Chapter Text
PART 1: DEATH
Jote had not always regarded her duty with the reverence she does now.
When the Undying came for her, she had no mother or father to speak for her fate, only a foster caretaker who lauded her quiet nature and impressive dexterity for a girl of eight summers. Soon, they whisked her away to a castle in the Duchy of Rosaria, where a girl not five years her senior would entrust her with her duty — their duty.
We serve the Phoenix, she said.
When they’d brought her into the courtyard to glimpse the future duke to whom her life was now bound, her skin was bristling with electric excitement. Yet said Phoenix was not the Dominant the tales told of: no snarling beast, towering giant, nor whirling firestorm — just a boy, spindly and sickly and small, barely older than a toddler, shadowed by servants and an overattentive mother, fussing about him as his tiny hands searched the flowerbed for insects.
She still remembered how her heart had dropped into her stomach, weighed down with disappointment, the sudden realization that the broad future she’d yet to write for herself was now gone from her reach. Though she would be vigorously trained and tutored, Jote would be no warrior or scholar. Her skills were not for herself, but for that boy, that lord. She was beholden to the will of her master, no better than a common servant or Bearer, save for the secretive nature of those who had taken ownership of her.
Jote did not lament long. How could she, when there were so many others sharing the same burden, her age or younger? Their fates would not change. They would learn their histories of the realms, study the maths and languages they’d need for coding messages, hone their skill with blades and knives to be ready to protect the Phoenix and their fellow Undying. In time, she came to learn the importance of the duty chosen for her, how their service had shaped the life and deeds of the Phoenix come before him, why their tutelage would prepare them to do the same for the Phoenix when he came of age amidst the threat of the Iron Kingdom’s invasion, encroaching blight, and an all-too-militaristic Empire hungry for new lands to control.
At the very least, if she could not shape her own fate, then she could at least shape his.
Fate, however, was never one to be tamed by the likes of men.
A horizon blackened by war. Mutiny, betrayal, attempted kinslaying, a second Dominant of Fire. Tutors rushing her from the castle as blades clashed with steel and smoke poisoned the air. Blood spilled in dripping pools on stone steps, catching on the dragging fabric of her robe, streaking across the cobbles as they made a panicked escape.
Days later, when the Undying bore the Phoenix safely to their hideaway in the Blight, she felt compelled to see him. Stealing away from the barracks long past midnight, she crept into his room, joining the attendant keeping watch. His tiny body, bloodied and broken, half-healed burns cutting across his pale skin like canyons through rock; his brow and lips twisted with pain and sorrow. Tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as, even in sleep, he called for his brother, his father, the life promised to him that had been so violently stripped away.
He wasn’t the Phoenix. He was no Dominant or Duke.
He was just a little boy.
Jote could not keep herself from weeping.
She felt the bonds of duty lacing tight around her heart. Her own fate be damned. She would do everything in her power to right the wrongs that had dashed his fate. She would be strong enough to protect him, to keep him from harm, to ensure he had a place, had a family, had a fate he could call his own.
Jote would not weep again.
As the Phoenix recovered, she redoubled her efforts to learn, improve, grow stronger still. She reached for opportunities to prove herself, wrote coded letters to their colleagues, sparred with men twice her age, sifted through hundreds of tomes to find the few sentences of information they sought. Whenever she closed her eyes, she returned to that night, remembered the fire and smoke and the tears rolling down his perfect cheeks.
Not again. Never again.
Words that became a constant mantra as the realms shifted around them. Warring armies split the land like shattered glass, rendering it untraversable by common means, driving the Undying from their hideaways to ensure the safety of their charge. Weeks spent disguised as traders, refugees, mercenaries, boots crunching on the dry, black foliage of the ever-expanding Blight. Valisthea was dying all around them, and as the years pressed on, it became clear to both the Undying and the Phoenix himself that something must be done, and they would be the ones to undertake that seemingly impossible task.
Jote’s devotion to their newfound cause did not go unrecognized. As the most skilled and capable of the younglings the Undying had recruited, she was soon charged with accompanying the Phoenix at all times as his personal attendant. Her joy was quickly overshadowed by guilt, however. She’d wanted that honor ever since the fall of the Duchy, true, but wanting felt like a betrayal. Her duty was all that mattered. Her desires could hinder those duties. Selfishness had no place in the Undying. No matter her wants, she must remain devoted.
Devotion and guilt could do nothing to hinder the slow, seeping growth of those wants.
How could they, when she was by his side to witness his coming of age?
The small, sickly boy steadily grew out of his weakness, finally blessed with good health. Sorrow hardened into darksteel resolve, determination, a proclivity for hard work. He, too, studied, trained, forged himself into the leader they needed—both the Undying and the languishing isles. He accepted the duties shouldered by his title and took ownership of the Undying’s quest to bring salvation to Valisthea, all with the same boyish smile spread across his lips.
That smile would only be the beginning of her troubles.
From her vantage as his attendant, Jote watched as his shoulders broadened, his spine lengthened, his voice deepened, hair darkened from russet blonde to vibrant red. As he matured, he grew into the confidence he embodied, no longer a boy struggling with the weight of his station, but a young man strong and ready to lead his people to victory. Yet despite the importance of said station and his noble blood, that confidence never broached the realm of arrogance. He was always kind, always polite, to commoner and Bearer alike, quick to express gratitude or offer apologies. His chivalrous nature, when encountered in tandem with his all-too-handsome features, were enough to render any man or woman speechless.
Jote’s resolve barely stood a chance.
As they began their solo travels, unbidden thoughts began to plague her besotted mind. A light brush of his shoulder became an imagined embrace; a polite smile was suddenly infused with desperate need; a quiet “good night” twisted itself into a barely-whispered “I love you.”
Each instance drove a spike of guilt into her stomach.
She would never abandon her duty, could never imagine sullying the nigh-sacred bond between them with her own shameful desires. There would be no take, only give, and she would give him her all: her prowess, her skill, her very will, even her name, if need be. She was the Phoenix’s Attendant, and she would embody that title with the whole of her being.
When she turned to her own pleasure, she banished all thoughts of her master to a dim corner of her mind, replacing what would be his figure with a doppelganger from another life, one never lived: a lover with skin not as fair, hair far too dark, with hands and words that were never gentle. The shadow groped and tore at her, as if to punish her for even deigning to consider that other in his place.
Do your duty, it growled, driving deep into her core. It’s all you’re good for.
But sometimes, her focus wavered, and it was his voice speaking those rough words from beyond the veil of shadow, and Jote did not have the strength to stay her hand.
The shame that turned her stomach afterwards drove her to attend to her duties with newfound aplomb. Knowing that, she let her feelings ferment, bottled tightly within that dim crevice of her heart. She would never act upon them, only use them to ensure she performed her duties all the better. That, in turn, would keep them from harming or hindering.
How foolish she was to think that flicker of a flame could be kept from burning herself alive.
The sound of chirping insects and wind whispering through tree branches nearly drowned out the crackling of the dying fire lending the last of its warmth to the cookpot hung above. Jote carefully steadied it as she scraped the last dregs of their stew from the tarnished bottom: rehydrated jerky, carrots, potatoes, and fresh herbs she’d plucked from the still-fertile Rosarian soil. With her bowl half-full, she took a few steps back to join her master for dinner on a rock adjacent to his.
“Will that be enough, Jote?” Joshua asked, ever-discerning.
She dismissed his concerns with a shake of her head. “More than enough, thank you.”
A quick glance showed he’d begun to eat, so Jote gave herself leave to do the same. The jerky was a bit too chewy, but the balance of herbs was just right. She made a mental note to stew the meat longer next time.
“The air is far cooler than I remember,” he mused aloud. “Gladly, we have this stew to warm us.”
“Last we passed south of Auldhyl, it was midsummer.” Jote replied. “Much hotter, and quite humid.”
Joshua chuckled. “Stiflingly so. I have the utmost respect for the people who endure those summers of their own volition.”
“Indeed. Rosalith is fortunate to have the sea breeze to quench the summer heat.”
“It nearly made the moisture in the air bearable.”
The conversation faded, allowing for a few spoonfuls of stew.
“Will we be taking the same path as before?”
Jote swallowed quickly, then answered. “Yes, Your Grace. The Undying report increased Imperial patrols along the main road. It would be dangerous to attempt passage, even under disguise.”
“I see.” Joshua tapped his foot. “Through the mountains, then.”
“Correct. The hunting trail is well-maintained, and we should pass without notice, provided we extinguish any flames before sunset.”
“T’would be easy to spot us on the ridge.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Another pause; another few bites.
“The sunrise will be spectacular.”
Jote smiled and cocked a brow. “If you are awake to see it, Your Grace.”
He returned her playful expression with one of his own. “You would not wake me for it, Jote?”
“I am not wont to provoke the ire of the Phoenix,” she quipped, “not when his slumber is paramount to his pleasant demeanor.”
“Whenever have I been less than pleasant upon waking?”
Jote raised both brows. A moments later, they were both chuckling into their stew.
She enjoyed these idle conversations, and how casually they could speak with one another in private. There was naught else to capture their attention on their long travels, and discussions on current affairs and future plans could only fill so much of their time. They spoke of life before the Empire took the Duchy, of rainy days and wildlife, of childhood stories and the meanings they embodied. She asked him of his interests, of his thoughts and plans, and he did the same in turn, never out of obligation, but genuine curiosity and care. Their relationship was stronger than the bonds her duty demanded, and Jote would treasure it always.
The scraping of metal on wood turned her attention back to him, and, seeing he was finishing his meal, Jote hastily spooned her remaining stew into her overfull mouth. She’d barely swallowed when he set the bowl down into his lap, dainty hands curled around it.
“Another delicious meal, Jote.” His eyes crinkled with genuine joy. “How fortunate I am to enjoy your culinary talents so regularly.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Beneath her soft smile, she quelled the rising flutter of her heart.
He placed the bowl in her outstretched hand and stood. “Until morning, then.”
Her other hand caught his wrist before he could turn away.
“Your Grace.”
Their eyes met. She stacked his bowl atop hers, but kept her grip on him firm.
Joshua tried to dismiss her implicit command with another winning smile. “I feel no pain today, Jote.”
“All the more reason to ensure that trend continues.”
Jote kept her gaze on him, strong and unyielding. His lips twisted silently, likely trying to find an excuse that would placate her. None would, though, and he knew it all too well.
“…very well,” Joshua sighed, slumping back down into his makeshift seat.
Silently celebrating her victory, she released his wrist and reached for the small leather skin containing her most recent batch of painkilling salve, which she’d placed close by knowing he would attempt to evade her yet again.
“Shoulders back, if you please.”
He adjusted his posture as commanded, lifting his chest for her. Jote slid down to her knees before him and reached for the ties of his shirt, unlacing the loose knot and pulling it open.
Just beneath his sternum, the crystal embedded in his skin and bone shone with a dim blue light. The skin around it was red, bruised, and swollen, as if the stone was battling his flesh for dominion, but yet to win new ground. Four years had passed since the Phoenix sealed a malevolent god within him, and in that time, she had watched as the pinprick of light grew into the crystalline tumor in his chest. The Undying examined it, both after the fall of the Mothercrystal at Oriflamme and periodically afterwards, but could not determine what could be done to aid their master further. No precedent existed in literature, nor would they know how harboring a God within one’s body would affect a Dominant’s life expectancy. Their only recourse was to keep any wounded flesh clean and soothe any pain the containment caused.
…if His Grace ever spoke true about the pain it caused him, Jote thought.
Joshua had few flaws, but one in particular was the bane of her duty. That would be his dismissal or outright denial of any ills, pains, or troubles that would require her assistance. He hid his suffering well, but Jote knew his tells by now: a twitch of his lip, a narrowing of his eyes, a skipped breath as he held back any noise. She had to needle him to force any kind of admission, but even then he would insist he could endure. There was always some unrelated reason why he had to endure, something involving his brother, or the undying, or their grand quest to save their world. Jote acquiesced every now and then, if only to keep from causing him undue stress. When he went too long without treatment, or was suffering far more than she deigned reasonable, she would, and did, coerce him into submitting to her aid.
Caring for him was her duty, after all, and she would not allow him to prevent her from carrying out said duty—especially when he needed her more than ever.
Jote squeezed a half-ilm of salve onto her index and middle finger, then smeared it onto his reddened skin with the gentlest touch. A shift in the air between them tickled her nose, and she heard him bite back a sound in his throat. So it was painful, she noted. Ignoring his reaction, she continued around the crystal, the pads of her fingers slowly dissolving the paste into his wound. Her thumb soon joined them to hasten the familiar process.
Too familiar, apparently, because with his next soft breath, her attention began to wander, lingering too long on the light freckles peppered across his collarbone, the flush on his neck glowing red in the firelight, the bob of the muscles in his throat as he swallowed. What she wouldn’t give to press her palm to that bare skin, let her fingers trace the constellations on his skin, soothe the stress from his muscle with a loving touch—
Jote squeezed her eyes shut and banished the thought. Guilt bled into her stomach as the color in her cheeks faded away. Gritting her teeth behind her stoic expression, she redirected her focus to the crystal at the center of his wound. As her fingers finished working his flesh, she grazed it with her thumb, taking note of the faint pulse of alien energy, its rhythm asynchronous with the thumping of his heart.
“You’re in pain, Your Grace.”
Though she couldn’t see his expression, she could feel his hesitation beneath her fingers.
“No more than usual.”
If only she could trust those words.
“Then I will worry no more than usual.” Which he would know was quite a bit.
“Jote—”
“I would not need to worry if I trusted you would speak candidly about your condition, Your Grace.”
He had no rebuttal. Satisfied, both with the salve application and the stalling argument, Jote sought out the ties of his shirt and began to relace them.
She was halfway through the first looped knot when Joshua’s fingers brushed against hers, reaching for the selfsame ties. “I can manage from here, Jote.”
“Please, Your Grace,” she insisted, batting his reaching hands away with a flick of her pinky. “Allow me these small pleasures.”
He went quiet, so she glanced up, finishing the bow from muscle memory. His smile had softened with an emotion she couldn’t quite pick out. Pity, perhaps. Concern. How grateful she was that he wore his feelings so openly on his face.
“Your Grace?”
The hand she’d dismissed moments ago clasped around hers. Her heart fluttered behind her ribcage, unbidden. She steeled her expression and waited.
“If only you would allow yourself more of those small pleasures, Jote.”
His attendant let out a held breath and matched his smile with one of her own. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Grace.”
“And I doubt I will ever be capable of expressing just how grateful I am to have someone so devoted ever by my side. I could not imagine my life without you, Jote.”
His hand gave hers a gentle squeeze, lingering far too long to be an insincere show of affection.
“But I fear my constant need for your service and care has done you great harm. That your duties leave you unable to attend to your own needs and desires.”
The response flew from her lips just as quickly as she removed her hand from his.
“I have no needs or desires that require concern, Your Grace.” She said, steel in her voice. “As I have told you many times over my thirteen years of service, nothing brings me greater joy or satisfaction than performing the duties of Attendant to the Phoenix. I pray you will believe these words, as they are, and ever have been, true.”
That mysterious emotion lingered on his lips and in his gaze. Joshua withdrew his hand, but made no movement to stand.
“I pray they are true,” he murmured, finally tearing his eyes from hers. “And that you feel you are free to pursue your needs and desires as you so wish.”
Jote’s boots crunched in the dirt as she stood, pocketing the skin of salve. “At present, I wish to walk to the river to wash the cookpot and bowls, and perhaps a few garments as well.”
She turned her back to him to assemble the dishes. A moment later, she heard him rise with a sigh.
“Very well, then. I will make for sleep, then.” He shuffled towards their shared tent. “I’ve a pair of trousers that needs washing; I’ll leave it with the other laundry.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Jote hefted the cookpot with one hand and the bowls with the other, keeping them aloft as she headed in the direction of the river.
“Jote?”
As always, Joshua’s voice froze her in place. She spun to face him.
Lord Rosfield regarded her with that selfsame expression. What he was thinking, she could not know. After a moment, he cleared the emotion from his face, smiled, and bowed his head. “Good night.”
Decorum overrode any lingering confusion. With dishes in hand, she gave a hasty, unbalanced bow. “Good night, Your Grace.”
With that, they went their separate ways.
Despite her best efforts, no matter how hard she scrubbed at their bowls or garments, Jote could not purge from her mind the fantasy that something else was the emotion coloring his expectant gaze.
Jote awoke with a start.
The night was still dark; the air still cool and tinged with the scent of dew on grass. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and forced herself to sit up and assess whatever danger her instincts had detected. No movement or sounds from outside the tent, so she turned to the slumbering Phoenix. His brow was furrowed, his lips curled into a frown, before a jolt of pain stiffened his spine and quickened his already strained breathing.
One hand threw her blanket from her legs, freeing her to crawl to his left side. There, she gently pulled away the light linen tucked around him to bare his head and torso. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down over his temple and into his tousled red hair. The muscles of his neck were taut with stress, as was his jaw, teeth tight and gritted behind his twisting lips. A quiet groan stuttered in his throat as he jerked against the vile creature torturing him from the inside out.
It wasn’t the first time Jote had awoken to find him suffering like this, much to her distress. Every time it did, the crystal swelled against his skin, crackling with aetheric energy, working its machinations in an attempt to free the parasite from its host. Now, too, it glowed even brighter than before, and blood was seeping into the white cotton of his sleep shift.
Not again.
Her focus steeled, Jote swiveled her torso to retrieve supplies she’d carefully hidden by his pillow: a prepacked poultice, the salve from before, fresh linen to clean and dress the wound. With them set by her side, she reached for his right shoulder and attempted to wake him.
“Your Grace—”
The moment her hand made contact, Joshua gasped for breath, back arching violently. In shock, Jote jerked her hand away. She waited a few terrifying moments, watching to see if she’d somehow burned him, but all she could see was the spread of blood on his shift. Whatever had happened just then, he needed her aid and attention, and she would ensure he received it—willingly or not.
She went for his shoulder again, and like before, he jumped at her touch. This time, though, she kept her hand there in an attempt to steady him.
“Calm, Your Grace, it’s me, ” she warned, hoping to wake him with her firmer, louder voice. “It’s your wound, it needs dressing—”
With another gasp, Joshua’s spine jerked upwards, then rolled him to his side, directly into Jote. His right hand groped for purchase and found the fabric at her waist, then tugged his chest and head into her torso. Now practically embracing her, she could feel the hard thud of his racing heart, the shudder that ran through him with every heavy exhale, the fever raising his temperature from warm hearth to sweltering furnace.
The unexpected contact would have spawned a few unbidden thoughts, had it not been for the fear and worry she felt for his well-being. Something was wrong, more than wrong, and she knew not what to do.
“What is it?” She craned her head to murmur into his ear. “What do you need of me?”
If Joshua heard her, he gave no sign of it, still clutching to her like a frightened child, chest heaving against her stomach with every tense breath. Jote took a steadying breath and reassessed her approach. His wound needed treatment, of that much she was sure, and she could not properly attend to him while he was in such distress. Perhaps his sudden embrace was a desperate need for comfort from the pain he was feeling.
And if comfort was what the Phoenix needed, then she would happily indulge him.
Exhaling, Jote pulled her left arm around his side and pressed her palm against his back. Her right hand lifted from his shoulder to gently cup the back of his head, easing him into her chest. When she lifted her head to make way for him, her chin brushed against his forehead, soft auburn strands tickling at her skin.
“It’s all right, Your Grace.” She breathed against his crown. “I have you. You’re safe.”
As if her words were laced with magic, Joshua immediately relaxed. The tense muscles of his back softened beneath her palm as his weight fell into her embrace. His arms tugged him ever closer, one leg lifting up and over hers, ever seeking the comfort she offered. As his panicked breathing began to slow, she kept her hold on him tight, the hand behind him slowly tracing circles into the fabric of his shift.
Then, she felt something firm rub up against her thigh.
Even through her linen nightclothes, she could tell what it was—and how his whole body shuddered as his hips pressed forward to repeat the motion.
Heat burned in her cheeks before flooding into her belly and pooling between her thighs.
Joshua’s fingers curled into her waist, holding tighter to her, before rutting up against her again, then again.
Her mind went blank. This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t be allowed to happen. The Phoenix was not in his right mind. He would never do this, certainly not with her. She had to stop this, needed to pry him from her, but—
But—
Jote’s breath shallowed. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Her hands, sworn to keep her charge from all harm, made no move to pull him from her. As if to spite the very idea, they tugged him ever closer—
— and Joshua let out a gasping whine.
Selfish desire met the binding chains of duty and twisted their way into a compromise. She’d just promised to give him the comfort he so needed. If this comfort was what he needed, then would it not be her duty to provide it?
Slowly, she bent her leg at the knee, then pressed it between his thighs, increasing the friction between them. That drew out another whine, a tip of his head into her chest, a shudder as a more frantic buck of his hips shifting her from sitting up to lying half-prone beside his disheveled bedroll. His breathing was quickening again, from exertion or arousal, she could not tell. Her own shameful arousal had begun to dull her thoughts, each one of his movements nudging her legs together, pressing the fabric of her smalls between the curves of her sex. She would not stop. Could not stop.
If comfort was what he needed—
Jote slipped her hand from Joshua’s back to the curve of his waist, then between them to seek out the hem of his smalls. The next roll of his hips pressed her fingernails beneath the loosened fabric and brought her palm in contact with what had been rubbing against her thigh. She had seen him nude before, many times over their years together, so even with her face buried in his hair, she could easily visualize the length she was encircling with her hand: pale and silken smooth, like the rest of him, the sparsest thatch of hair crowning his royal manhood. Her index finger just barely brushed against her thumb at the thickest part of him, and when she stroked upwards, the pad of her thumb caught on a trickle of arousal, which she then spread up and over the divot beneath his head.
At once, he rutted into her hand, his pace doubling in speed. She clung to him, and him to her, as his breath shallowed and his knuckles whitened. She tensed her hand around him, and he groaned into her chest, sweat-soaked forehead sticking to the skin of her collar. Faster, closer still, until his body tensed like a bowstring pulled taut to aim, then released. His spend spilled over her fingers, slicking them further as she drew every last drop of arousal from his shivering core. He spoke not a single word, nor did he make a sound, save for the quietest whine and a half-dozen gasps for air.
When it was finished, his grip on her relaxed, then fell away, leaving him to slump backwards into his bedroll, chest heaving as he gulped down breaths. The bloodstain at his chest looked no larger than before he’d embraced her, and as his breathing slowed, the heat that had so consumed him moments before seemed to dissipate into the cool autumn air. Baffling as it was, all signs pointed to her intuition having been correct. That comfort was all he'd needed.
Jote slipped her hand out from his smalls. The spend clinging to her fingers glistened in the silver of moonlight spilling through the tent flap. She stared down at it, as if to convince herself of what had just happened. What she had just done.
Lingering desire drew one last thought to the forefront of her mind.
What does he taste of?
In an instant, Jote returned to herself, guilt and shame drenching her as surely as a bucket of water poured over her head. She snatched up the clean linen beside her and wiped away all evidence of her sin from her palm, her fingers, the crevices between digit and knuckle, until none remained. Whatever had happened, he was now calm, and she could now treat the bleeding wound on his sternum. That had been her purpose all along. She needn’t concern herself with what had transpired any longer.
Purging all thoughts on the matter from her still-addled mind, the Phoenix’s Attendant set herself to completing her duty.
It was not until far later that night, when those thoughts bled into her dreams and brought her to relive the memory in vivid detail, that Jote realized the magnitude of her transgression.
Her selfish desires, held at bay for so many years, had breached their containment, tasted the freedom for which they longed.
And they would not suffer imprisonment again.