabbing his wrists with the strength of a bench vice.
Essek has been in a half-aroused state for hours, and now a deep heat blooms like brandy in his lower belly. The Empire mage crowds him so close he can feel a hot exhale ghost over his cheek. It makes his head spin.
“I finally found you!” the man hisses. “Hiding in your fortress like a little rat. Thirty thousand gold for your head, whether it’s attached or not.”
Damien tries to yank his hands away but the mage presses them into the shelf. He hears the black leather gloves creak when the mage’s grip tightens, almost numbing his hands. Then the man leans his body into Damien’s, fitting his knee between Damien’s legs to press their groins together, and the friction sends a ripple of pleasure through him.
“Who are you?” he gasps, barely able to breathe. “What do you want?” His blood simmers and his half-hard erection throbs against the man’s hip.
One more loud explosion rings through the air, and the chaos of steel and battle in the room outside whips adrenaline through Damien’s veins. Caleb’s illusions are always so detailed and believable, and he has never before seen them used for horror. It’s very convincing.
“I’m here to collect my bounty,” the mage growls while inspecting his face. He leans in and takes a deep sniff of Damien’s perfumed throat, and exhilarating fear makes Damien shiver. “But I didn’t know how pretty you would be.”
When he steps back he pulls Damien with him, slamming him down over the desk so that papers and decorations go flying. Damien gasps for air, struggling through his arousal and his desperation. What can he do without his magic? This sudden display of physical power from his partner has made him so weak. Then his eyes hone in on the sharp blade of the silvered letter opener. He quickly reaches for it while growling, “Let me go, you Empire filth!” His fingers wrap around the handle, sweaty and shaking. “May the Light protect my soul!”
The mage is indeed stronger, but Damien is fast and nimble, despite his voluminous robe. He manages to squirm out of the man's grasp and slip away from under his arms.
It has been a long time since he fought with a knife, but he got plenty of training when he was young, and some of the moves are etched into his muscles, just like the holy words of the Hymn of Light in the walls of the Lucid Bastion.
He spins the blade between his fingers and slashes through the air, intending to mark rather than stab. However, the mage is faster than he expects, and Essek remembers that Caleb has had combat training as well. He may be rusty, but he has reflexes like cobra strikes. He snatches Damien’s hand when it arcs through the air and drags him through the motion to try to pull him off balance. Damien uses the increased momentum to continue his rotation with two quick steps, as if Caleb were spinning him in a waltz, then twists his hand free and slashes again. The mage barely beats it away in time and aims a quick but measured kick towards his knee. It hits and Damien stumbles to the side with a yelp. The man takes the opportunity to grab the fabric of his robe and Damien jolts back in his grip, almost airborne for a moment.
The thrill of their fight has him heaving for breath in a state of exhilarated panic, almost giggling and crying at the same time. He manages to slither out of the mage’s grip again and then ducks a backhand that would definitely have flipped the world on its axis. He counters with one more slash, and to his own surprise he manages to properly fake his attack. His assailant dodges in the wrong direction and Damien slashes him across the cheek. Warm blood sprays across Damien’s hand and Essek gasps in shock.
Everything becomes silent, frozen; Essek can feel his pulse throughout his skin. Caleb slowly touches his cheek and Essek opens his mouth to say something, to apologize, but stops himself when Caleb fires off a feral grin.
“Sarsaparilla,” he growls, and Essek breathes out.
“Sarsaparilla.”
The mage uses Damien’s moment of stillness to grab the knife and fling it across the room.
“So there is some fight in the pompous little overseer after all?” he whispers and grabs Damien by the front of his robe, so that the chains that had been so intricately draped get even more tangled. The mage’s hair has fallen out of its proper ponytail and dark blood forms a winding river down his cheek and throat. He looks cruel, powerful, and a little bit mad. Damien shivers in his grip, hanging like a limp rag from his forearms. The quick turn of emotions sparks fire in his gut. His body feels electric, like when he shapes high-level magic into devastating lightning.
“Let me go or I’ll cut you again,” he rasps, but the mage just laughs, his teeth red with blood.
His eyes are blue as a clear, cold lake when he whispers, “No, you won’t. And I will make you regret that.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out one of the many Aeorian artifacts Essek and Caleb found on their trip. A pair of Nullifying Manacles. Damien goes still.
The fight was short but it drained him completely. Without his knife he can't do anything but squirm when the mage presses him face down onto the desk again while forcing his hands together behind his back. The manacles click shut around his wrists.
The mage drops his Anti-magic Field in the same moment that he activates the magical cuffs, and a heavy smell of ozone fills the room when they burn away the potential that had gathered in his body. For a short moment it feels like organ failure, or like losing a limb. Fear washes over him and his heart pounds in his chest. This was pre-negotiated, but he didn’t anticipate how reduced it would make him to be completely stripped of his magic in this situation. It’s as if he had spent it all for the day, which he normally tries to avoid. He is truly in this man’s hands now.
Then his robe is pulled up. It settles him into his role again. “What are you doing?”
The mage takes a deep breath behind him, humming with interest when he sees Damien’s racy undergarments. Then there comes the sound of a belt unbuckling.
“No! Stop it!” he shouts and tries to turn around, but the heavy press of a hand between his shoulder blades prevents him.
“You are in my hands now, darling, and I will show you how I do things.”
Damien’s face burns. He can barely stop himself from arching his back like a cat in heat, and the shame at his eagerness makes his cock throb.
“Filthy Empire scum!” he spits when his undergarments are rucked down. “Just what I should have guessed! Ah-aaah!” A thick cock enters him roughly. He is well and fully prepared, but the shock of it sheathing to the root so fast and hard punches the air out of his lungs. “Hnng! Fuck!”
He drops his forehead against the desk when the mage starts fucking him at a fast pace. There is nothing of their usual indulgence and care, only a brutal, immediate chase towards climax.
He shivers all the way from his scalp to his toes, fighting the haze that wants to consume him, that makes him want to mewl and cry and meet the thrusts with his body.
“May the Light guide my soul,” he gasps down onto the papers. They quickly become wet from saliva and sweat. “May it sh… shine on the path that I walk and lay bare my sins and w… ah! Weakness. May it burn… m- aah… my enemies and my fears, for I give myself to it and trust in its guidance.”
The prayer stumbles its way out of his mouth. He almost instinctively ducks to avoid the swat to the back of his head that he had come to expect when not articulating the words properly.
Speak without hesitation, or else people will think you don’t mean what you say. Nothing is worse than being a heretic, Essek. The Luxon saved our civilization, and you must show your gratitude.
Crack-crack-crack the desk rattles when the mage drives his hips into him. His cock stands trapped against his belly and wetness bursts from its tip when the thrusts punch his prostate. His knees have gone to jelly and his legs shake violently when he tries to steady himself on pointed toes that barely touch the floor.
“The light will not help you here,” the mage’s deep voice pants against his ear. “So if you are going to pray, it had better be to me.”
Damien turns his head and looks up towards the man. Blood is slowly dripping onto the table from the wound on his cheek. “Only half-witted creatures believe that fucking someone is the same as having power over them,” he snarls, and the mage grins and gives him a few heavy strokes that makes his eyes roll back in his head.
The man then bends down and licks the corner of his mouth and up his cheek with a broad, blood-wet tongue. It must blend with his war paint, Damien thinks feebly, but that’s as far as he gets before the man starts sucking on the tip of his ear. He keens straight out, not able to hold the pleasure between his teeth anymore. He can taste the blood in his mouth.
“How come your ass was so open already?” the mage groans and swivels his hips, testing a different angle. The man fills him so well. His hard cock skewers him against the table like a lance. The man continues thrusting until his balls slap against Damien’s with a deep obscene sound that melts his brain out of his ears.
“Is it because you do this often?” he continues, his voice far too unaffected. “Bending over your desk, letting your guards fuck you? Or do you keep a band of servants for the purpose? Always keeping you stretched and ready.”
The taunts burn red behind Damien’s eyes. “I… aah! Fuck… you!”
“So eloquent,” the man laughs. ”Clearly a well-educated man.”
The mage holds his hips and pulls him back on his length over and over. Papers stick to his sweaty face and he feels one of the hands slide down his front and between his legs. The mage chuckles when he gets hold of Damien’s erection.
“Really? This is turning you on? You little slut! Cock hard and hole flaring as soon as someone shows a bit of authority.”
Damien squeezes his eyes shut against the shame and yelps when the mage pulls him up by his hair. The man roughly starts jerking him off, with a warm, oily palm and swift strokes that envelop his whole cock. He vibrates. His clothes are too heavy and too hot. Sweat makes the fabric cling to his back and he feels sticky oil drip down the back of his knees from his ass. The squelching of the man fucking him is wicked and raw. It scrapes him open like a fruit. Like an overripe kiwi crushed in a large hand.
“May the Light blind you and burn you to ash!” he whimpers when his impending orgasm starts boiling his bones to syrup.
The man hugs him close to his chest and nibbles his sensitive ear lobe with blunt human teeth. “It won’t,” he whispers. “Because I control the flame.”
Damien comes. His breath goes first, then his vision. His body tenses until exhaustion hits and he twitches and sags in the mage's arms. His skin feels like it should be glowing from the heat.
His clothes smell like magic, fresh and chemical, but now the heavy scents of sweat and come are all he can perceive. The mage drops him down on the table again and his body jerks like a doll’s as he is used like a tool for the mage’s pleasure. The sensitivity makes him hiss and twitch, but the mage holds him steady by the hair and drags him to the side, until his face lands in a wet spot. His own come. The degradation burns behind his eyes.
“Aren’t you ashamed for coming when you are fucked like this? By your enemy?” The mage smears his face around in it. When Damien shuts his eyes he feels two tears fall from his lashes.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Light, forgive me. See my sins and burn them from me. Cleanse me with your power.”
He is weak and slow, wrung out and blank, and he barely notices when the mage finishes deep inside him with a choked moan.
The motions stop.
The mage pulls out of his tender ass and lets the robe fall back down, arranging it to hide his crime, then he helps him stand with a grip of his upper arm.
“I have you,” he says with a gentler tone, and it can be both Caleb and the mage. Essek meets his eyes and he sees warmth, a check in. The blood still drips sluggishly from the wound on his cheek, and Essek feels the tackiness of it at the corner of his mouth. There are too many sensations in his body for him to properly understand himself right now, but he knows for sure that he is happy. That he loves his partner with every part of his soul.
“You do,” he confirms softly. Then, “Where are you taking me?”
He sees the transition in Caleb’s face. The small crinkles in the corners of his eyes even out and his lips purse in a dour expression. The hands tighten around his arms.
“To the Empire, where I can get my payment. You are lucky that I have decided not to separate your head from your body.”
“Travel to the Empire by foot? I will be missed! My guards will hunt you down and tear you to pieces!”
The mage scoffs and drags him towards the door. “I doubt I can get you to consent to a teleport, so yes. On foot.” He then smirks and adds, “I’ve already taken care of the guards. And you needn’t worry about being bored. I’m sure we will have plenty of fun along the way.”