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He came to Arlathan to meet with the Evanuris, to try and dissuade them from the war they seemed set upon with his people. The “Forgotten Ones”—a name the Evanuris chose for them—were not war-like, content to exist in the same manner they had existed for so long, but the Evanuris appeared to see them as a threat, an unknown element at their back which they would not abide. He had thought himself capable of steering both sides to peace... a naive assumption, he had realized in time.
He had taken form, taken flesh, molding the shape into something that would be familiar to those within Arlathan, although unmarked by the vallaslin. The city was guarded but they permitted him passage, for he was Elvhen in appearance and manner. What they thought of him, what story those guards created in their minds to explain his presence, he would never know, but Arlathan was not the only Elvhen settlement, simply the largest. It would not have been entirely unheard of for some to seek entry, and with his face unmarked he would not go unnoticed. Perhaps that alone was reason enough for them to permit his entry—he would be found and his measure taken. The Evanuris would decide his fate, not these guards.
So it was that he had wandered the city for only a short time before he was led into their court. In that time, however, he admired the curving pathways, the beautiful arches, the way the city blended with the environment. Their city was glorious.
When he entered their court he bowed to them, to the Evanuris who sought the destruction of his people, his face bare and his manner respectful. Elgar’nan and Mythal dominated the room upon a raised dais, their thrones simple at first glance but detailed in the extreme, appearing richer and more beautiful the longer one looked. The rest of the Evanuris were seated in a half-moon shape around them, and he noted each as he rose.
Falon’Din and Dirthamen, the eldest, were seated beside their father and mother, respectively. To Falon’Din’s right sat Andruil, while Sylaise sat beside Dirthamen, on their mother’s side. June was beside her, and Ghilan’nain was beside Andruil.
Most of them appeared impassive, some bored; Dirthamen looked interested, and Ghilan’nain seemed uneasy, but he had gained the full attention of both Elgar’nan and Mythal. It was clear that theirs was the judgment he would be facing.
When they bade him rise and speak, he quickly gained the fixed attention of all of them. Claiming he had come from a small village far away, a peaceful place, he openly questioned why they sought warfare. Elgar’nan bristled, Mythal appeared surprised and curious, and the rest seemed taken aback, hesitant to take a clear stand.
He spoke boldly of the value of peace, of a treaty, of respect. He told them that war would weaken the Elvhen, that there was no reason to spill the blood of their people. The room was deathly silent as he finished, until Mythal’s bright, ringing laughter pierced it. Elgar’nan faced her with a frown, but she simply shook her head.
“What absurd folly! You come before us and tell us what we must do? You, a stranger here, seek to guide our kingdom forward? What do you know of our politics? What do you know of leadership, of rule?” Amusement was thread through her voice, but under it lay steel. Yet the others seemed to relax slightly, moreso as Elgar’nan leaned back in his throne.
Her laughter filled him with a desperate cold: he realized then that he had made a mistake, that a simple conversation would not stir these people, fixed in their course as they were. He found himself wondering if he would have to abandon this flesh, if the consequence of his miscalculation would be exposing the truth about himself. If they tried to kill him he would flee his body, this thing he had forged for himself: he could not force himself to maintain the flesh unto his own death. They would not be able to kill Wisdom, but his plan, his arrogant, lofty goals, all would fall apart should he reveal himself. They would know one of the so-called Forgotten Ones had stood before the Evanuris.
Revealing his nature would ignite the war he sought to stop.
It was not an option. So instead, he had chosen to play the part they expected of him. He had bowed his head, begged their forgiveness, pleading ignorance. He had insisted that he only sought peace, that it was what he valued above all else, and admitted his mistake in speaking to them of such matters.
When they did not forgive him, he asked what he must do. And when Mythal had given him her answer, he had accepted.
The vallaslin was applied that day.
Wearing her marks, he next became her curiosity. She did not spend much time with the others who bore her vallaslin but she seemed to favor him, requesting him to accompany her as she made her way through the city in her long, winding walks, to bring her to her rooms at night, to stand guard outside her door.
He did not understand her interest in him but he obeyed, particularly since she sometimes questioned him. Pressed him for his thoughts, for his truth, his opinions on Arlathan. In moments when they were far from any other Elvhen, she bid him to speak his mind freely, without reserve. To tell her of the peace he wanted, to criticize her kingdom without reprisal. She wanted his honesty.
In these moments, she treated him nearly as an equal. Nearly, for she did not know the way, would still smile condescendingly at what she perceived as his ignorance, or tell him to be silent if he upset her. She still held command and it was her nature to use it. But she bent her command, made it smaller, softer, when they were alone. As if she was trying to find her way towards an equal footing. And he tried to reach her as an equal, tried to make her see the value in those who were not of the Evanuris, those who were not of the family, without their power and privilege. For if she could grow to see value in him, someone she saw as a wayward, naive soul, then he reasoned she could be made to see the value of others, as well.
The city was so beautiful, and each graceful arch was stained with the blood of the slaves who spent themselves building it. If he could convince her of his value, the value of those not gifted to the degree of the Evanuris, he hoped in time he could convince her to see the value in the slaves they spent, the lives that they treated as though forfeit. If he could turn any one of their number to his side, it would help—if he could turn Mythal, it would be a powerful boon indeed, for she held sway over the others.
It was imperfect, of course. There were those among her family who bristled at her command, who pushed back against her orders; Andruil foremost among them, as he had seen time and again, but she was not alone. The twins Falon’Din and Dirthamen had their own way, their own manner, obedient when it suited them and disobedient when it did not, more beholden to each other than to the rest of the family. The others he saw less of; June was always caught up in his projects, while Sylaise had been the one to apply the vallaslin he now wore, but otherwise he had seen little of her. Ghilan’nain was as a shadow to Andruil, though he supposed that was natural, given the nature of their relationship. Over time he had pieced enough of it together to know that Ghilan’nain was newest to the fold, and that she had been brought in courtesy of the huntress.
He wondered at that, sometimes. Wondered whether Andruil’s affection was genuine or not, wondered if she would bore of Ghilan’nain and what would happen to the other woman if she lost the favor of the Evanuris who brought her into their fold. Would she remain? Would she be killed? Would she be disavowed? He did not know. Her entry spoke to a flexibility he had not anticipated within the Evanuris—but how conditional was it? There was much he did not understand, all of his wisdom seeming archaic against the rush of lives here; there was too little logic and too much feeling for him to navigate effectively, and over time he began to recognize in himself the naivete that Mythal and the rest must have seen immediately.
Despite all this, Mythal lingered. She seemed fascinated by him, curious, if unwilling to entertain his ideas. He supposed to her he was something of a mystery to be solved, although at times her interest appeared more genuine than that, as if she truly cared about him.
It was late and he was accompanying Mythal on one of her long, contemplative walks, a silent presence just behind her. He had been here too long now to hold any admiration for the beauty around him, too aware of the suffering each structure had earned. To his eyes, all of Arlathan might as well be bathed in blood. At least it would be more honest than the wealth and beauty they moved through now, the soaring arches and the crystalline structures, the fantastic colors and striations within.
He was distracted by such considerations, but familiarity bade him stop as soon as Mythal did, lest he bump into her, something which would be seen by some as a truly unforgivable offense. Less so, perhaps, had it been one of her children, but Mythal and Elgar’nan held a position above the rest, and even a tiny slight against the All-Mother was met with disdain and, at times, swift judgment. He did not think she would mind terribly, but hers were not the only eyes that may be cast upon their procession, after all. “Solas,” she said softly, an invitation to approach and stand at her side, so he did. Together they stared across the exposed expanse of the city, each angle cast into a harsh mix of shadow and light which lent new power to every structure.
“Do you still seek to change us?” Her tone was light, almost careless, as if neither question nor answer mattered to her. He suspected otherwise, for he had learned that she was not prone to either arbitrary questions or filling silences. She was always secure in herself and had no cause to be other than who and what she was. So this question, whatever its framing, was likely a sincere one.
“I hope to show you what I see,” he replied carefully, listening to the low, contemplative noise sound she made.
“And what do you see?” Ah. A tricky question. That she wanted his honesty did not mean he could be careless or overly hostile, but nor would he spurn the opportunity to speak to her when she appeared in an open-minded mood. He folded his hands behind his back as he considered.
“I see a beautiful city,” he said slowly, “that has been bought with blood.” He glanced sidelong at her to mark her reaction, but there was none. Her silence was a subtle invitation to continue. “I see it ruled by a powerful elite, determined to hold their position. But I also see other ways that power could be spent. I see potential for beauty to not be bloody, for rule to not be conquest, and for difference to not be division.”
“Many would call that naive,” she pointed out. “Or treasonous.” He drew in a slow breath, exhaling it steadily. Although she did not sound angry, he had to wonder if he’d overstepped.
“What would you call it, my lady?” He did not look towards her, but through his periphery noted the faint smile that curled across her lips.
“Charmingly idealistic.” The answer was simple, her voice even, and it was no great challenge to avoid reacting. He was used to her dismissing him, to the way she questioned and then brushed off anything she didn’t care for. However, as she turned to face him he wondered if tonight might be different, somehow. “Or perhaps just charming.” That, he had to work to not react to. It was not the first time she had given him some kind of compliment, but it was by far the most direct, and the only one that had not contained some edge of contempt. “You fascinate me, Solas. The twists and turns of your mind. The way you bristle at our empire. The horror in your eyes when you look at the slaves.” He had grown very stiff, appalled to realize how much had been visible. He had done his utmost to contain his reactions, but had clearly failed. “Why do you care so much about them?”
“I care about all people, All-Mother,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes despite the weight of her gaze on him. He flinched slightly when she raised her hand, and did not settle as she drew the back of her fingers across his cheeks. The gentleness was more puzzling than a strike would have been.
“Solas,” she said with enough force that he had to turn to face her. She searched his eyes for something and after a tense moment she smiled in a way that softened her entire face. “In private, like this, please call me Mythal.” He blinked, startled on a number of levels; to be asked to address her so candidly, by name... and by her ‘please.’
“I...” he trailed off, for once entirely at a loss for how to respond. Her smile grew at that, although it stayed warm.
“Surely you are aware by now,” she began, “that Elgar’nan will take whoever he pleases.” He barely resisted the urge to glance away, to try and gather his wits, for this conversation had taken a deeply unexpected turn. She paused, staring at him. “Have you not wondered why I spared you, when you came before us with such bold demands?” He frowned, but did not reply. He did not believe he was expected to. And, frankly, he did not understand how the two were connected. Sometimes Mythal was this way, speaking almost in riddles, that one must listen to the entirety of the conversation to finally gather her true meaning. “In moments, my husband or one of my children would have demanded you be killed. Likely right then and there. I saved you, gave you a chance to find your life again, curious what your response would be... whether you’d already given up, or if you would still fight.” She tilted her head as she looked at him, her silver hair catching the light. “I did this because you interested me. Your passion, your zeal, and...” she trailed a finger across his chest, over the fine, delicate robes he wore. “You are a remarkable looking man, Solas.”
Ah.
He supposed it should not come as a surprise. The Evanuris all took what they wanted. Who they wanted. Mythal, for all her seeming willingness to listen to him, was no less accustomed to getting her way than the rest of them.
He knew he could say no. Perhaps she would be disappointed, or feel spurned, but he did not think it would mean his death to turn her down. However, he would almost certainly lose his position as her favored. She would no longer entertain his suggestions or ask his opinions. He considered the feeling of her touch, considered the way the light accentuated her features, the slope of her body evident in her delicate, fitted robes. Considered his own naivete in such matters, known only to him through bearing passive witness. Creatures coming together to couple, the movements of hips, the sweat, the sounds.
As Wisdom, he had been aware of the process, but uninterested beyond acknowledging its existence. As Solas, he had never attempted such a thing and felt wholly out of his depth. Yet he could not deny feeling a peculiar stirring in his stomach and loins. She was beautiful. He had once known it as one might know that the sun is hot; now he realized he knew it as a man, that he saw her beauty as something that was desirable.
She was being patient with him, her finger still light against his chest while she permitted him this time to consider. It was as gratifying as it was surprising, and made him wonder if she wanted this to be something true, or if it was simply important for her to feel she’d played that part. He supposed he may never know.
“Mythal,” he said softly, unclasping his hands to raise them to her own, drawing her hand firmly against his chest. Her eyes widened—it was the briefest show of surprise, but it warmed him, somehow. A thrill at affecting her. She left her one hand within his, palm flat against his chest, while her other rose to his face. He felt her thumb skate across the lower edges of the vallaslin as she stared at him, something hungry and possessive in the way that she noted every inch of him, as if committing this to memory.
He was not surprised when she bent in towards him, her eyes slipping shut, and although he did not know the way of kissing he tried to follow her example. At first it was gentle. Then her hand eased to the back of his neck and there was suddenly more force in the kiss, her lips parting and her tongue pressing at the seam of his mouth until he opened up for her, surprised when she pressed her tongue into his mouth.
It was a curious sensation, but not unpleasant. Once more he felt as if she was mapping him out, dragging her tongue across his and over his teeth, trying to explore every part of him. He felt that if she could, she would look inside him to see his innermost workings. The thought should have disturbed him... instead, it thrilled him. He knew it was foolhardy to want to bare himself to her but such knowledge did not erase the desire.
After mere moments—although it felt much longer—she pulled away with an unfamiliar smirk. “You are inexperienced, Solas,” she teased gently, her thumb now stroking along the arch of his neck, “but you learn quickly. I would see your studies continued.” He met her eyes and nodded. It was no surprise that she marked his inexperience, but he was not naive enough to fail to take her meaning, so it was no more of a surprise when she led him back to her bedchambers.
He knew from having stood guard outside her chamber doors that she and Elgar’nan slept apart. Whether theirs was a marriage of politics or sentiment, he was uncertain, but it was true that he took partners without reserve or attempts to hide what he was doing. He had not seen Mythal doing the same, but it appeared that she was willing. Their kiss had been quite public, as well. Not so bold that it would be seen as disrespectful or flaunting, but visible enough that it would quickly become an open secret that he warmed her bed.
He wondered, briefly, how her children would react, and her husband. If they would seek to kill him for this transgression. She would not risk her life for him, he knew, and whatever protection he had as one of her favored would not spare him from the other Evanuris. He would have to be careful. It was quite likely that some would seek to kill him simply to spite her, Andruil in particular.
Still, he would prefer to keep Mythal’s esteem and her ear than to be reduced in her eyes in an attempt to be safer in court. An attempt which would surely backfire, since her esteem was his primary protector in court; if any of the Evanuris slaughtered him, they would answer to the All-Mother, and the appeal of his demise had not been worth incurring her wrath. Not yet.
For the first time he walked in with her, distantly noting the subdued grandeur of the room, muted and elegant. He was reminded of her throne from that first day, of wealth displayed but not flaunted, of reserve and poise, of each expression, each intonation being a measured, calculated thing. He wondered if she would still be calculating in this, if her every movement was a deliberate demonstration, or if her endless poise would finally fall away, even for a moment.
There was an antechamber that came first, a simple place with a low table and several chairs for entertaining, although he did not believe they were used often, and a large mirror, edged with faceted crystals that threw the light in mesmerizing ways. Luxurious, heavy fabric hung across an arched entry into what must be her private bedchamber, for she led him through it directly. She pushed the fabric aside and he caught it as it began to fall, taking in her room. This was her most private space, with an entire wall dedicated to shelving that held countless books and arcane artifacts, the room bathed in a soft, creamy glow from magelights encased in opaque glass, the opposing wall holding a number of staves. Some were so elegant and complex that he reasoned they were for ceremonial use, while one in particular was incredibly spare and simple, nothing more than a straight piece of wood with metal caps at top and bottom.
She turned and caught him looking, smirking slightly. “Do you enjoy my collection?” She asked, idly stroking a hand across each staff in turn.
“Indeed,” he responded simply, still careful. Her smirk fell away, replaced by a more contemplative expression. He felt laid bare. Not in the way he supposed he would be soon, but as if she was once again looking for the core of him. It was a most disquieting sensation. She closed the distance between them, searching his eyes for long moments before a smile softened her expression and she bent in to kiss him again.
“I wonder,” she breathed between kisses, “what I must do to make you act.” Is that what she was waiting for? What she wanted from him, to see him come undone with need, to push them together, to let her feel exactly what she was doing to him?
So be it.
He bit at her lower lip and swallowed her gasp, pushing them both towards her bed. She let herself be maneuvered, then pushed down, her long silver hair splayed across the dark blue bedding to create a beautiful juxtaposition. Like the night sky.
When her hands rose to the clasp at the neck of his robe he tilted his head up to make it easier, shrugging the heavy garment aside as soon as it was loosened enough. Underneath he was bare-chested with fitted breeches, all in somber, cool colors, as was all the clothing he’d been given since coming here. She seemed to appreciate it, for she took her time analyzing his body, her bright eyes trailing across him and her warm hands following.
Her own outfit was... complex. He saw numerous fastenings and her dark bodice was tightly laced across the front, laid over a flowing top with wide sleeves gathered at the wrists, every seam featuring rich embroidery. Her skirts seemed just as complex, with the outermost layer being akin to a leather armor but more ceremonial and delicately embossed, and underneath lay a fuller skirt that split across the front, revealing a third—and final?—underneath. He didn’t even know where to begin and she met his wandering eyes with obvious amusement before pushing him to the side and rising once more.
He watched as she methodically undid fastenings and lacings in order, marking the progression for future reference, for her intentions here were plain. Next time he would be the one expected to undress her. He did not find himself opposed to this. Not to a next time, nor to the idea of his hands on her, revealing her body by slow degrees just as she was doing now.
Finally she was in nothing save her undergarments and the milky leather wraps that adorned her arms and legs, a supple, clinging outline that sparked the imagination. She arched a brow imperiously and he swallowed, only taking her meaning a moment later and shifting to unlace his own breeches, pushing them down and kicking them away impatiently. She smiled at his haste but her brow did not lower and he felt strangely vulnerable as he obeyed the unspoken command, lowering his smalls to toss them aside as well, letting her mark his rigid member with clear interest. “Admirable,” she announced as she approached him, trailing her fingertips across his thighs. The feathered touch woke gooseflesh and he shivered, flushing as his cock twitched. “But do you know how to use it?” There was a teasing lilt to her question and the way she observed him through lidded eyes.
He bit his lip before grabbing her waist and pushing her down to the bed once more. For a brief moment her eyes widened and the room surged with a static charge that prickled along his skin; next she was laughing, looking nothing like one of the all-powerful Evanuris and everything like an ordinary, amused woman, her cheeks stained with humor and desire alike. “It appears a demonstration is in order,” he told her, something growing tight in his chest as she gasped, her legs spreading slightly, perhaps unconsciously.
There was a wet spot on her smalls. He felt dizzy with want, glancing up at her before easing down her body until he arrived at the soft fabric and her lush scent. He met her eyes once more as he drew his tongue across her folds through the cloth, her hips jerking up against his face as she gasped. He held her hips as he closed his eyes and focused on his work, laving his tongue across her lips, stunned by his own need for this. Was this arousal? Desire? This surge of powerful sensation in his stomach, the ache of his cock, a part of himself he’d been largely impassive about until this moment? He drew back to admire the saturation of the cloth, his saliva and her want alike bleeding through, slicking it against her shape until it was all but displayed.
He wanted to see it truly displayed, though, wanted to see her, to taste her, in full and without any lingering barrier. He met her eyes until she smiled her acquiescence, then slipped his fingers beneath the hem of the material, watching the faint shiver that stole over her as the soaked fabric pulled away from her center. She leaned back on her elbows and lifted her hips to allow it to pass down her legs and he gently set it aside, attention fixed on the sparse silver hair surrounding reddened, damp lips.
He rubbed at the seam of her folds with his thumb, delighted with the way her breath caught, before he pulled at one side, spreading her open. “You are quite studious, Solas,” she said, and he did not know what to make of it.
“Is that a bad thing?” He asked, intrigued by the slight spasm that his breath elicited.
“I would see your studies more applied,” was her answer and he smiled, bending in and drawing his tongue directly against her yielding flesh. She hummed appreciatively, her hips rising to meet his face as he began to set a rhythm. He drew up from her center and across her lips to the faint mound at her peak, observing her reactions carefully. “Use your mouth on my clit,” she ordered and he pulled back, tilting his head questioningly. She stared at him for a moment before laughing, dropping back to the bed. “My, you are ignorant! Here—” she drew her fingers down against herself, spreading her lips wide before drawing up and across a small protrusion, shifting the layer of skin from it to reveal the a swollen node. “This. Suck on it.”
He obediently bent forward and sealed his lips around it. Around her clit, the word sinking in. A new term, a new application, a new way. Something to learn. Something to practice. She sighed as he set to work, alternating between sucking and dragging his tongue across it, monitoring her for reactions. She was clearly very sensitive here and he stroked across the soft skin of her inner thighs as he focused on pleasing her, meeting each thrust of her hips as she moved under his ministrations. “Good,” she said breathily, her voice sending a shocking pulse of desire through him, “keep doing that and put your fingers in my cunt.” He had a suspicion as to what she meant, but once more he pulled back and tilted his head. She was already looking down at him as if expecting this, slipping her own hand back down to demonstrate. He watched as her fingers drew down, down, down... and then began to push in, opening herself up. She pulled her hand away after a moment and pushed her fingers against his lips until he opened up, dragging his tongue across the taste of her. “Good,” she praised again as she stroked across his tongue before withdrawing. “Now, make me come.”
That much he understood, although he was unfamiliar with the specific terminology. But to finish, to crest, to reach that point where bodies arched and shivered, when people gasped and moaned, that much he knew from his passive observations. He renewed his efforts, using his mouth on her clit while he sank two fingers into her cunt, mesmerized by the wet warmth that surrounded him, the flesh pliant until it contracted around him in time with her gasp. He pushed until his fingers were entirely seated within her, then he began to move in and out, trying to replicate the basic movements he’d seen before. She made an approving noise and spread her legs wider, pushing back against his mouth and hand in turn.
He could taste her lingering flavor, rich and thick, and wanted more—but he focused on performing his duty even as her slick curled around his fingers tantalizingly. His eyes slipped shut as he pleased her, exploring her internal walls, stroking against her insides as he moved back and forth. At one point he curled his fingers in her until he brushed against something that felt different and she gasped sharply, a rush of fresh fluid coating his fingers. So he focused on that area, rubbing and pressing it as she moaned. “Yes, yes, just like that—” she arched sharply and her cunt tightened around his fingers, making it a challenge to continue massaging that spot deep in her. Her hips jerked a few times and he realized with a jolt that she had reached orgasm. The knowledge sent a surge of hot lust through him, his cock absolutely aching with need. He noticed belatedly that he was thrusting up against nothing, so desperate for his release even as she finished riding her own, her legs trembling around him. He kept sucking on her clit and slowly moving within her until she groaned and pulled away, leaving him feeling strangely bereft, unmoored. As if the space between her legs was the only thing that could ground him.
He raised his eyes to her face to find her watching him intently, her cheeks and ears flushed and her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths. Suddenly she smirked, eyes flashing, and sat up entirely to cup his face. “You need, don’t you?” Her voice was a purr, thick and warm and low, and the words seemed to sink into his core the way his fingers had sunk into hers. “Solas. Put your cock in me.” Each sentence was a lesson, he knew, and he absorbed it all. “Fuck me. Fill me.” He shivered and rose, settling between her legs as she laid back. He took a moment to admire her, and to stare at the sight they made together—his cock laid against her lips, slick with her recent finish and from his tongue; the way her breasts moved smoothly with each deep breath, her protruding nipples, the flush in her face. And when he dragged himself against her she gasped, revealing the flash of white teeth and the faintest hint of a pink tongue.
He was fascinated by everything. Even the parts he knew, the anatomy he was familiar with, was suddenly rendered new to him in this context. The muscles revealed in her arms as she shifted again, the line her tendon made along her neck as she tilted her head, her long, dark lashes outlined against her cheeks as she blinked. He wanted to preserve every detail in perfect memory. She looked amused and faintly curious as he stared at her, as if waiting to see how long he could bear it... and in truth, not much longer. He ached with need, cock pulsing occasionally against her soft lips. He wanted so badly to be inside her.
So he shifted back, shivering as his length was drawn across her moist folds, then let himself drift down towards the opening he had penetrated with his fingers. He started pushing in, watching her face for signs of discomfort, uncertain how easily she would be able to bear this—he was thicker than his two fingers, after all—but she seemed to tolerate it well, eyes fluttering closed as a slow, pleased sigh escaped her. He kept going until they were flush, having to pause there, both to enjoy the sensation and because he felt dangerously close to something profound. He had to assume it was his own orgasm. “You’re not going to last, are you?” She asked quietly and he squeezed his eyes shut, strangely humiliated. “It is your first time. Do not fear, you will rise again—and when you do, you will use your cock to please me. For now... find your release.”
He slowly opened his eyes to meet her steady gaze, something grounding in the way she looked at him. Whatever she wanted of him, whatever she thought of him, she would not begrudge him this weakness. So with a sharp gasp he started moving, letting his hips find their own way, that strange pressure increasing moment by moment. It came as a surprise, a rush of overwhelming sensation, his head thrown back with a low growl as his cock pulsed inside her, emptying his seed deep within her. It was glorious, a moment of existing purely within his flesh and his need, followed by a deep satiation he had never experienced before.
"Well done," she told him, and something in her voice soothed him even further. He was learning, and she was teaching, but she did not seem to resent the role. Not here, not now. She had said he would rise again, and although that felt like an impossibility, he trusted her experience in this.
She did not hurry him, though. He remained within her, hands braced beside her even though all he wanted to do was collapse against her warm, soft chest and recover. Instead he stared, and when she cradled the back of his head and drew him down, he went readily.
She kissed him. He knew this now, and met the kiss in kind. A moment later he even dared to thread his fingers through her hair, deeply pleased with the way the simple gesture made her tighten around his softening cock. Curious, he trailed his fingernails lightly across her scalp and the soft groan she pressed between them was a visceral delight.
He wanted to please her. It was part of why he'd agreed to this, part of why he'd followed her here, but now it seemed the most important thing. She was so real here, so tangible… no longer a distant ruler, but a living, breathing woman who reacted to his touch.
He did not know what he was to her. Whether it was a matter of convenience, simple attraction, or any truer affection, but even if it was the latter, he knew she would not change for him. Whether in her bedchambers or outside them, they would remain apart. And they must. To usurp or weaken her position would be foolish in the extreme, for Mythal was the only one left who cared about the Elvhen people. She was the only one who slowed the tide of violence and possession, even that she could not stem it entirely.
In many ways, they were inherently opposed.
In many ways, they were allies.
But for this moment, it felt possible to set all else aside. To acknowledge that he lay here, over and inside her, not for politics or self-preservation, but for desire. He wanted her, wanted this, and wanted to make her feel good.
He would never bend his head as far as he ought to. He would always bow a little shallower than was right. But he was entirely willing to worship her at this altar, to find and free her pleasure like it was his own.
So when her hips twitched against his own, he bit his lip and started moving. It ached, in a strange way; like stretching too far, a warm and not entirely unpleasant pain. But his efforts seemed to gratify her and he continued, slow and steady until he felt himself beginning to harden once again. Apparently all it required was ongoing action… and perhaps some time.
"Even now," she told him, with only a slight hitch in her voice as he kept moving, "I witness the gears turning. I would know you, little Pride. I would know what your mind conjures."
"You know me," he managed, voice uncharacteristically thick, "of all people, you know me best. You know me."
"Do I?" Barely a question, but he nodded anyway. She did, and to a degree that ought to disturb him. "I know parts. But you hide well. Too often I have seen you carefully tuck reaction away, cover it over with polite artifice. I know that I do not know you." Somehow, the way she said it did not make it into an accusation. If anything, she seemed fond.
Still, he should respond. There was much he would never speak, but some…
"I am thinking," he told her, letting his voice drop, deepen, "about the way you feel around me. I am thinking about how wet you are. I am thinking about how terribly I desire to please you, to see you react." She smirked at his obvious deflection, but did not protest. Not least, he thought, because it seemed to aroused her further.
"And?"
"How badly I want this. How little I knew. How much you have taught, and how much I would learn."
"Is this humility I sense, my Pride?"
"Need I humble myself," he said as he kept his pace, "to honor you?"
"Would you honor me?" He paused, tilting his head. The question seemed absurd.
"Always."
She blinked, and for a moment he swore he saw a flicker of raw emotion cross her face. Something far too vulnerable, far too real… something almost frightening to bear witness to. There and gone too fast to be certain it was no mere trick of the light.
"Would Pride bend his knee?"
"Far be it for me to call you mistaken, All-Mother," he said slowly, carefully. Warmly. "But I have, and will again. I honor you freely."
"As you must," she pointed out and he nodded.
"Yes. As I must. I am lucky, then, that I must honor one I would so choose."
She stared at him silently, then slowly ran her hands up his bare waist. Her touch was so gentle that he shivered, skin prickling. "If that is so," she sounded thoughtful now, almost like she was talking to herself, "then show me. Show me who you are. Show me what you want. In my bed, do not service me. Do not worship me. Show me how you choose to honor me." A smile, with just the edge of bitterness. "Here, you are to be my equal."
He stared at her for a long time, then. She let him.
Then he bent in, eyes on hers until he got too close. "Mythal," he whispered before kissing her, "Mythal," he breathed against her lips before claiming them again.
"Solas," the way she said his name overwhelmed, and he began rocking his hips against her once more.
He did not know if he could do as bid. Did not know how much would truly be permitted. But he knew that he wanted to try, and that he wanted to believe her, at least for this moment. Always, he had been hers. The only Evanuris he gave his loyalty to, and the only one he ever would.
She was stained by the actions of her people, her family. Stained by her complicity. But he knew; knew she could not stem the tide, could not quell Elgar'nan, could not change history. She could guide the future, but she did not risk her position, instead using her influence to ease, to limit.
Half-measures. As infuriating as they are understandable, and always the dissonance had been a tension within him. She was unable to transform the other Evanuris by bare degrees, and her efforts only served to blunt the blade that still drew across necks.
But he knew.
Damnably, he knew.
"Mm," her voice was a purr, sweet and warm, "I can feel you thinking."
He trailed a line of kisses along her jaw and down her neck, chest growing tight as she tilted her head to give him access. "I am," he agreed. Or admitted.
"I would know your thoughts." It was not an order, but nor was it a request. A statement. He continued kissing her neck as he considered.
Then, bold—too bold—he decided.
"You are no god," he whispered against her pulse. For a moment she stiffened beneath him, then surprised him by laughing, her legs rising to wrap around his hips.
"As you say." Now she was the one agreeing, beginning to roll her hips against his. She set a new rhythm and he followed it, settling on kissing at the swell of her throat. "Are you thinking of killing me? Ripping my throat out, your first success?" Now he was the one to still, the thought twisting painfully in his stomach and causing him to soften. He nuzzled against the side of her neck, and after a moment she raised her hands to his head, holding him close.
"Never," he swore, and felt the shift as she swallowed.
"Solas…" she seemed to want to say more, but sighed instead. Then she unwound her legs from him and pushed him away and he thought she was done, surprised when she encouraged him to lay on her bed. This felt strange, somehow more intimate than what they had been doing until now. She settled in against his side and her hand lowered to his cock, delicate fingers wrapping around him.
"No–" he protested weakly, then gasped as she squeezed.
"Shall I stop?" The question was pressed against his ear and he shivered, eyes shut tight.
"It is… you shouldn't have to…"
"Shall I stop?" She insisted, her hand still in place but unmoving. He drew in a slow, shaky breath.
"No."
He arched as she started moving over him, the sensation overwhelming as she drew him back to hardness. He realized with a burst of embarrassment that he was panting, squirming under her ministrations. Over and over she drew the layer of skin over his tip and then below it, and he paid just as much attention to that catching, tactile pleasure as to the warm pressure of her hand.
But this was clearly not her end goal. He barely swallowed a protest when she suddenly released him, meeting her eyes to find her smirking knowingly, then distracted as she moved.
She settled over him, spreading her lips wide with two fingers before slowly sinking down onto his cock. He reacted rather than thought, reaching out to grab hold of her hips as he resisted the urge to thrust up into her tight, wet warmth. "I am not a god," she agreed as she took his full length in, her weight across his lap. "I am a woman. I desire. I love. I bleed." She began to move, lifting a little before easing back down, each motion slow and deep. "See me. See us. Know us for what we are."
He was reeling, struggling to keep up with what she was saying and what she was doing simultaneously. It also confused him… did she want to be challenged, to have the Evanuris be challenged? Did she want him to fight? Was she setting him up to die, to be killed? He did not know. He did not.
So he said nothing, but she not a god. She was not divinity. She could be touched. So he tightened his grip and lifted her, watching her face intently for any sign of disapproval, but she seemed pleased instead. He lowered her, only to do it again, and slowly he began to thrust in time.
He kept that up for a bit, but then found himself impatient, desiring more touch, so he spread his legs and eased upright, arms now wrapped around her. She seemed a little surprised but still pleased, keeping steady pace with him, and he kissed her again.
It was so intense like this. An act he had never imagined was meant for him, of interest to him… but here he was, desperate and flushed and wanting. And with her. With Mythal. He was kissing her, he was touching her, he was within her, cradled by her warmth. Pressed skin against skin. And she was no god. She was not divine, she was flesh and blood and want and need. She was flawed and glorious. She was strong. She was weak. She was brave, she was frightened. She was real.
She was real.
Her pace changed. Instead of the smooth, steady motion, it began to grow a little more erratic, and at times she ground hard against him. He stared hard at her face, working to memorize every tiny hint of her pure pleasure, this gift of a bright moment given without reserve. And when she tossed her head back, when she gasped and stiffened in his arms, when her warm depths suddenly grew hot and wet, he found he could no longer hold himself back. He rocked against her until, with a shaking sigh, he spilled within her once more.
He buried his face against the side of her neck, heart racing as he struggled to catch his breath. The sensation of flagging within her was a strange one, but not exactly unpleasant; a little embarassing when he softened enough to slip free, but her small sound blunted any feeling of shame. He hissed when some of his own seed—mixed now with her slick—followed and trailed a cooling line across his cock. Still, they did not move.
"Stay with me tonight," she said, stroking down his bare back, and he nodded where he was pressed in against her neck.
She was so powerful. All the Evanuris were. But she was a person, no different than him, no different than the slaves, no different than anyone else. He wanted, as she did; she was weak, as he was. They were both flawed.
In this moment, in the hushed privacy of her chambers, her weight atop him, it felt like they belonged together. It felt like they should always be this way. So when she eventually dismounted him and laid in bed, he followed readily, pressing into her embrace, against her bare flesh. Breathing in her scent.
Time passed. He spent many nights in her bed, but not all. And he bore his bitter jealously the few times Elgar'nan was within her chambers instead. She did not speak of these times, and he did not ask.
One such night, he had been standing guard outside her chambers when Elgar'nan arrived. The god—no, the man—gave him a long, searching look, then sneered before going inside. There was no anger in that look, only contempt. It rankled, but it was easier to bear than Elgar'nan's famous fury.
To the All-Father, Solas was immaterial. A tool for Mythal's pleasure, her relief. It did not come as a surprise, for Elgar'nan even treated his own children with a similar contempt. To him, all others existed to serve him, in some manner or other; Mythal to love him, his children to uplift him, and all other Elvhen to obey him.
Privately, Solas wondered at their relationship. Did they love one another? Had they ever? Or was it a matter of politics, of genetics, of two powers coming together in order to give rise to further power, a legacy? They sat side by side in court, but in all his years, he had never witnessed any moment of affection between them. He tried to counsel himself against such considerations, for there were far more pressing matters to occupy his mind, but he struggled with it.
He was, after all, a person. And as much as he wanted to deny it…
He was in love with Mythal. He had known for some time. And known just as well how impossible it was, how untenable any true relationship between them would be. He loved her still.
The season began to shift. He did not notice anything amiss, not at first. That he was not called to her chambers for a time did not come as a surprise. But as the days passed without any sign of her, he began to become curious. Curiosity slowly shifted to concern.
He tried, again, to counsel himself against this. These feelings were not his right: outside of her bedchambers, he must serve her. But, in truth, it was not so simple a thing. Standing guard next to her now carried with it a different weight, a different knowledge of her proximity. There was no strict division to be carved between his duty and his desire, the two blurring together, edges fraying.
Still, he could not press. He could not take the lead here.
Days passed. His concerns grew. He was distracted, ill at ease, all his ceaseless planning beginning to feel muddled. He wished desperately that he could slice this weakness free of himself, evict it with a surgical precision. He must be focused, committed, unburdened by this damnable sentiment.
But he was only a man. A weak and foolish man, who loved someone he should not.
And when he was, eventually, summoned to her chambers once more, he tried to quell the fear and joy that were as equals within his heart. He entered her antechamber, only to find it empty. It felt bold to enter her private bedchambers on his own, yet she had invited him. So he swallowed and pushed forward, finding her seated on the edge of her bed.
He was overjoyed to see her. And distracted. So it was not until she stood that he realized something was different. He stared at her swollen belly and felt faint.
"Given the timing," she said, with a casual air that he knew had to be false, "it is yours."
A child. A child in her belly. He did not know what to do, what to say. He swallowed, and he met her eyes, and he said nothing.
She did not seem surprised.
"I had not thought it would… ah, but it did. It has been some time. Elgar'nan sought more children for our empire, but many attempts yielded nothing. I had thought myself barren." She shook her head, and he noticed her hair was loose. The mundane observation felt absurd. "Yet, your seed took. Come. Sit." She sat first, a hint of strain around her eyes. His steps felt wooden as he crossed the distance and sat near her. Near, but not touching. "May I admit something to you, Solas?"
"Anything." It was the first word out of his mouth since he had entered, and it was spoken with an earnest rush. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
"I fear for this child."
His heart sank.
He had not wanted to see it. Or to believe it. Elgar'nan was… brutal, yes. But he had wanted to believe Mythal was spared that side of him. Despite his jealousy, he had always wanted to—chosen to—believe that Elgar'nan treated her with kindness, with respect, with an affection he did not display in the public eye.
"You fear for me, now. Do not." It was chiding, but spoken softly. "I am more than capable of navigating his moods. I can please him. I can calm him. And he comes to me to be calmed. It is sufficient." Sufficient. What an ugly word. But he kept his silence, unwilling to give voice to any of the thousands of words crowding his throat. "The child, though… once born, if it bears your likeness, he will not tolerate that." She settled a hand over her stomach. Protectively, he realized.
"We should leave." He blurted it out without thinking, and her smile turned grim. But still he pressed on, determined now—or frantic, perhaps. "We should leave. You and I. You have never sought to stop me, so why not join me? We can leave, we can keep the child safe, and we can work together to free the Elvhen people. We can create a new society, a just society–"
"This is the most I have ever heard you speak," she interrupted, and he snapped his mouth shut. But she shook her head. "It is tempting, I will not lie. But you know what I do here."
"You blunt his fury, but you do not stop it." Too honest. Too bitter. The lines around her eyes deepened, her smile faded, and he chided himself for a fool. "That was undeserved."
"And accurate." He hated her voice now. The bitterness of it, the self-loathing. "What else can I do? If I leave, if I turn my back on this, his wrath will be unstoppable. He will…" when she could not bring herself to finish the sentence, understanding suddenly slotted into place. Of course.
"Your children," he said flatly. She nodded.
"They are twisted," she admitted, "but they are mine. How can I fault them their survival? How can I flee, and leave them to a fate they do not deserve?"
He was so naive. To imagine he could whisk her away, start a rebellion with the All-Mother at his side, raise their child in safety… all the while ignoring that she had children here. He knew them. He had grown to loathe them as they'd grown, changed. But, as she said, they were hers; and as he now recognized, they were shaped by Elgar'nan's wrath.
"What of this child?"
"I do not know." She wrapped both arms around her stomach, now. "I do not know." How he wanted to embrace her, to hold her… how he wanted to kill Elgar'nan, to liberate Arlathan from the plague of his rage…
Useless, all.
"I serve you," was what he said, and he tried to ignore the drops of moisture on her skirts. "I will do as you say." It was all he could do. All he could offer.
It was not enough.
Days passed without a word. Then weeks. Then, late at night, he was woken by a runner who looked shaken, told he was needed immediately in Mythal's chambers. He did not waste time questioning them. For all the times he had been summoned, he had never been 'needed immediately' in her chambers. Something was wrong.
When he got there, the curtains shrouding her bedchamber were torn down and laid in a pile, and Mythal was…
She was alive. But she was seated on the floor, her hair in disarray, and her eyes red-rimmed and raw. She looked up at him and he knew something was horribly wrong.
"I wanted to," she said, with a voice that shook. "I really wanted to. I had all but decided. Me, you, and this child. I would try. We would try. You would… I think you would have been a good father."
"Mythal, what…"
"I lost it." Fresh tear tracks streamed down her face, following old lines. "I lost it. The child. Your child. I–" He rushed to her and embraced her, unaware that he was crying until he saw wet against his sleeves. She held him in turn, and they stayed like that all night. Over and over again she told him that she had lost it, and over and over again he tried to offer whatever shallow, meaningless comfort he could.
He asked questions: was she well? She had nodded. Had the healers come? She had nodded. It was as if she could say nothing else, nothing different. It was as if she was trying to make herself believe it. She was safe, but the child was gone. His child. Their child.
Gone.
Yet, even in its immortality, Arlathan would not wait. As dawn crept across them, as sunlight eased into the room, she had pulled away. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when she opened them to meet his, there was nothing gentle in her expression. She was imperious, now. "You are dismissed," she told him, and he nodded, drawing upon his own years of practice to cover his pain, his grief. Neither of them could indulge in this despair, not outwardly at least. This had been their night. Their last night. Their last comfort.
He had lost her.