Archive of Our Own

Heavy, pungent incense filled the air of the temple, sweet rose and myrrh and something else — embrium, perhaps. It made his nose twitch.

“Early, for a change? How unlike you, old friend,” Mythal’s raspy, lazy drawl drew his attention to the center baths, where she lounged with her handmaidens. The water of the hot springs were clean and pure, and touched ever so slightly with magic, if the faint iridescent glimmer was any indication; something to keep the water temperate and exactly as the goddess liked it. Her handmaidens were all bare save for the delicate golden masks on their faces and bejeweled collars around their necks, which gleamed blue in the dim light, as they pampered her and rubbed sweet oil into her skin. “And here I thought you despised the festival of the Sun.”

“I was given little choice in the matter,” he said, his tone clipped. “Elgar’nan made it clear he would not forgive my absence this time.” The All-father was proud and arrogant, and this festival, his festival, was always the first of the season, and the largest. In the past, Elgar’nan forgave his absence, when the war was still raging and they could lie and say he was fighting on some distant battlefield. 

It was good for the people of Arlathan to believe that the Dreadwolf was fighting for them — and better for their armies, who heard the rumors and were bolstered by the possibility of him appearing at their sides.

But there was peace now, and there were no excuses good enough to appease the masses.

“Leave us,” Mythal ordered her handmaidens, who immediately obeyed, their heads bowed low as they exited the pools and withdrew to the antechambers. “You should not say such things in front of them.” She exhaled, reclining against the seat, and rolled her neck from one side to the other.

“And why not?” he asked. “You’ve already laid claim to them, in body and in spirit; by your command, they will say nothing, even if their lives are in danger.”

“And you fault me for that, don’t you?”

Though she posed it as a question, they both knew the answer, but Solas was disinclined to revive the ancient argument now. In wartime, it made sense to keep a tight leash on their most trusted devotees — those that had access to war plans and palace halls. But the practice of binding their wills should have ended with the war, and yet it did not. Worse, it expanded. Now all their devotees bore brands.

“Come, join me in the baths,” she bid, flicking water in his direction, her golden, cat-like eyes gleaming with mischief. “Allow me to distract you from your dark thoughts.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “That is not why I came.”

“No, you came to see if I would speak to my husband on your behalf,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping beneath the water, “when you know very well he will not be swayed.”

“This serves no purpose but his own amusement,” Solas argued, anger rising, and stalked closer to the side of the pool where she lay. “Have I not served faithfully? Have I not come when called, fought when bid?”

“You have, and Elgar’nan knows this,” she assured him, looking at him with something akin to pity in her gaze. “But he has concerns — we all have concerns — that you, perhaps, yet have one foot in both worlds, and that dichotomy is tearing you apart.”

Solas snorted. “What cause have I given you for concern, but for my abject refusal to take part in Elgar’nans revels?”

“We are the stewards of this world now, and its masters. We bleed as they bleed, love as they love. And yet you have no ties to it! You’ve taken neither partner nor concubine, have taken no disciples or established your own regency — you are still setting yourself apart! And you deny yourself when you need not, when you should not!”

“And so what if I do?” he asked, pain bleeding into his voice through the anger. “What business is it of Elgar’nans — of yours, or anyone’s — if I abstain? If I choose to relinquish this form and become a spirit once more?”

“You jeopardize us all,” she said quietly, eyes narrowing. “We have fought too long and too hard to offer proof to our enemies that we can be defeated. We cannot go back, Solas, even if we should wish it. If you perish now, relinquish that form, your spirit would fade as all mortal spirits fade.”

“Then leave me be, at least,” he pleaded. “Leave me to my tower, my isolation. Do not make me do this.”

“It’s one slave,” she chided, voice measured. “What you do with her after she is given to you is up to you. If you have no wish for company or can find no other use for her, then kill her.”

He flinched, staring at her in mute horror. “There was a time when you would never have uttered such things, when you would not have even thought them.”

“Those days are gone. Mortals — especially half-breeds — live mayfly lives, Solas. Dying is what they do. The best thing we can do for them is give them purpose, a reason to live — as Andruil has done for her lover, Ghilan’nain. Take the slave you are gifted and let her worship you as she was meant to do. Let her fulfill her purpose. It will satisfy Elgar’nan, and you can return to your tower and your despondency for the next thousand years without issue — though I truly do hope that, in her, you find some new meaning in this life.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Pupils like slits, her golden eyes seemed brighter as she carefully assessed him. “Well, I’m sure Elgar’nan will find some use for the girl; his last concubine has lost his interest. Or Ghilan’nain might; she has been… experimenting with the mortals.”

She made no mention of the threat posed to him but she didn’t have to; his soft heart was a well-known sore spot. If he did not take the girl, whatever punishment Elgar’nan wished to mete out on him would be given to the girl instead — and the All-father was not always kind to his servants. He was of a capricious and curious nature, desiring complete obedience no matter how terrible his demand.

“Take the girl, Solas,” she advised, rising from her seat to stand. “In your service, she would be safe, protected.”

“Is that how you rationalize it?” he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, and thought of the vallaslin branded into the skin of her handmaidens.

“Neither Elgar’nan nor Ghilan’nain, nor any other Evanuris, have ever laid a hand on my maidens, and nor will they ever. My devotees find purpose and comfort; they want for neither food nor shelter, and when their service to me is complete, they are free to do as they will and are generously compensated for their devotion.”

He fell silent, unwilling to argue any further. Once a spirit of true benevolence, his partner for aeons, Mythal was now a stranger to him.

“Could you not take her then?” he asked, willing the rising nausea in his belly to quiet.

Mythal’s lips twitched, a faint hint of amusement lingering beneath the surface. “I tried. She would not have me.”

His eyebrows rose.

“She would not bow to me, to Elgar’nan, or to any of the Evanuris, in fact,” she drawled, eyes fixed on his face with a queer, unreadable expression on her own. “She is a defiant little thing. I expect Elgar’nan believes he is doing you a disservice in giving you such a troublesome slave.”

“How did she come to be here?” Most slaves that came to serve the Evanuris were volunteers, in a manner of speaking. Every county was required to provide a certain number of people to serve the Evanuris as part of their duty to Arlathan. Such service, when completed, was well-rewarded, as Mythal stated, and lent those devotees some distinguishment upon their return home. It was unusual to have devotees who were not here willingly.

Her expression shuttered as her lips pressed into a thin line, and a grim look replaced her previous smile. “Her village offered aid and shelter to the rebels riding under Athrian’s banner when they fled. Elgar’nan would have had the entire town laid to ruin, but… I convinced him that mercy would be more prudent. I suggested an offering be made — and one was given. From what I gather, there seemed to be a drawing of straws. Hers was the shortest.”

That, at least, they would have in common.

Despite himself, his curiosity was piqued. There were typically only two kinds of people who defied Elgar’nan: the incredibly brave, or the incredibly foolish. In his experience, it was usually the latter. But Mythal’s own interest made him believe that this slave might be of the rarer breed. She rarely intervened in reapings unless there was some hidden value.

She watched him carefully, her head cocked to the side. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to join me?”

He shook his head. “Those days have passed. Is that all?”

“Do you suspect me of withholding the truth from you?” She asked, leaning forward to rest her arms on the ledge, peering up at him with coy eyes.

“It would be unwise to assume otherwise, given our history,” he said bitterly, wishing it were otherwise. He’d already come to regret the blind trust he’d placed in her once. He would not give her the chance to betray him again.

“And you’re never that, are you?” She said, a small, sad smile on her face, and turned away from him to swim to the steps and exit the pool. “She’s a talented mage,” she says, throwing him a kernel of information as she tugs on her robe. “Special, I suspect. Elgar’nan would not be so keen to let her go if he knew — no matter how recalcitrant she is.”

There it is.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes closed. Elgar’nan was not so displeased with him as Mythal initially suggested. This was not by his design.

It was Mythal who didn’t want Elgar’nan to have the girl, and she manipulated Elgar’nans petty hatred of him to ensure that the All-father wouldn’t have her. Millenia had passed, and they were still using him as a pawn in their petty squabbles. Would it never cease?

“I will see you tonight,” he says, giving her a curt nod, and leaves without a backward glance. There was nothing he could do but accept Elgar’nan’s gift and bring the girl into his service.

After a year or two, when Elgar’nan and Mythal’s attentions had moved on, he would free her and let her quietly return home, and he could return to his solitude.

At least, until the next the petty squabble. And the one after that, and the one after that; his lot for his eternal life, unending, unbreaking, with no end in sight.

By the time he arrived, the revel was in full swing. Elvhen nobles, those favored by the Evanuris, were already drunk on honey-wine and magic. The crop of hopeful devotees were standing off to the side, shepherded into the corner like cattle awaiting slaughter, watching the revel with wide-eyes. Those that were here willingly were easy to spot — they craned their necks to get better looks, sneaking furtive glances at the empty thrones on the dais with an eager, desperate kind of hunger in their eyes.

Those that were here less willingly looked at the floor.

Which of them was his, he wondered?

Certainly, at first glance, none appeared particularly special. But Mythal would not have arranged all this for someone who wasn’t special.

“Friends!” Elgar’nans voice boomed over the crowd, magically enhanced to reach every ear in the room. “We welcome you to our annual victory celebration. Tonight, we invite you to rejoice as we remember our triumph over the rebels, and honor the accords of peace struck that very day. With us tonight are this year’s devotees — these carefully selected, honored members of Elvhenan who enter our service with full hearts and bright futures!”

A cheer rose from the crowd as wine glasses rose in the air in a toast, and the patter of genteel clapping filled the room.

“And tonight is particularly special as, for the first time, Fen’Harel himself takes a devotee into his service!” Mythal said, beaming as she waved a hand in his direction.

The cheering turned to excited chatter as people began to whisper amongst themselves.

“Fen’Harel,” Elgar’nan addressed him directly, a wicked smirk adorning his lips. “Come forward and claim your devotee.”

The crowd parted for him as he moved forward towards the dais.

A girl emerged from the herd of devotees, a small, lithe thing with hair like fine spun gold, and eyes gray as dark storm clouds. She neither bowed nor kneeled when she came to stand before them, and met their gazes squarely. He came to a halt beside her.

“Do you, girl, give yourself willingly to the service of Fen’Harel?”

“I do,” she agreed, the words barely audible hissed as they were between clenched teeth. She had yet to look at him.

“Do you swear to submit yourself to his authority, to obey his every command and fulfill his every desire, until your spirit passes beyond or he frees you from his service?” Elgar’nan continued, his gaze flicking to Solas.

“I do,” she repeated, her voice wavering ever so slightly. Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes as she raised her hand, and Elgar’nan drew the ribbon around their wrists.

“Do you accept this girl into your service, Fen’Harel?”

“I do,” he said, projecting his voice to be heard above the hushed whispers of the crowd. He could feel Elgar’nan’s oppressive magic settle against his skin as the ribbon drew tighter and tighter, constricting until it sank into their skin and disintegrated.

He had no vallaslin, so there was no design to brand her, but he could feel the tether between them just the same.

“Then take her,” Elgar’nan commanded, waving his hand. “And let her bring honor to her people with her service.”

Snickers and jeers floated through the crowd as their gaze turned wild. It wasn’t uncommon for the revels to turn sensual upon such a declaration, though that was usually reserved for later in the evening.

“Ignore them,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth as he took her elbow in his hand. “Do not let them see your fear.”

“I am not afraid,” she whispered back, her voice firm. He glanced down at her to meet her gaze properly for the first time and saw that she wasn’t lying — she wasn’t afraid. She was angry.

“Do you know what happens now?” He asked, moving them to the center of the room, and guided her hand to his shoulder.

“No,” she admitted, eyes darting wildly around them as the music rose, underscoring Elgar’nan’s next round of announcements.

He had moved on to the next selection of devotees — Andruil’s, he thought, spying the other Evanuris cutting through the crowd to inspect her new servants, Ghilan’nain by her side.

“We will not stay long,” he promised, lifting her in the air as they turned. She was light, frail and birdlike in a way all too common among the Elvhen living on the edge of Arlathan. “My obligations require me to stay for a little while, but I have no interest in remaining for longer than necessary. We will be home before long.”

She said nothing else but nodded jerkily and affixed her eyes to the mantle draped across his shoulder, avoiding his gaze despite his best efforts. He met Mythal’s gaze as they turned. She was laughing, her head thrown back, but it was a mockery of true mirth. Her smile did not reach her eyes. There was shame instead of joy peering back at him, and in an instant that too was gone as her gaze turned on Elgar’nan, and she tucked herself against him and lay her head on his shoulder.

It did not hurt as it once had, but his heart gave a pang just the same.

The song ended, and as June stepped forward to claim his devotees and the crowd surged forward to bear witness, Solas guided his new servant into the shadows and down the nearly empty hall. It was a relief to be away from the crowd.

“Where are we going?” she asked again, her own steps faltering, though she still followed. “Where is ‘home’?”

“I have my own lands on the outskirts of Arlathan,” he explained, hoping the answer would please her. His home abutted a great old forest that was far more like her home than Arlathan proper. More simple, of course, because Solas cared little for the ostentatious designs favored by Elgar’nan and the other Evanuris.

“Will we be there soon?” she asked, coming to a halt, and bit her lip.

He turned to face her and tilted his head to the side, appraising her carefully. “Is there a reason you—”

A warm breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying her scent to his nose.

He gasped, nearly choking on it, and stumbled back in alarm.

“You’re an omega!” He exhaled, stunned, and tried to regain his composure even as his cock stirred.

In the beginning, the first days, the spirits that took forms — and their offspring — bore more instinct-driven characteristics. Bestial, even. Bodies had needs, after all. They hungered for food and water, and for other, baser things like the animals they’d modeled their forms after — the desire to breed, to propagate the species.

Those early generations were categorized by their needs and skills in three designations: alphas, betas, and omegas.

Alphas were leaders, more naturally confident and strong. They fought twice as hard and twice as long as others, and made up the bulk of their armed forces.

Betas were followers, better with their words than brute force and more social. They were inventors and lawmakers, the builders of society.

Omegas were considered evolutionaries. They retained the strongest connection to the Fade and were often incredibly powerful mages, and passed that connection on to their offspring. They were highly desired, and highly coveted, and despite their power were the most vulnerable of three.

Being so closely connected to the fade made them more instinctive and bestial than the others — they, not unlike the animals of the world, experienced periods of arousal meant to induce a breeding cycle.

As time passed and the elves adapted to the world, these characteristics faded from bloodlines. The Elvhen people slowly but surely were losing their connection to the fade, generation by generation, though most still had some touch of magic.

But an omega had not been seen in centuries.

His mouth watered.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said, frowning, but shifted uncomfortably and cast her eyes down.

“Did your elders not teach you our history?” he asked. Surely, she must know something.

“Some,” she said, frowning at the offense. “But much focus was spent on our more recent histories.”

It had been thousands of years, of course, since there were alphas and omegas, and he supposed that they would have passed into legend by now. When an omega cropped up now, they almost never survived their presentation. Heats were brutal for them, requiring an inordinate amount of magic and stamina that no normal elf could provide, and they often burned up too quickly for word to reach Arlathan proper.

And she was his.

His throat constricted as his nose filled with the scent of her, and his mind raced to fully comprehend exactly what he had been pulled into. This was why Mythal had summoned him, why she went to such great pains to keep the girl from Elgar’nan.

The Evanuris, their bodies crafted from the blood of Titans, from lyrium itself, had thus far proven incapable of siring children. The first generation of Elves were also spirits once who, following the instructions of the Evanuris, shaped their forms in their likeness — but they were not told all, and were given less lyrium to work with. Elgar’nan and Mythal feared letting those spirits stand on equal footing lest they too turn against them. In giving them only a touch of lyrium to let them craft their bodies, they made them more like the mortal humans and beasts that already walked the earth — weaker, and yet more fertile.

Lyrium was poison to Elves and mortal men alike with long exposure, and the seed of the Evanuris was, more or less, made of raw lyrium.

Elgar’nan had tried for centuries to cement his legacy, even taking the moniker of ‘All-father’ when he was forced to face the truth — that trueborn fatherhood was one aspect of life that would forever be denied to him. Even when a babe would quicken in a womb, it never came into the world alive and oft killed the mother who tried to bear it.

Mythal forbid him from attempting again after the last concubine perished in the attempt, though Solas had his doubts about her true motives.

But an omega, one who was already closer to the fade, might be capable.

He could not recall Elgar’nan ever taking an omega to his bed even when they were more common — but they had been at war then, and his priorities were not to sire children. He may not have even realized the possibility until Alphas and Omegas were almost entirely extinct.

“Master?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice, and Solas suppressed the unwelcome shudder of pleasure trickling down his spine.

“Have you had your courses yet?” he asked. He had a feeling he knew the answer.

A furious blush rose to her cheeks. “I’m eighteen,” she growled. “I’m not a child.”

“I did not say you were,” he countered sternly. “And it was not your age I asked.”

“No,” she admitted after a long moment, biting her lip. “My village hasn’t always… done well for itself. Many girls do not bloom until they are older.”

He doubted any would get them as late as her. Omegas didn’t have their courses until after their first heat — and hers was rapidly approaching, judging by her scent alone.

“Why?” she asked, pressing him for an answer.

“We must hurry,” he said instead, avoiding the question. The longer they dallied the more difficult it would become to get her out. If he could smell her, the other Evanuris would, too. Including Elgar’nan. “Come,” he commanded her, taking her by the hand to tug her down a long hall. There was an Eluvian that would take them to the Crossroads, and from there they could access the Vi’Revas and find sanctuary in the Lighthouse.

“No,” she argued, digging her heels into the stone floor, bringing them both to an abrupt halt. “Not until I know what’s going on.”

“You just swore your obedience before the Evanuris and the court,” he reminded her, turning on his heel to face her, and raised a brow. “Are you truly going to break your vow so quickly?”

A dark blush crawled across her cheeks and throat, trailing down her clavicle. The gown she’d been dressed in — a plain, thin thing meant for ceremonies — left little to the imagination, which was by design. They could, and had, dressed up the reapings with pomp and circumstance and ceremony.

They were devotees, not slaves — not sacrifices, though that would have been a far more honest name — and from the first moment of their binding, their raiment was to be decided by the Evanuris they had sworn themselves to serve.

Most, like Elgar’nan, liked them bare — easier to reach and fondle — but they had an illusion to maintain and so gave them gowns.

The defiance on her face, bold and without the awe or fear he was accustomed to seeing from Elvhen, made her appear even comelier in the faint torchlight. Of course, her scent was growing incrementally stronger, too, and that might have had some bearing on the attraction.

“To explain in full detail would be to recount hundreds of years of ancient history, and we do not have time for that at present. I will explain when we are home and away from this place,” he promised. The binding Elgar’nan had performed gave him power over her — power he was loath to use, but would if it meant saving her from the dark future awaiting her if they didn’t leave now. “It is imperative that we go, and go now. You are in danger here. You must trust me,” he insisted, and held out his hand once more.

She frowned, worrying her bottom lip until it was red and swollen. “I have your word?”

Solas nodded. “You have my word.”

She nodded, placing her hand in his once more, and allowed him to pull her toward the Eluvian. The sounds of the revel were growing louder behind them. Not just music, but wild, high cries and moans of ecstasy. The revel was, predictably, turning to orgy.

The soldiers guarding the Eluvian bowed their heads as they passed, though Solas could see one’s gaze snag on the girl beside him. He pulled the girl closer to his side and raised his hand, activating the Eluvian.

“Take a breath first and hold it,” he warned the girl, and guided her through the mirror.

She gasped as they stepped into the Crossroads and stumbled, saved from falling only by Solas’ arm around her waist. “What is this place?”

“Have you never been in the Fade proper?” he asked, frowning. Her education had been clearly lacking, coming from the backwater of Arlathan, but to be a mage and never step into the Fade? It was an old guilt that twisted in his belly now.

The dying connection between Elvhen and the Fade was his fault, after all.

When war broke out between the Evanuris, the whole world was dragged into it, and to end it, Solas had taken the most drastic of measures. Anaris and his ilk could not be killed but they could be contained, and contain them Solas had. He created a veil to separate the world from the Fade and imprisoned the treacherous Evanuris with in a prison of regret to spend the rest of their immortal days where they could not reach the Elvhen and corrupt them to their cause.

It was this decisive victory that ensured his place among the Evanuris, and that which broke the ties of the Elvhen people to the Fade. It cost them their power, and their immortality — and still they thanked him for it.

It was their thanks, their adoration, that drove him into isolation.

He could not bear to look at them, knowing what he had taken from them.

There was still access to the fade proper, of course, through the Eluvians. But they were closely guarded and monitored, and only a select few of the Elvhen were permitted to use them — devotees to the Evanuris, of course, and Keepers with their charges.

The girl shook her head. “Our Keeper has strict rules. We are only permitted to go once we have ten years under our belt, and have earned our braids,” she explained, fingering the eight intricate braids woven from the crown of her head.

One braid for each year, he assumed. Meaning that she had begun her training at ten. A little late, for a child with such a strong connection to the fade. But that was something to be puzzled out later.

“It is a wondrous place, the origin of our people,” he told her, hoping to assuage some of her concerns. Her brow was still deeply furrowed, uncertainty and unease radiating from her as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Remain close to me and all will be well.”

She needed little else for encouragement. As they traveled the winding path through the fade, passing high cliffs and verdant gardens alike, her gaze remained fixed on the ground but for the occasional glance at his profile when she thought he wasn’t looking. One delicate hand remained fisted in his cloak as they walked, as if she were afraid that he would disappear if she let go.

He did not mind.

“What is your name?” he asked after a long stretch of silence. It shamed him to realize that he had not asked — not during the ceremony or after. In his haste to flee the citadel, he’d simply come to think of her as ‘the girl’.

“Rook,” she replies, her expression inscrutable.

He knows she is lying but does not call her out on it. Now is not the time, and if she wishes to be called by a name not her own then that is her choice.

“What is your specialty?” he continues his questioning, hoping to distract her from her worries as much as himself from the impossibility of the situation he’s found himself in.

“My specialty?” she asks, confused, and does look up at him then.

“Your magic,” he clarifies, guiding her down a steep, narrow path. “Do you have an affinity with fire? Ice?”

“I have some skill in many areas,” she says with a shrug. “Our keeper believes in fostering skill in each discipline, at least at a rudimentary level.”

“A wise decision,” Solas says, hoping that, for all that his approval seems to matter little to her, they may find some common ground.

He would need it; they had a hard discussion awaiting their arrival at the Lighthouse.

The Vi’Revas was already alight when they arrived, and she followed him through it with more confidence than she had the first and did not stumble as she stepped onto the platform. Turning behind him, he waved his hand and deactivated the Eluvian behind them, the mirror going dark and plunging the room into an eerie, dimly lit darkness.

“Come,” he bid her, unable to keep the relief from his voice. “Are you hungry?”

“I should be. I haven’t eaten since early this morning, when I was—” she hesitates, seeming to struggle to find the appropriate word, “—collected.”

He suspects that she might have chosen ‘taken’, if she knew of his true feelings on the matter.

“You should be, but you are not?” he asks, disliking what it implied.

Her body was already preparing itself for the upcoming heat by overriding other bodily necessities. Soon, her mind would follow.

Rook shook her head.

“A drink then, I think,” he mutters, and leads her up the stairs circling the rotunda to the next flight, taking her to his office.

“I do not drink,” she says after a long moment, still following.

“You may change your mind,” he tells her grimly. “But it is your choice, of course.”

“Is it?” she asks, her tone wary, following him into the room.

He pulls a bottle of wine from the shelf, a vintage that has been sitting and collecting dusk since the war. Two cups materialize on his desk, the Caretaker flickering into the room.

“Welcome home, Wolf,” it greets him, and then turns to Rook, who stares at it, her mouth agape. “Guest?” It directs the question to him, its mechanical head cocking to the side,

“She is a dweller,” Solas corrects. “You will serve her as you serve me.”

“Of course, Wolf,” it says and bows to them both.

“You may return to your duties,” Solas dismisses it, seeing the discomfort on Rook’s face when it bows to her. “It is a spirit,” he tells the girl. “A helpful one.”

“One you’ve enslaved?” she asks, sounding more frightened now than she had in court.

Solas chuckled. “No, not at all. Spirits are… desires, hopes, dreams, emotions made manifest. The Caretaker is a spirit of helping — it is its purpose, its calling. It knew I needed help with this place when I first built it, and it came to me and asked what it could do to help.”

Rook’s frown softened ever so slightly. “My Keeper… has a spirit of faith as a companion, one that has been by his side since he was a young boy. But it didn’t look like that.”

“We are in the fade,” Solas says, pouring the wine into the glasses. “They may take many forms here. The Caretaker assembled its form himself, scavenging pieces of armor and clothing that made their way into the fade.” He offered her the cup, which she took but did not drink from, and waited.

She did not sit but continued to stand, staring at him with an air of open defiance even as gooseflesh crawled down her arms and her shoulders trembled. He raised a hand and ignited the fire in the fireplace, and wondered if she didn’t do it because she couldn’t, or if she didn’t feel she had the right.

“We are in a difficult position,” he began, wondering how much time they had left. “You are special, Rook. More than you know. Your magic is strong, isn’t it? A little wild, and difficult to control?”

She nodded and took a half step closer to the fireplace, the tension easing from her body as the warmth reached her. He reclined against his desk, allowing her to keep the distance between them, and swallowed heavily when he realized how thin the gown truly was. Against the firelight, it was practically sheer.

“You are an omega,” he informed her. “A throwback to an earlier generation of Elvhen — the first, in fact, when our kind were new to the world, and we were yet to find our place as a people. We were more bestial, then, more driven by instinct and emotion. People were born as one of three designations — alphas, betas, and omegas, each offering something unique and important to society.”

“What did omegas offer?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Power,” he said, inclining his head. “They retained the strongest connection to the fade, to magic itself, when others lost it. And—” he bit the inside of the cheek. There was not a delicate way he could phrase this, he thought, without making it sound truly terrible.

“And?” she asked, eyes wide and curious, her earlier reservations forgotten.

“Fertility. Our people were immortal once, and that strong connection to the fade, to the lyrium that ran in our very veins, made conceiving more difficult. Omegas, being so close to the fade, bore children more easily. More than that, being closer to spirits than people, they developed some of the more…bestial traits seen among the animals that already walked the earth.”

“What kind of bestial traits?” she asked, discomfort and unease growing on her face.

He caught the subtle movement of her gown shifting around her hips as her thighs rubbed together.

“A mating cycle, not unlike what’s seen in cats or wolves,” he says bluntly, wincing when he sees her blanch. “Meant to encourage… breeding.” 

She stares at him. “And you think I’m one of these… omegas?”

“I know you are,” he says firmly, taking a long drink of his wine.

“What, just because my magic is a little stronger than the average mage?” She snorts.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Because I can smell you.”

She stills, shifting from one foot to the other, and frowns at him.

“You’re releasing pheromones,” he explains, drawing in a deep breath, until the smell of her fills his nose and throat and sets his own skin ablaze. “Meant to draw a mate.”

A little noise escapes her, a quiet, half-strangled whimper, and when he looks at her he can see the dismay on her face.

“Omegas that are born in this world now are incredibly rare, and often die before reaching full maturity,” he tells her seriously, unwilling to sugarcoat the truth regardless of her, or his, discomfort with the topic. “Your heat requires an incredible amount of stamina and mana to sustain you and meet your needs. Most Omegas enter their heat with no warning and die from it before they can find a partner to aid them.”

Her scent was growing stronger. The friction between her thighs, her subconscious effort to relieve the earliest feelings of arousal, was making her sweat.

“I don’t want to die,” she says softly. “But I am not a whore, either.”

“I do not think of you as such,” he affirmed, shaking his head.

“No, you’re different from the rest of them, aren’t you?” she muses, a flicker of… something in her eyes. “I saw how they looked at me, heard what they… implied,” she trailed off. “You never take part in the revels either, if the rumors are true.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Nor would I have taken you if I had been given a choice.”

Rook frowns at that, confusion clouding her expression, and sits on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, drawing her knees to her chest. “You didn’t have a choice?” And he hears what she doesn’t say, what’s hiding behind her pursed her lips. 

You didn’t want me?

Solas considers how much to tell her. For all that they are allies at this moment, she is still a stranger to him, and speaking ill of the other Evanuris could have disastrous results. “I am prone to isolationism,” he hedges. “The All-father knows this, and was… concerned.”

She gives him a strange look. “It was the All-mother that came to me and told me to declare myself for you.”

Solas sighs, his suspicions confirmed. Mythal and her games.“You could have declared yourself for her.”

Rook gives him an appraising look. “No,” she says after a pregnant pause. “I’ve seen her handmaidens. I…” she trails off, uncomfortable with speaking ill of Mythal or her practices.

He raises a hand to silence her. “No need to explain. I… understand. Still, it was quite a risk to declare yourself for me when I am unknown.”

She looks down into her cup and hesitantly takes a sip, tasting the wine and deciding if she likes it, and then takes another, longer drink until the cup is empty. “No risk, no reward. You were unknown, but… you could not be worse than them.”

“Couldn’t I?” he asks, raising a brow, and saunters closer. He does not wish to intimidate her, or to frighten her, but her pheromones are going to his head, and she makes for a pretty sight, on her knees in front of the fire.

He hears her quiet little gasp even though her mouth doesn’t open, sees how dark her eyes have become, the pupils blown wide with desire.

“Better me than Elgar’nan to be sure,” he continues, drawing close enough to lay a palm on the top of her head, and coils her braids around his fingers. He can smell her desire, heady and pungent and dripping down her thighs.

She whimpers at the gentle touch, and the empty cups slips from her fingers onto the pelt and rolls away, forgotten.

“I will not force you,” he says, running a thumb across her cheekbone and down her jaw to her lips. “But you will die without my interference.”

“I don’t want to die,” she says again, her mouth parting instinctively as his thumb applies the barest pressure to her bottom lip. “Please, help me.”

It is difficult to tell if it is Rook talking or the heat, now. The defiance and uncertainty both are gone from her gaze, replaced by desire and desperation.

He does not know if he can truly count her pleading as consent, but knows that she will die if he does nothing, and that must be reason enough. If she hates him when she emerges from the flames, then at least she would be alive to do so.

“What do you need?” he asks, his voice soft. It has been an age since he has done this. After Mythals betrayal, he’d taken a string of lovers one after another, desperate to find a balm to his aching heart. He hadn’t just lost a lover but a friend, though she undoubtedly had a different perspective. Once the worst of the heartbreak had faded, he retreated to his lands to recover in solitude, and he’d been alone since.

“I… don’t know,” she whimpers, and he immediately feels foolish. She’s never done any of this before.

“That’s alright,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll teach you. Come here,” he bids her to stand, and she obeys, her hands fisted in her paper-thin skirts.

He tugs at the braided cord in the front of her gown, noticing for the first time how simple the garment truly was. Slits up to the thighs offered freedom of movement — and free access for other activities, post ceremony. With the cord untied, the fabric hangs loosely off her shoulders, exposing the swell of her breasts and belly, and he realizes the ‘gown’ is actually a single piece of fabric.

She shivers beneath this gaze, and shrugs the fabric from her shoulders until it falls to the floor, and she is bare before him.

“You are beautiful,” he praises her sincerely, admiring the fullness of her breasts and the width of her hips. He was not born with a designation like the generation of Elvhen that followed the Evanuris, but he could still feel the near-primal pull from the pheromones she was excreting. More than mere arousal, she smelled like the fade, like mana itself.

Her thighs were visibly wet in the firelight, her own slick glistening against her skin. He drew closer and slid his hand between her legs with little ceremony, his fingers sliding between her folds to coat themselves in her arousal. Her thighs parted ever so slightly to make room for his hand, and she reached for him, gripping his arms tight to brace herself.

A high whimper left her mouth, something keening and desperate, and her hips jerked and shuddered against his fingers.

“I’m going to prepare you,” he warns her as he presses his fingers inside, slowly working up to this first knuckle. Even with her slick, she is impossibly tight. “You must relax,” he tells her, knowing that he cannot take her like this, that he will hurt her if he does.

But she doesn’t relax. If anything, he can feel her squeezing his fingers with her inner walls. He hums, searching her desperate gaze for a reason and finding none save her own ignorance. She did not know what he meant, did not understand how to relax muscles she hadn’t consciously used before. He would need to make her relax.

“Lay down,” he orders, removing his fingers from her cunt and gesturing to the pelt in front of the fire. “On your back, with your knees spread wide.”

She obeys, dropping to her knees and crawling back to the pelt — and for the barest moment, when she is on her knees and facing away, he feels the urge rise within him to take her just like that. To haul her back by her hips and spear her on his cock, her face pressed into the furs. He examines the feeling, surprised at its strength, and considers for the first time that her heat might just affect him, too. There is an academic curiosity in him that almost gives in to the feeling, but he presses it back. She is a virgin. He will not take her rough — not yet, not at first. She deserves more than that.

“Please, my lord—”

“Solas,” he corrects her, stripping off his own clothes with methodical haste and throwing them across the chair, taking a moment to admire the view. “You will call me by my name.”

Time permitting, he would paint this later. Not a mural, of course, but something private for his own collection.

She is exquisite. Her golden hair splayed across the dark fur, her hands gripping her knees and keeping them spread wide to expose the mound of golden curls and slick, pink cunt to the air — and to him.

He kneels before her and situates himself between her legs, suppressing the desire to take his cock in hand and simply take her, and lowers his mouth to her cunt.

“Wh-what are you—”

Her speech falters at the first gentle lick, strangled by the whine rising in her throat and escaping. Her knees close around his head, though she hasn’t released them, and he uses his own hands to force them aside. She cries out as he licks in earnest, his tongue writhing between her folds and lapping at her clit before worming its way inside her. She thrashes, unable to keep still, and her hips rock against his mouth insistently, chasing her first climax.

He ignores her pleas and protests alike, pins her hips down to the pelt to prevent her squirming, and licks and sucks until he is satisfied, and she comes apart on his tongue. The tension eases from her body, her heels slipping against the pelt as her legs relax, and this time when he presses his fingers inside her, she is relaxed.

When he looks up at her, he sees confusion in her gaze. Tears are beading in the corners of her eyes. “It burns,” she whispers, her chest heaving as the tears spill over her cheeks. “It felt good, but now it’s burning. Why is it burning?”

Solas had some idea. The orgasm he’d given her did not fulfill the purpose of her heat. It was not pleasure her body demanded. The chemicals driving her heat could only be counteracted with the chemicals produced in his cum. A delightful, if wicked, part of the evolutionary prerogative.

“I’m going to make it better,” he promised her, pressing gentle kisses over her belly button, between her breasts, up her throat, and across her jaw. He stole a kiss from her mouth, pleased when she parted her lips and drew his tongue inside her mouth.

“Please,” she pleads, breaking the kiss to beg. “Please, Solas. It hurts. Please make it stop.”

He can see her mana burning bright behind her eyes, the golden circle around her pupil nearly glowing with unspent power. It is fascinating to see such power blooming beneath the surface, not consciously summoned but there, waiting to be used.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, and takes his cock in hand. Rubbing the head along her slit until it is well-coated in her slick, dripping with it, he presses inside slowly, trying to ignore her urgency as her legs lock around his hips and her heels dig into his ass to encourage him forward.

She is more relaxed than she was before, and plenty wet, but it does not change the fact that she is a virgin, and he waits until she relaxes a little more before thrusting wholly inside.

Rook gasps beneath him, her back arching, and, impossibly, her grip on him seems to tighten. Her nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood, but that recognition is fleeting compared to the one that follows: he can feel the fade flowing within her, the power thrumming beneath her skin. And he wants. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, foreign after centuries of isolation.

And he has never wanted like this.

He steels himself, resisting the urge to thrust. She’s pulsing around him, her walls squeezing his cock to draw him deeper still. If there’s any discomfort, she doesn’t seem to feel it.

“P-please,” she stutters, one hand sliding to his ass to urge him forward. Her eyes are bright and frenzied, and absent of the quiet intelligence he’d first seen, her manner more animalistic, driven now by a primal need.

He pressed a warm kiss to her jaw and moved, rocking into her with slow, gentle strokes. “Hush,” he shushed her, delighting in the low whine rumbling in her throat. “Have patience, sweet one.”

“I’m burning up. I need more!” Rook pleaded, her teeth grazing his shoulder. “Harder.”

The demand ignited something in him, an ancient, fierce need that eclipsed everything else. All the rest of the world might have been burning, the Forgotten Ones might have returned with an army to his doorstep, Mythal herself might’ve revealed that she had murdered Elgar’nan and claimed his throne — and he would not have cared. His entire world had narrowed to this one moment, this one person.

He thrust harder, grabbing her thigh to keep her pinned beneath him.

“More,” she hissed, eyes wild with lust and heat. “I-I need—” she trailed off, shaking her head, her face screwing up into a frown.

“I know what you need,” he told her, nuzzling her throat insistently until she bared it for him, her head tipped back until her crown pressed into the rug. The simple act of submission set his blood aflame in pleasure, and he could not contain the quiet, please growl rising from his chest to his mouth. “You need to be filled, don’t you?” He asked, knowing the answer, and knowing she didn’t.

Her control of her magic slipped and sent sparks of electricity crackling throughout the room. His hand crawled across her waist and up her ribs, gliding between the valley between her breasts until it lay across her collarbone — his long fingers gently curled around her throat and gave it the barest squeeze.

She gasped, startled, and for a moment he could see Rook beyond the haze of her heat, a glimmer of the woman lost to her need.

“Stay with me,” he urged her, holding her gaze as he released her throat and planted his hand on the rug above her shoulder.

Seeing the intelligence in her eyes, the hesitant trust, spurred him to thrust harder, until his balls slapped against her thighs and her body shuddered beneath him. She would have bruises on her thighs and hips come the morning but he did not let himself feel guilt; he could heal them come the dawn, and replace them by sunset if he so wished.

“Look at me!” Solas demanded, seeing the dim haze of pleasure cloud her expression once more. “Rook,” he called her name, sinking into her until he was fully seated, and held her fast, refusing to let her move and seek the friction that might grant her release. “Talk to me, Rook,” he bid her.

She whimpered, eyes shining bright in the firelight, and shook her head.

“You must tell me what you need,” he said, though he knew it was a wicked thing to ask — she hardly knew the right words even if she could speak, and the girl was nearly beyond reason now.

“You,” she managed to say, tears beading in the corners of her eyes, her hands wrapping around his neck to draw him close, and tipped her head forward to press her forehead to his. “Need you.”

“Yes,” he purred, returning the gesture, and stole a kiss from her mouth. “You need me.” He shifted to his knees, his cock slipping free from her cunt, dripping in her slick, and felt gratified when he heard her cry out. “On your knees, sweet thing,” he commanded, drawing back to give her room to turn over.

She obeyed, half crawling onto her belly, and pushed herself up onto her knees, her ass raised high in the air as her face burrowed into the rug.

He admired the view as he nudged her knees wider apart and slotted himself against her, his cock sliding between her folds and bumping against her clit as he idly thrust against her.

A quiet sob reached his ears, and he peered down at her to see her hands fisted in the rug, her cheeks stained with tears, as she tried to smother her cries.

He ought to have felt guilty, he knew, but the sight only brought him pleasure.

It felt good to be needed, to be wanted.

Laying a gentle hand on her lower back, he following the path of her spine up to her shoulders, and then pressed ever so slightly. She stilled, and he rewarded her instinctive obedience by taking his cock in hand and guiding it inside her.

He felt her sigh, heard the quiet exhale and relief, and smiled.

“Good girl,” he crooned, and began to thrust in earnest, leaning over her until his palms were flat on the floor beside her head. “Keep your hips up.”

A dim, distant part of him recoiled in revulsion at his manner, at his language, but it did not reach him. Nothing could reach him now. He was caught in her, in whatever pheromones she excreted that he should have been immune to, and he did not care to even try to free himself.

Solas thrust into her in earnest, joyful each time he felt the swell of her ass press against his thighs. He lifted a hand and slid it beneath her belly, hauling her hips back up into position once more, and left it there, where he could feel her muscles straining as he drove inside her.

Her scent shifted, the pheromones turning from pungent to fragrant, almost sweet, and he knew: she was ready to be bred. She was little more than bitch in heat now, panting into the rug and pleading for his cock when he stopped moving, but he was hardly any better. He was in a rut now. Something he had seen in wolves, had felt the pull of once or twice while shifted into that form, but never experienced.

“Take it,” he urged her as he rammed his cock inside her hilt-deep, and pinned her hips with his knees to keep her still. He was impossibly deep; the head of his cock was butting against her cervix, and he knew it must hurt. But she didn’t protest, or weep, and raised her hips to press back against him as if to bring him deeper. He came, his cock swelling at its base as his cum poured into her, and locked himself inside her. Her own orgasm followed from the first rush of cum kissing her cervix, and her fluttering walls milked his cock for minutes until he was drained dry.

Even then, when the knot at the base of his cock deflated and some small measure of clarity was restored to his mind, he did not part from her.

He looked down at where they remained joined, her slit dripping with slick and cum, and felt his cock stir to life once more. He’d never had cause to test his stamina before in such a manner, but was not displeased with the results.

She shuddered, peering up at him over her shoulder, clear-eyed and blushing, and swallowed.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

And then, Rook turned her face down to the rug once more and inched her knees apart.

Hesitantly, he gripped her hips, kneading the flesh beneath his hands, and gave a shallow thrust. She groaned beneath him, the sound muffled, and pushed her ass back against him.

“Up,” he ordered her, fisting a hand in her long hair to draw her back until she balanced on her hands and knees. He wanted to hear her. “Stay there.”

He thrust a little harder, relishing in the quiet whimper that escaped her mouth, and wondered if he could make her scream. His free hand traveled around her hip to her belly, to the golden curls covering her mound, and drew his fingers between her slick folds to press against her clit.

The barest touch sent her careening into another orgasm, and he fucked her through it, enjoying the way she squeezed his cock a little tighter each time he pulled back to ram into her again. His fingers continued to work her clit, changing the rhythm and pressure until he could feel her beginning to climax again, and he wondered, how many he could wring from her? Could he make her come until she exhausted herself beyond being able to even kneel?

The thought of her laying in a puddle of her own slick and his cum sparked his own orgasm. He was prepared for the knot this time, and enjoyed the feeling of it swelling inside her, and her tight walls pulsing around him. Withdrawing his hand from her clit, he lay it on the flat of her belly instead, and thought of it swollen and round, his progeny growing inside her.

It was a fascinating prospect, and not one he had previously entertained.

Fatherhood was as strange a concept to him as mortality, and though the latter had little allure, the first was growing more enticing. Perhaps Mythal had been right. This was his world now, his home, such as it was, and he had helped create it. Was he not duty bound to live in it?

And, this was something Elgar’nan would never have.

Something he could not steal, or corrupt.

A privilege that would be his, as his alone.

Rook whimpered, calling his attention, and he winced when he realized he had never released her hair. He relaxed his grip and ran his fingers through her hair, gently massaging her scalp in quiet apology.

“How are you doing?” he asked, feeling his knot beginning to deflate. She was trembling beneath him but not insensate, and she turned her head to peer up at him as she gave her answer.

“Good,” she managed to slur, her eyes alert if still clouded by lust, “ready.”

“Ready?” Solas licked his lips, feeling his cock stir. “For what?”

“More,” she breathed, and pushed her ass back against his hips more insistently. “Need more.”

Solas hummed and pressed her back down into the rug until she lay flat, and reclined against her thighs to watch his cock slip out of her wet cunt. “Are you sure you can take more?” He asked, half-teasing her. “You’re dripping.”

“I can,” she protested, wiggling beneath him. “I need it.” 

“I’m going to give you more,” he promised, guiding the head of his cock between her folds. “If you can be a good girl and take it.” 

He pressed inside her slowly, fighting the urge to buck violently against her, and relished the way she clenched and quivered around him. Rocking forward onto his knees, he leaned over her and drew his nose from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, and buried his face in her hair. “You’re going to take a little more now,” he warned, his voice a low rumble. 

“Yes,” Rook murmured, the sound muffled by the rug against her mouth. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, ah—”

He pushed harder, the head of his cock crowding against her cervix, and held her there even as she whined, his arm snaking around the front of her throat to keep her from squirming away. “Is this what you needed, little one?” he asked, teeth grazing the crux of her shoulder and neck. “Is this what you wanted? Can you even tell where you end and I begin?”

She groaned, her fingers digging into the rug. No affirmation or protest arose, but she wriggled impatiently beneath him and tilted her head back to nuzzle against him, tongue darting out to lick the corner of his mouth.

“Stay down,” he commanded, releasing her, and drew himself back up, placing one hand between her shoulders, and rocked into her in a steady, gentle rhythm. The urge to take her harder, more violently, was rising now that the pheromones had reached their peak. The entire room smelled like them.

His pace quickened, each thrust growing more urgent, more rough, until she grunted beneath him with the force of his thrusts, and squeaked when he withdrew too far.

“Please, Solas” she pleaded between groans, the sound of his name sending a wave of satisfaction through him. “Fill me, please. I need it.”

“As much as you like,” he promised, mind far from the concerns that weighed him earlier in the evening. “As often as you like.”

“Like this,” Rook slurred, trembling and twitching as an orgasm shuddered through her. “Just like this.” He didn’t even need to touch her clit anymore.

“As you wish,” he promised, and let his own orgasm overtake him, his knot swelling and locking him inside her as he released ropes of cum against her waiting womb. He doubted she would conceive immediately. Even being in heat, it was her first time. But that did not deter him from considering the possibility — or teasing her with it, either.

“Do you wish to be a mother, Rook?” he asked, the heat in his blood cooled enough to think rationally again.

“Yes,” she answered immediately, her walls fluttering around his cock as if to squeeze yet more cum from him.

“Did you before your heat?” he asked, hoping she would be lucid enough to answer. There were things that could be done if she did not, though he was greatly divided on the matter. The idea of having a child was appealing now in ways it had not been before, perhaps because it hadn’t been attainable before. But he did ultimately believe it to be her choice.

She hesitated for a moment and turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were clearer than they had been before when she replied. “Yes, though I had not imagined it so soon…”

“Does the idea bother you?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t… think so,” she said, frowning. “It’s hard to tell at the moment. My head will be clearer in the morning, when this is done, I think.”

Solas chuckled lowly and leaned forward to press a kiss on her shoulder. “I’m afraid it will take a little longer than that to clear your head, sweet one.”

“How long?” she asked, seeming surprised. There was no displeasure in her gaze, precisely, but some small concern. 

“A few days, most likely. With small breaks of lucidity in between, like this.” His knot deflated and he slipped out, sighing in satisfaction even as his cock softened. He leaned back to rest on his heels and idly pressed the dripping cum back into her cunt with his fingers, nearly mesmerized by the way she clenched around him. He was tempted to take her again, could feel that his cock would be ready with little effort, but knew that the lucidity would only last for so long, and there were things to be done.

“Days?” Her mouth dropped open. 

“Maybe up to a week,” he mused, enjoying the growing blush on her cheeks. “I confess, I don’t recall all the particulars. I will attempt to research during our… breaks.”

“Surely that can’t be—” she began, her dark eyes widening. “I mean, no one could keep that up for—”

“Well, no mortal, certainly,” he said, a wicked smirk crawling across his face as an unsettlingly strong sense of pride grew inside him.

“I’m mortal,” she reminded him, and crawled from beneath him to sit on the edge of the rug, drawing her knees up to her chest.

He resisted the urge to pursue her, to pull her back and push her face back into the rug. His last command had been to stay down, after all, and the disobedient, willful little thing had already forgotten.

Solas shook his head to banish the thoughts — and the urges with them. “Which is why I’m going to go to the kitchen and find something for you to eat,” he said, sighing, and stood. His cock swung heavy between his legs, still semi-erect, but he had no mind to cover himself; they were surely beyond the point of modesty for modesty’s sake.

She pointedly looked away, though the darkening blush on her cheeks betrayed her, and stared into the fire instead. “I don’t really feel hungry, though,” she muttered in protest.

“No, your pheromones are suppressing your other bodily desires, I suspect. But you still need to eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“But I—”

“Will eat as I command you, will you not?” Solas asked, frowning. He hoped he would not have to command her as her master, but he would if necessary. She was his, now, and it was his responsibility to see to her welfare.

Rook’s expression mimicked his own as she reluctantly nodded, confusion and irritation warring for a position on her face. “Yes, master.”

Solas offered her a curt nod and made for the kitchens, struggling to contain the growing, wicked pleasure at her submission and obedience. He prepared a small plate of cured meats and cheeses. It was light fare, but they could eat quickly and without cutlery. He did not know how long these ‘breaks’ would last.

Was this truly what Mythal had intended? What was her game?

He shook his head. Now was not the time to think of such things. Not when his devotee had not eaten since she was taken earlier this morning. She was his responsibility to care for now, and while it was both privilege and burden, it was not one he intended to shirk.

Returning to his office, he stilled as he entered.

Rook was reclined on the rug on her back with his mantle pressed to her face, and her hand buried in the curls between her thighs. He could see her fingers moving in unpracticed movements as she struggled to find the right rhythm and friction.

He set the tray on his desk and came to stand in front of her.

“I’ve brought food, Rook,” he reminded her even as his cock twitched, reminding him that he was as much a participant in her heat as she was, and more than willing.

“The burning came back,” she complained, her eyes watery. “But I can’t make it stop.”

“Your hand isn’t going to do much for you at this point, I fear,” Solas said. “Come eat something, and I will make it stop.”

She hesitated, her desire at war with her reason, before nodding and climbing to her feet. They moved in step towards the tray, Solas walking in her shadow like a puppet on a string. He did not touch her but hovered behind, watching her take each bite.

He could smell her again, smell the slick beginning to dampen her thighs once more to ease his way. She picked at the food like a bird, which he allowed so long as she continued to eat, until the tray was empty.

“Solas…” she began, turning to face him with an increasingly familiar, hazy desperation in her eyes. “I need you.”

“I’m right here,” he assured her, and pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth. She nodded, returning his kiss with fervor and rising on her toes to reach him, and pressed herself flush against him. His cock twitched between their stomach and grew hard.

Solas broke the kiss and stepped back, admiring her swollen lips and the pretty blush creeping between her breasts, and sat in the chair by the fire. “I’ll take care of you, Rook,” he promised, unable to conceal the hunger in his voice. “So long as you’re mine to care for.”

Rook followed, sidling closer with small, uncertain steps until she stood in front of him. “I…am your devoted servant,” she said, inching one knee on the arm of the chair, and then the other, until she straddled his hips and the head of his cock was once more pressed against her cunt. “I need you. But I fear—”

He could see her pulse jumping in her throat, and leaned close to nip at the hollow of her neck. There was yet more to discuss — boundaries to establish, and decisions to be made. But those concerns were far from his thoughts now. 

This was as close to mortality as he’d ever been and, dangerously, he’d never felt more godlike.

“Fear nothing,” he commanded, arm reaching around her back to hold her steady. “Trust me. I have you.” 

Her pupils dilated as she nodded. “Yes, master.”

The more she said it, the more he liked to hear it.

Dangerously godlike, indeed.

“Go on,” he encouraged her softly, guiding her down. “Take what you need.”