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Albeleo’s mage company had been faring better than most against the Dalmascan insurgents. The other officers congratulate him for it, when he has the misfortune of having to attend strategy meetings with them, but Albeleo’s not satisfied with ‘better than most’ – and so when he flips open the hastily-penned report of his company’s most recent outing against the rebel forces, it’s only with great effort that he keeps from burning down the whole tent around himself.
A loss. Thirteen soldiers killed, lost in the fighting. The front lines forcibly redrawn yet again as the Dalmascan rebels had reclaimed in a day the land it had taken the IVth over a week to take. A failure through and through—and yet Sartauvoir, in charge of Albeleo’s forces in the skirmish, had had the utter gall to note in the margins of the report that under the circumstances the outcome was acceptable.
Acceptable! The sheer fucking audacity of it has his blood boiling before he’s even managed to set down the report.
He finds Sartauvoir near the chirurgeons’ tents, talking to a handful of the newer recruits. They’re all of them looking worse for wear after the recent row of skirmishes, but Sartauvoir especially so: the old man’s uniform is torn and tattered and, worst of all, even singed in places – as is the man himself.
Albeleo holds little care for the soldiers under his command; they are pieces made to perform, and if they prove wanting, then he is quick to discard them. That is the nature of leadership, even if Legatus Gabranth would have them believe otherwise. Yet Albeleo is also very much a proponent of the idea that the more effort you put into something, the more you want to see it succeed – for are any disappointments reflect badly on you as well, don’t they? To therefore see the old elezen bearing visible marks of his failure is galling, to say the least – was Sartauvoir’s element not the very fire itself? For him to now be so marked by it is a testament to the tenacity of the legion’s enemies, certainly, but as Albeleo watches Sartauvoir gingerly cradles an arm to his chest when he thinks no one is watching, he can’t help but grit his teeth at his best student’s evident failure.
So much potential. So much of it squandered, held back by—what? Care for his fellow soldiers? Ridiculous. And unfitting, of a mage with such potential.
Albeleo watches the group for a moment longer, then steps forward and says, "Sartauvoir. With me," and allows his lips to twist into a satisfied little smile when Sartauvoir excuses himself and falls into step behind him without question or, indeed, hesitation. To a soldier their commanding officer's word is law, and where sas Lanatus would never abuse that power in a way that word could get back to the legatus, Albeleo has no such compunctions. Certainly not where his mages are concerned.
He leads Sartauvoir through the camp at a pace that he knows is just a bit too much for the wounded man; yet not once does Sartauvoir complain nor, indeed, fall behind. Only when they are within sight of Albeleo’s personal tent – still well within the fortified border of the camp itself, but isolated enough for his purposes – does he slow down. There’s no point in acknowledging it, of course, but he does take no small amount of sadistic pleasure in the relieved sigh coming from behind him at the change of pace.
There’s no guards around, because Albeleo has no need of them; there’s no camp-followers in the vicinity, either, because they have long since learned to avoid his quarters. The lack of spectators makes it all a little less exciting, certainly, but it also does well in putting Sartauvoir on edge in this instance: Albeleo holds open the flaps of the entrance to his tent and beckons for Sartauvoir to step inside, and the man’s reluctance is palpable.
But, of course, in the end in he goes – he is still a soldier, and Albeleo is still is officer, and if there is one thing Sartauvoir has always been good at it is obeying orders.
“I’ve read the report of your skirmish with that insurgent group on the plains,” Albeleo begins as soon as the flaps of the tent fall closed behind him. His eyes adjust to the gloom inside the tent slowly. Albeleo makes his way over to stand in front of Sartauvoir by memory more than anything for a good few paces longer than he’d like to admit. “And considering how well-prepared I thought we were, the losses your squad noted took me by surprise.”
“It’s inexcusable,” Sartauvoir agrees readily enough, soldier through and through. “However, I’d point out that the enemy’s use of aether-limiters in the area was not planned for, and under the circumstances? Losing only that handful of soldiers is a small victory in and of itself, as I'm sure the legatus would agree.”
Fair enough. Albeleo shrugs and, very deliberately, turns his back on the old man. “And yet you, of all people, I would have expected to do better.”
“My apologies, but—“
“I do find myself wondering, you know, if – aether limiters aside – we lost the plains to that laughably small Dalmascan force because you were simply not up for the task. Did I underestimate you after all, Sartauvoir? Basch spoke so highly of you,” he adds, and can well imagine the way the old man’s eyes narrow at the mention of the dead legatus, “that I find it hard to believe that you would be incapable of dealing with a few insurgents. Which then, of course, leads me to wonder: was it an accident at all, then? Or perhaps something a bit more . . . deliberate?”
Sartauvoir is still waiting for him to turn back around, and when Albeleo uses the momentum from the movement to backhand him with enough force to make him stagger back a step, all the old elezen does is briefly bring his hand up to his face before forcing himself back into parade rest.
Basch had trained him well, Albeleo muses not for the first time.
“Which is it, Sartauvoir? Incompetence, or insubordination?” Albeleo asks. He shakes his hand out, makes a show of flexing his fingers while Sartauvoir’s cheek must still sting. “By all rights you should have had that Dalmascan splinter group on their knees, and yet here we are.”
And for a breath it seems to Albeleo as if – at long last – the old man’s stoic composure will finally break. But no: Sartauvoir quickly schools his expression back into one of impassiveness, and when he finally deigns to move, it’s only to avert his eyes and lower his head.
Disappointing.
“But perhaps I am being unfair,” Albeleo continues, keeping his gait slow and steady until he finally deigns to come to a halt directly behind Sartauvoir. He places a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder, and delights in the aborted flinch it garners him in response. “Is it not a commanding officer’s duty to ensure that all of his subordinates are adequately prepared for the tasks he assigns them? Must not a general take care to guarantee that his orders can actually be carried out?”
He tightens his grip, fingers digging into the cloth and hard muscle beneath it. “Perhaps the failing, then, is mine?” Something unintelligible from the old man, along with a noticeable twitching of his muscles beneath Albeleo’s grip – fighting the urge to shake him off, perhaps? To flee? Albeleo grins. “Have I neglected your training, Sartauvoir? Must you be brought to heel yet again – shall I remind you that it is no longer Basch you answer to, but me?”
“I assure you that I am well-aware of the command structure of the legion,” Sartauvoir tells him after just a moment too long of hesitation. “The enemy—The Dalmascans are fierce; I simply underestimated—“
Albeleo seizes on that like one of Lyon’s hounds to bloodied prey. “So neither incompetence nor insubordination, but a simple matter of pride cost us half the ground the legion has won over the last week? Incredible.”
And now, finally, a reaction: Sartauvoir bristles, and as he shakes off Albeleo’s hand to whip around and face him, the cold ashes in the braziers dotting the inside of the tent blaze back to life.
“I don’t take my failure lightly, if that’s what you want to hear,” the old man snarls, “and neither do I seek to absolve myself of responsibility. I made a mistake. I will not make it again.”
Silence rings through the tent after his outburst. Albeleo lets it drag on until Sartauvoir ducks his head and makes to mutter some no-doubt half-hearted apology before cutting in, “Such temper. It’s no wonder that you fell for their ruse—but never fear, Sartauvoir. We’ll sort this out, you and I.” He waits a beat for silence to fall once more. “On your knees.”
Sartauvoir goes with visible reluctance, but his knees hit the earthen floor of the tent nevertheless. Albeleo would be lying if he said he weren’t just the slightest bit disappointed that the old man is so easy, so quick to follow orders even now; but Basch’s touch, he supposes, lingers longer than the man himself ever could have. He takes his time considering his options, therefore, weighing possibilities and discarding most of them off-hand before he finally settles on one.
Unconventional, to be sure. But promising.
“In Ul’dah,” he tells Sartauvoir as he gently cards his fingers through the old man’s hair, “the thaumaturge’s guild are firm adherents to the idea that in order to be able to properly focus one’s aether, we must, by necessity . . . narrow our view of the world a bit. The Mhachi mages of old, history tells us, cut out one of their eyes and replaced it with a gemstone to act as a focus – a primitive measure, as I’m sure you will agree.”
Sartauvoir nods as best he can against the hands gripping his head. “Barbaric.”
“Isn’t it just?” Albeleo laughs. And the Lalafellin brothers had called him a monster. “But we mustn’t be so quick to dismiss the insights of civilizations past. Their methods – flawed as they were – had a kernel of usefulness to them, I’ve found.”
Albeleo curls his fingers around the back of Sartauvoir’s head, and with an approving nod at the old man’s utter stillness, he places his thumbs just to the sides of Sartauvoir’s right eye.
The old mage, to his credit, even now doesn’t flinch, instead staring up at him impassively. His voice is rough, however, when he asks, “What do you think you’re doing, Albeleo?”
He pushes, with just the tiniest bit of pressure, against the edges of Sartauvoir’s eye. “It won’t do anything for your aether, I’m sure,” he tells him, “but perhaps this will help your focus in more mundane matters. Yes?”
Albeleo digs his thumbs in deeper, wrapping his fingers tighter around his mage’s head – and ignoring Sartauvoir’s pained whimpers all the while – until he begins to feel the slightest amount of give.
“Albeleo—“ Sartauvoir starts, voice low and hushed and pained and so satisfying that Albeleo can do naught but shiver and dig his fingers in deeper, holding tight against the old man’s twitches, “please—“
It’s unbelievably satisfying to hear him beg.
It’s even better to tell him, “Hold still,” and push his thumbs into the white of Sartauvoir’s eye. A slight shift in position has the old man’s hands coming up to wrap around Albeleo’s wrist, fingers tangling into his sleeves and trying to pull him away—but Albeleo holds firm, even when Sartauvoir begins to tear long scratches into him in his desperation.
And when that doesn’t have any effect – the position too awkward, and Albeleo too determined – there is a sizzling sound in the air, and for a flashing moment the smell of ashes permeates the air as Sartauvoir calls upon his magic to defend himself. Not enough, alas: Albeleo grits his teeth against the burgeoning heat of it, and with a snarl and a quick knee to Sartauvoir’s stomach he wrestles the flickers of aether into submission with his own considerable power.
“Just take it,” Albeleo hisses. “Prove to me that you’re at least still good for something.”
He pushes in tight now, until he’s all but curled over Sartauvoir’s kneeling form; and with a satisfying little squelch his nails finally pierce the sclera. Dark fluid quickly coats his fingers as Albeleo digs in deeper, pushing the pads of his thumbs further into the ruin he is making of Sartauvoir’s eye until naught remains of it but a gooey, bloody mess.
Sartauvoir’s scream rings in Albeleo’s ears long after the mage has devolved into choked-off sobs instead. It is only when they have faded completely that he relinquishes his aetherical hold on Sartauvoir’s limbs and finally releases the old man’s head; his fingers come away sticky, dripping blood and vitreous fluids that pool in a viscous mass in his cupped palm.
He watches it for a moment, considering. Judging by Sartauvoir’s defeated slump, and considering how even now, finally freed, he doesn’t dare bring his hands up to cup the gaping wound in his face—Albeleo thinks that his point has been made well enough.
But perhaps he should ensure it sticks.
With his free hand Albeleo pulls at his belt, loosening it just enough that he can part his robes and pull out his by now rock-hard cock. Oh, Mumuepo’d had the right of it when he’d thrown out Albeleo for taking far too much delight in the pain his spells inflicted; and the old Legatus Gabranth, too, had seen right through him and never promoted him to any position that mattered—but Albeleo is far from Ul’dah and Basch is long dead, and Sartauvoir? He is not in any position – let alone condition! – to deny him.
With a little laugh and great care not to spill anything, Albeleo lowers his hand still cupping the dark, bloody fluids down to his cock. He spreads the vitreous fluid across its length with great deliberation, making sure to coat as much of it as he can as he lazily jacks himself off.
And then, with a little muttered, “Up you go,” he once more reaches out to twine his fingers through Sartauvoir’s hair and pulls his head close.
The old man, for all the pain he must be in, is quick enough on the uptake even now; there’s a too-short moment where he resists Albeleo’s grip, then, with a shudder, he relaxes as best he can and opens his mouth. Basch had him trained well indeed, but: though the idea of forcing Sartauvoir to lick the remnants of his own eye off of Albeleo’s cock is appealing enough that he has to briefly squeeze the base off his length to not spill right then and there, it’s not quite what Albeleo is after.
Instead, Albeleo angles the old mage’s head up just enough so that when he pulls him near, the head of his cock brushes the blood-soaked cheekbones and up against the empty ruin of Sartauvoir’s eye socket.
It’s startlingly wet, is what it is. More blood and jellying fluid coats the tip of his cock as he pushes it against the wound, the slick glide of it quickly pulling him into quick, short thrusts against what remains of Sartauvoir’s eye. Albeleo takes his time with it, enjoying the ragged, pleading sounds he tears from the old elezen whenever a slight shift in angle forces the tip of his cock into the eye socket itself.
A little twitch of his fingers at the back of Sartauvoir’s head changes the angle just enough for him to deliberately push into that empty hollow. It’s a novel sensation: hot and wet and fitting so tightly against the sensitive head of his cock. He pulls back slightly, delighting in the sucking sensation as the bloody flesh clings to him, then presses back inside, pushing even further than before. Like this, Albeleo hits the orbital bone at the back of the eye socket far too soon, and can feel Sartauvoir clench against another scream.
There’s little physical pleasure to be had in this – too narrow and too shallow to fit anything but the very tip of his cock – but nevertheless Albeleo soon enough shutters through his orgasm, seed spilling out and around where the head of his cock is nestled inside the hollow of Sartauvoir’s eye socket, come trailing down his subordinate’s face in the slick paths the blood had pioneered. He rides out the last few dregs of it with short, grinding little pushes, wanting to work his seed in as deep as he physically can before finally pulling away with a wet, sucking noise that’s deafening in the utter silence of the tent.
When Albeleo steps back it’s like a spell breaks: Sartauvoir slumps forward, heaving as he vomits unto the packed earth of the tent floor and the flames of the candles in their little sconces along the wall flicker into great infernos for the shortest of breaths before dying back down as Sartauvoir shakes on all fours.
Albeleo watches only until he’s sure that the old man isn’t liable to fall unconscious on his carpets. Turning away, he focuses the ambient water-aspected aether into a cloth and begins to clean the tacky mess drying on his cock.
“Get yourself to the chirurgeons. I’m deploying you and your battalion again on the morrow,” Albeleo tells his mage once he’s tucked himself back away and righted his robes. When he turns back to the old man, he’s fallen blessedly silent. “Bright and early, Sartauvoir. Don’t fail me again.”
Still on his knees, Sartauvoir looks up at him with an expression so devoid of any and all emotion that Albeleo can’t help a delighted little laugh. The man is ruined—right half of his face an utter mess, dripping blood and remnants of that black vitreous fluid and tears now, too, to mingle in an utter mess in his beard—and yet there he is, still kneeling, still obedient to the last. Should he ever meet him in one of the hells, Albeleo will be sure to congratulate Basch for his work.
“Yes, sir.”