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The Recluse knew.
Deny it she had, to the very end, but still… she knew.
The Nightlord—Heolstor—burned for conquest, and he would find no respite until he had swallowed her whole, joining her with the amalgamate of darkness he housed within himself. Fueled by the little gnawling that comprised him, the destroyer of worlds at his very core, the hate that had grown too large, too pervasive for her infant to handle now tainted the being that was out to collect his blood debt from her.
And so she found herself standing before the ancient stone door, its mass dwarfing all that surrounded it, the air above it dark and crackling with the energy borne of a world-devouring entity. He was here, beyond that door, waiting for her, and she would soon end this at last. The charged atmosphere seemed somehow aware of the tension between her and the Nightlord, the chaotic churning of the cosmic tendrils above as erratic as her unsure fate. Still, the warped purple-and-blue hues of the sky struck the Recluse with their haunting beauty; she was hatless on this expedition, and so the distracting yet serene calm of the dreamlike scene held her gaze for longer than usual.
A soft electric charge in the air hummed then, catching her attention with the feeling of raw energy it sent coursing throughout her body. It seemed as though the very air was alive and pulsing when she tried to focus on the sky, and her first instinct was to try and siphon that power into her stave—except she couldn’t. Her surroundings suddenly felt somehow ephemeral and unpredictable, and a slightly louder humming sound began to emanate from the door as it drifted open of its own accord.
That was when she felt it.
The temperate metal of an iron bracelet, barely perceptible against her neck. The Nightlord’s hand held a dagger at her throat from his position at her back, and his blade’s unfeeling iciness is what sent a strong shiver through her when she noticed its bite, its potential for mortal harm somehow viscerally registering as secondary. The hilt of the weapon, attached to a filigreed pommel she could not see but rather felt, rested under her chin, and his fingers were wrapped around it with his thumb resting on the base as if poised to drive it into her flesh with all his might should the mood strike him. Blood welled from the point where the tip of his blade met the skin in the hollow of her throat.
The Recluse overlooked her shock when the small wound began to sting, pulling her from her thoughts.
She needed to gather her wits and act, but all she could focus on was how she had been bested before their battle had even begun. How had he gone undetected long enough to catch her unawares in the first place? She was not a green girl, still wet behind the ears, but rather a seasoned mage who had seen war—and yet she had greatly underestimated the danger in confronting this adversary.
Had she ever truly known what he was capable of?
Heolstor’s left limb was not covered in armor like those of his right side, and the elegant length of his arm and wrist were visible as the Recluse scanned the hand that held the offending blade at her throat. His skin was so very disconcertingly familiar, identical in hue but lighter in saturation. It was an observation whose existence made her inner conscious face discomfort, its presence skirting the walls built to hold in the secrets she would rather leave unexplored. Unacknowledged.
She watched him then, allowing this transgression, because he was hers to fix. He was her burden to bear. She had unleashed him upon the world, and it was her duty to reign him in.
Mine infant, somewhere within—
Not wanting to test his mettle with the weapon, she opted instead for a show of deference; a parlay of sorts. The stave clutched tightly in her right hand was moved away from her body, a clear indication of her intent to surrender. It was common knowledge that a witch was never without her stave—it was tantamount to death when one was left defenseless, after all—and so she faced no resistance from the Nightlord when she bore the base of it into a space between a tangle of stony vines, pushing it down firmly so that it would remain standing upright. It could return to her with the simple wave of her hand, but he did not know this, and so it was with a calm confidence that she allowed it to leave her grip at last. The hand that returned to her side felt conspicuously empty.
“Speak thy piece,” was all she declared, her voice assured despite her surrender.
Heolstor contemplated the display; to do something as foolish as part with her weapon could only mean the witch was true in her surrender and willing to risk her life to prove her sincerity. And so, satisfied by her white flag, the pressure of the dagger at her throat eased somewhat, and the Recluse simply waited in anticipation of his next move.
He eased back and slightly away, moving slowly and deliberately to come and stand before her instead. His polished armor was slick with shadow, his footsteps paradoxically heavy yet nimble as he came to stand close enough to her that she could smell the scent of the deep, cold cosmos emanating from him. Behind the bars at the face of his helm, his quiet, even breaths were still somehow menacing. The Recluse’s eyes also could not help but notice the elegant pair of greatswords he held in his two right hands; they were quite striking, with the larger of the two seeming to be of Carian origin.
“Witch of the Deep Woods…”
The voice that suddenly pierced the eerie silence sounded as though it had not seen use for some time. Hoarse and rough at first, it regained its timbre and depth with each word as if shedding an old skin. It wasn’t his choice of words, but rather the cold way in which he delivered them that caused the dark-skinned sorceress to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“I bear thee… hatred, Witch,” was all he said, his voice somehow belying his own confusion as to why he harbored such feelings against the one stood before him.
It was clear he did not intend for that confusion to be revealed to her. They were enemies, that much was certain, her faction seeking to defeat him and standing in direct opposition to his purpose. But there was more hidden beneath the surface here, a vast network of history that he could not seem to uncover. Elusive, yet surely present somewhere in the darkest corners of his mind.
“And yet…”
The voice was more composed now, a blade not able to be dulled by the elements, and significantly smoother. The confidence it exuded made it clear to the Recluse that his previous attempt had not been him speaking at his prime. Now, he sounded as unforgiving as his dagger, the rumbling growl of his speech sending his words into her heart as though they were sharpened spears instead.
“What wouldst thou have of me in exchange for thy forgiveness?” she ventured at last, feeling the consequences of her past actions weighing heavily on her and wanting fervently to atone. Tired of running from what she had borne, she wanted nothing more than to lay the past to rest and right the wrong she had set in motion.
“Thy compassion,” he rasped in an almost bewildered tone before roughly continuing. “Thy acceptance.”
He did not know how these feelings, how this longing, came to be, but voicing his needs aloud felt astonishingly right; it was as though the pieces had fallen into place at last. Heolstor knew a part of him, that little gnawling, had some connection to the Witch of the Deep Woods, but he had not been able to surmise what that connection could possibly have been until this very moment.
He took a step forward, bringing them so close she could feel his breaths fanning out against the top of her head, and began to reach for her. With a loud clang, the dagger fell, and his large hand continued its journey to her encumbered now, finally caging around her jaw and throat to hold her in place. Out of the corner of her eye, the Recluse saw the heavy weight of one bracelet slide down from his wrist and come to rest on his forearm. The warmth of his fingers surprised her then when his thumb came to graze her jaw, and at first his touch was gentle. Very quickly, however, it morphed into a more savage one when he realized he was mistakenly dealing carefully with one who deserved no such thing.
It took every atom of her control not to thrash when it suddenly felt like he intended to rend her head clean from her neck, but a heartbeat later her eyes went wide as an image took shape in her mind and a surge of feelings—not her own—came rushing in not far behind.
It was as though she had stepped into his psyche, experiencing his emotions, his memories, like they were her own. For a few devastating moments, she felt the pain of loneliness she had condemned her little gnawling to, the profoundness of it echoing outwards and through to the Nightlord and then through to her. It was powerful and it was painful, and the Recluse found herself felled by it in totality. Her breath hitched and her eyes squeezed shut, her heart feeling as though it was being crushed in a tightened fist from the intensity of it. Sympathy filled her at the thought of having condemned another being—one she had borne without consideration of its wants—to such pain. Regret bloomed inside of her next, acrid and accusatory, and her hands clenched tightly at her sides as she struggled to regain herself.
Then, as quickly as the invading tide had rushed her mind, it retreated back and away, leaving her feeling empty and dazed.
Heolstor’s hand released her and returned to his side, but he stood so close to her that the rise and fall of his chest was noticeable. While his breathing seemed controlled, focused, even, her own had become erratic and heavy. She stared off into his shining armor in front of her, looking at her own warped reflection, her thoughts racing and morphing endlessly until at last she was able to form a reply.
“It shall be as thou wills it,” she replied solemnly, dutifully, wanting so much for all of this to culminate at last and remove the splinter lodged in both of their souls. Slowly, gently, she began to lift her arms and open them wide, beckoning him forth so as to welcome him into her embrace. The inane nature of it was not lost on her, but she knew that somewhere inside of this fearsome being was a cosmic infant longing for its mother.
As if controlled by another, he sank to his knees before her, removing the helm that suddenly felt constricting from its place upon his head. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud, and his eyes took long moments to adjust to the light flooding them after having been mired in darkness for so long. The two greatswords remaining in his right hands were also shed and hit the stone below with an even louder set of metallic clangs. He needed his hands free now.
The Recluse took this opportunity to examine him up-close, noting the undeniable familiarity of his features now.
His skin was the lighter, more ashen black color typical of Nox males, a perfect counterpart to her own that mirrored that of the females of the Eternal City. His features were dark, his nose perfectly straight and regal, and his eyes were a stormy, darkened grey as they continued their struggle to focus on his surroundings. White lashes framed those eyes, and his equally white brows were furrowed in thought. His mouth was set in a grim line, his square jaw clenched hard. His white hair was cut short, but still quite messy.
Against her will, the Witch of the Deep Woods felt even more of a kinship develop between them, and it expounded upon that which she felt after having had their minds melded as one moments before. He had taken on the appearance of one of her own, no doubt the product of his enmeshment with her creation, and as the evidence mounted regarding what lay at the core of his identity, she was less and less able to take solace in the denial that had allowed her to reach this devastating point.
At last, his eyes seemed to regain their lucidity and he lifted his head up. He stared at the Recluse, standing before him with her arms open wide, and looked directly into the verdant calm of her eyes, her white lashes, her white brows, her dark skin. He found himself leaning forward into her offered arms as though compelled, like some forsaken thing reaching out from the darkness at an offered light. His head came to rest atop her ample breasts, and her hands folded in to gently cradle him. His own arms automatically crossed behind her back to crush her to him, and his eyes slid closed.
He felt catharsis pour over him at last, like the echo of a sentiment rippling through him from a time before he had even come into existence. The feeling was nascent, barely able to be acknowledged, but it was clear nonetheless. It washed over him, filling in the cracks of his psyche in a way he had been unable to do for himself, and he was too absorbed in the feeling to grant it further consideration or thought.
For long moments they remained this way, their breathing and fluttering pulses the only sounds. Heolstor buried that lonely pain at last, placing it in a box that lay deep in the recesses of his mind, then clasping its lid closed with a soft click before pushing it aside. He pulled back so he could get a better look at her, his eyes opening and seeming to emit an almost sinister glow once they focused on her features. She was comely, her black skin smooth and her lips tinted pink inside, and the soft snowy strands of her hair had tickled his skin when he was in her embrace moments ago. Deep in the smoky depths of her eyes, he could almost see an arcane magic swirling with the raw power he knew she held within.
He brought his face down once more to press it firmly against her neck, then going lower to nuzzle against her breasts, and the witch was overwhelmed by how feverish his skin suddenly felt in contrast to her own. Breathing deep of the scent of her skin, he felt something within him shift, and he felt the embers of an entirely different need stoked within.
It was pleasant, her scent—more than pleasant, in fact—and it reminded him of explosive starlight winking down at him in a pitch-black night sky. She smelled like clean night air, cold and brisk, on a winter’s night. At the same time, she somehow smelled both familiar and warm.
Eyes closed as he focused on the feel of the flesh against his own, the Nightlord found the softness of her skin was suddenly much more pleasing to him than it had been mere moments ago. So much so that he experimentally ran his lips across the top of one breast, testing to see how it would feel against them. The Recluse tensed, her breath hitching in her throat, but she did not make to stop him.
And so he continued.
More insistent now, he pressed hard kisses to her breasts while holding her in place with a hand on either side of her waist. Kisses shifted into brief licks, and the heat of his tongue ignited her blood. A soft sigh escaped her, almost too soft to be heard, but even so it seemed to jolt him out of his fervent devouring of her skin.
The towering form of the Nightlord began to rise and loom over the Recluse once more. He returned to press himself against her at his full height, his arms wrapping around her in another tight embrace. It was not kind, this embrace, nor was it gentle; it was as though he wanted to claim her and crush her as much as he wanted to simply feel her. She remained still for long moments before resuming her breathing, her head coming to rest hesitantly against his chest once she had finally regained enough control to soften her rigid form.
Cold, unfeeling alloyed metal met her skin, but she disregarded its icy bite in favor of attempting to keep her mind calm. After overcoming her surprise at his having a heartbeat, she found its loud yet consistent beating to be strangely soothing.
Soothing. Was she mad?
The Recluse could not see his countenance when he shifted, but his breath was warm when he leaned his head down against her ear, and his skin was rough but clean-shaven when it pressed against her neck. It seemed he was unable to resist touching her, tasting her, but she seemed equally helpless to deny him, and before her thoughts could catch up to her, she felt her head tilt to one side to grant him greater access so his tongue could dart out tentatively to lick at the skin at the apex of her jaw. As if pleased by what he savored, he repeated the action with a sigh, running his tongue along her in a hot trace. His mouth left her then, but it was replaced with the equally concerning feeling of his hands running along her back, her waist, her hips. Surely he could now feel her pulse hammering at her throat, for how could he not? Her heart was skipping in a mad staccato that only grew in intensity when she felt his hands slide down to her ass and push her into him.
She only barely held back her shiver.
And them his mouth was on her skin again, his lips running along her breasts until she felt her nipples tighten into hard points beneath the confines of her dress. With almost no effort, he had her bodice tugged down to expose her to him, and his mouth opened wide to take one rosy nipple deep inside its warmth.
Deeply, harshly, desperately he suckled at her, taking greedy pulls while his tongue laved her in time. His moans sounded frenzied at first, as though foreign even to his own ears, and eventually they slowed to deep rumbles that purred forth from his throat at his pleasure. He was veritably devouring her by the time he moved on to the other breast, leaving the first swollen and sensitive from the ferocity of his ministrations. The Recluse let him suckle at her like a babe, allowing him to satisfy the deep-rooted need she had felt weighing heavy inside of him, and his eyes slid shut for several moments while he remained lost in fantasy.
Only when her breasts ached and grew heavy from how swollen they had become did he release her to begin shifting to straighten up once more. He did not seem conscious of his hands clenching and releasing, so focused was his gaze on the breasts of the tiny witch that stood before him, her dark nipples prettily flushed with pink for him. Inside the maelstrom that was his mind, yet another compulsion overtook him, and he leaned his head down so he could catch her lips.
His kiss was a unique one, scorching yet foreign, and the Recluse found herself returning it simply for the visceral pleasure it provided. The Nightlord was adept at moving his mouth against her own, his tongue soon joining in to ravage her mouth with slick, dominating strokes. It felt as though he were trying to veritably consume her, his mouth opening wide and his tongue moving in insistent flicks. She moaned softly into his mouth when his hand went under her skirts to find one of her legs, pulling her knee up against his hip so he could grind the tip of his cock between her legs.
A rough hiss came from him when he realized that not only was she not wearing any undergarments, but that she was already beautifully wet for him. His cock glided against her lips, hard and hot, and he almost slid into her when she rocked her hips to get him closer. Need slammed into her, undeniable and overpowering, and she wanted to feel all of him inside of her.
Leaning back and straightening up to his full height once more, the Nightlord contemplated her. His shoulder and chest armors were gone a moment later, disappearing as if they had never been there, and the Recluse was ashamed at how she felt herself flush for a moment. Grateful for the darkness of her skin hiding her reaction, she instead stared at him openly in the hopes that it would hide how entranced she really was. His leg armor had apparently already been taken care of when she was distracted by his mouth on hers, and the sight of his cock standing proud and thick rendered her shamelessly wanting once again. It was as dark as the rest of him, with only the rounded crown being the same pink color as the flesh between her own thighs. The tip glistened with moisture.
She forced herself to drag her gaze up.
Long-limbed and leanly muscled, Heolstor did not look like the monster she wanted him to be. He looked powerful yet graceful, displaying the agile frame of the nimble Nox who were as fluid as their flowing weapons when it came to moving in battle. Standing before her clad in naught but his bracelets, it was difficult for her to reconcile the lust she felt for the man before her with the concept of the being she was working to defeat. Despite what her mind knew, some deeper and primal part of her still felt drawn to him, and she found herself almost easily bending to its will. So much so that when the Nightlord moved to clutch at her waist with his hands, she just let him.
The petite witch was almost weightless to the powerful Heolstor, and so she was easily carried to one of the short stone pedestals flanking the center stone pathway. He laid her back on it none-too-gently, his body pushing its way between her legs so he could resume his onslaught. A rough sigh came from him when he gave one of her supple breasts a tentative squeeze with one hand, his touch quickly becoming anything but gentle as he molded it against his large palm. The other breast received the same treatment, and he pressed her nipples between his fingers as he kneaded them.
The more The Recluse saw his flesh against her own, the less she found herself able to point out the differences, and she found herself almost relieved when his hands left her breasts so that he could shove her skirts up around her waist and reach down to possessively caress her between her thighs. He found her even more slick than before once his hand brushed against her cunt, and so he repeated the motion to feel that surge of prideful satisfaction once again.
A dichotomy took form inside of the Recluse then, with one end leaning towards indulging in offered pleasure and the other attempting to make sense of it. But what sense was there to be found in the satisfaction of the flesh? It was a primal need motivated little by reason and mainly by instinct. And so she parted her legs for his touch, exposing the swollen, pinkened flesh that stood in contrast to the darkness of her thighs, and the Nightlord let out a pleased growl both at her body capitulating to his touch and to the sight of her spread open before him.
And yet, he wanted to hear her say it.
Instead of filling her like she craved, he brought his head down to run his tongue along her aching flesh in one firm, slick stroke before sealing his lips around her clit. He suckled at her expertly, the tip of his tongue flicking at her in between, and before long she had her thighs holding his head between them and the heel of one foot digging into the muscles of his back. The pleasure was incredible, and she could not stop herself from giving him the satisfaction of her choked, breathy moans as he worked her. His eyes were on her all the while, on her breasts shifting with the undulating of her hips, on the flat plane of her belly partially covered by her dress bunched up around her waist. Now it was he who longed to satisfy her, and he brought his fingers against her once more, teasing her entrance with fleeting touches.
“Dost thou yield to my will, Witch?” he probed at last, his tone almost seeming to taunt her despite the hunger conveyed by his actions. “Atonement for thy abandonment…”
Before her, she felt the fearsome Nightlord shifting more into a man instead of an enigma, his motivations universally understood in their needs. The Recluse, utterly lost to all but the desire to have him slide those fingers into her, did nothing to stop him taking what he so clearly seemed bent on having from her. She was unsure how she managed to finally formulate a reply.
“I yield,” she said when she felt his hand pause its heated touch and rest atop her aching flesh. As soon as the words left her lips, she felt his fingers begin to push inside of her with the raw insistence of one driven to the brink. The digits went in deep, sliding in as far as as she could take them, and he maintained a maddeningly slow pace when he began to pump them inside of her at last.
A choked sound was all she could manage as he moved his wrist in smooth strokes, brutal yet measured, and she soon found herself writhing at his touch and rolling her hips for more, her arousal slick on his hand. He obliged her after long minutes of his languid thrusts, his movements at last growing more rushed and his thrusts hitting her hard and deep.
Satisfied only when her cunt was throbbing and ready for him, he removed his hand and unceremoniously flipped her over onto her belly. He bent her over the pedestal, mounting her from behind, running his cock along her wetness with teasing slowness for several moments. He obliged them both at last when she rocked her hips to get him inside her, pushing the thick length of him into her waiting heat in one infinitely measured slide, the drugged slowness an absolutely delicious agony. She was keening by the time he filled her all the way, hitting her so deep she arched her back from the pleasure of it and clenched around him tight. He filled her so completely, stretching her so perfectly, that she groaned from the incredible sensation.
Wasting no time on gentleness nor tenderness, he rutted against her from behind in savage thrusts, ravaging her like an animal running on pure instinct. His hips slammed into her own with bruising strength, hitting her ass with enough force to send the flesh bouncing. The harsh slapping sound repeated with each hard thrust into her body, and she rocked her hips back and forth to meet his in time for each thrust. The friction built, addicting and electric, and she wanted him to somehow hit her even deeper than he already was. She wanted him to rend her in half from the force of his fucking her.
“Take thee more,” she found herself groaning out, the lust in her voice unfamiliar even to her own ears. “More…”
He obeyed as commanded, switching their positions once again to lay her on her back, nigh ripping her dress off of her and spreading her legs wide. His hands hooked under her knees, pushing her thighs back so he could slide into her again.
In this position she could take him deep, and her hands came to grip the edges of the stone pedestal to steady her as he began to slam into her with brutal force, one hand sliding down to stroke at her clit with deft movements. Again and again he moved in relentless thrusts, the longer strokes more pleasurable from the increased friction. When she was satisfied at last that his cock had found that incredible spot inside of her, she began undulating her hips to repeat that intimate stretch, peak coming within reach quickly.
Heolstor felt her clenching with the need to come, and his third hand slowly went to her ass to gather the wetness there before he slid one finger smoothly inside. She threw her head back and jutted her breasts out towards him from the pleasure of it, a savage moan tearing forth from her throat. Without hesitation his mouth came down, his lips once again brushing against her breasts with a strange gentleness before his tongue emerged to lick a path along the valley between them. The Recluse grabbed the back of his head with one hand and pressed his mouth against her until he understood what she wanted and delivered it to her waiting body. Mouth opening wide, he took one breast inside, biting down on her and suckling hard.
She let out a high-pitched moan, hips moving up to meet his more desperately, and her breathing paused when her climax rushed into her at last. Driving down onto her with one final, violent slam, he sank into her and waited as she wrapped around him tight, muscles rippling along his cock as she came. He never stopped suckling at her, all the while helping her ride out her orgasm with a gentle rocking of his hips.
When she stilled at last, still spasming from the pleasure, he began to move again, removing his hands and lifting his head up to release her breast with an audible, slick pop. Gently he pulled her boneless body down with him onto the ground, bringing her to straddle him as he lay on his back. She sheathed his cock once more when Heolstor drove up into her in one sure thrust. Two hands anchored at either side of her waist, he helped her spent body bring his to orgasm by rocking her against him. She instinctively spread her legs wider for him, placing her hands on his chest to brace her weight while he guided her hips. Her nails dug into the muscled flesh of his chest as he drove into her sensitized body with short, deep thrusts, his release finally building within him. Heolstor groaned deep, aching to come when her tight heat hugged him so perfectly that he knew he could not hold back much longer.
“Taketh, witch,” he commanded in a low, savage voice. “Taketh for thy needy body…”
With a roar and a final vicious slam of his hips, he came, spilling inside of her. His cock pulsed inside her as he came in hot ropes, going until his seed filled her cunt so completely that it began to drip from her. Pausing a few moments to catch his breath, he lifted her up and pulled out of her body, his come trickling down her thighs as he did. The sight set him ablaze, and he felt his cock twitch in response despite having just released.
The Recluse found herself unable to stand on her shaky legs, and so she allowed herself to collapse atop the Nightlord’s solid frame to catch her breath. Heolstor’s breathing was equally uncontrolled, his heart thudding against his chest from the exertion, and she found herself focusing on it once again to ground herself.
And when long minutes passed, and they had each caught their breath, she still lay draped across him like she belonged there, her breath catching in the hollow of his throat. The fingers of one hand gracefully traced along her spine, and in allowing this trusting touch, she reinforced the depths of her surrender to him.
Pulsing between them was something that could not quite be called love—it was older, more vast, like the quiet lingering in the dark before the world came into being with an explosive cry. Both of them dared not speak, for to do so would mean to shatter the silence that bound them now. The Recluse knew she had already caused much turmoil, and so she stayed, tethered to the Nightlord by the silence, her body still echoing his dominion. Heolstor remained equally quiet, like a babe calmed upon realizing it had returned to the safety of the womb, and the jagged spikes of vengeance within him seemed to have dulled at last.
There was nothing tender about what they had shared, but they contemplated one another as they continued to lie there beneath the indigo-stained sky, not as lovers but as something much older—cosmic, eternal. And when the Witch of the Deep Woods finally leaned up to press a kiss to the Nightlord’s temple, the sky itself looked on without movement, as if the cosmos themselves dared not speak of what had passed. He closed his eyes, and in the seconds that followed, the Night itself seemed to let out a breath—the old stone, the old sky bearing witness to something more primordial than them both.
An infant’s cry, faint in the distance, beckoned.