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Let Us Go up in Flames

Chapter 3: Combust

Notes:

Apologies for chapter 2 being so short. Hope this one makes up for it! :3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The days all blurred together like one long fever dream.

He can scarcely believe this is now his life for the unforeseen future. Mistakes, albeit seldom, happen from time to time but this is the first time he's screwed up so monumentally that he's landed himself in the dungeons of a literal demigod.

He'd been overconfident and stubbornly decided to proceed with his assassination attempt after the dragon attack.

‘How hard would it be to follow Messmer around and wait for the opportunity to strike? Surely not overtly so!’

Oh how wrong he had been.

When Messmer was rounding up his soldiers and Fire Knights to survey the damage he hadn't counted on being spotted so soon nor had he thought his concealing spells would be seen through so easily by those damn serpents.

The Tarnished feels his face grow hot, whether in embarrassment or rage or perhaps, more accurately, a mixture of both as he recalls his spectacular failure.

A feral growl rips from his throat as he kicks the empty wooden bucket in his cell, sending it flying into the wall. Luckily it doesn't break…he's not sure if the guards would be particularly enthused to bring him a fifth bucket for bathing.

It may be nothing more than a pail and washcloth but he'd rather not be forced to go without cleansing himself should they tire of bringing him replacements.

In fact, it was a small mercy they even cared enough to allow him some semblance of hygiene as a prisoner but he figures it must be under Messmer's orders and not out of the kindness of their hearts.

The guard stationed in front of his cell flinches at the sound and regards him warily, careful not to make eye contact.

He is a young soldier, at the very bottom of the ranks judging by his generic armor, and must've been compelled into having the misfortune of watching him today as he imagines not many are overly eager to undertake the task after his ‘eventful’ first night.

Honestly, he hadn't thought his dagger happy killing spree would make him so infamous with Messmer's soldiers since he's hardly the only tarnished in the Shadow Lands engaging in a bit of bloodshed.

Apparently, word travels fast and his description was well-known by the soldiers, so it was no surprise when they came seeking retribution after they learned of his capture.

Three soldiers sought to ambush him in his slumber but years of travel on the road taught him to sleep light, so he was wholly prepared to strike the second he heard the door to his cell unlocking and two sets of footsteps quietly approaching his bed.

As soon as they got close enough, he lunged at the first soldier who could only shout as he fell backwards onto the hard stone floor.

The Tarnished was quick to wrap the chain on his ankle brace around that guard’s neck and pull as tight as it would go. The guard’s face turned blue, his eyes wide with panic as he suffocated, helplessly pinned by the Tarnished's knees digging into his chest.

After the second guard overcame the subsequent shock of what just transpired, he charged the Tarnished from behind. One of the guard's hands wrapped around the Tarnished's torso while the other clawed at his face in an attempt to pull him off his accomplice.

The third guard, who was acting as the lookout, stood at the entrance of the cell looking dumbfounded and unsure whether to call for backup and expose their unsanctioned assault or keep watch in case the sound of their scuffle alerted one of the Fire Knights.

A shiver ran down his spine as he imagined the trouble they'd get into for their blatant disobedience so he steeled himself and kept his eyes fixed on the stairwell and his ears pricked.

Further enraged by the guard's grubby fingers pulling on his face, he does the only thing a sane person would do in his situation: he takes one of the fingers into his mouth and bites down as hard as possible.

There's a sickening crunch as the finger comes clean off, followed by the agonized scream of the guard. Immediately, the guard releases him and clutches his hand in pain, blood gushing from the mangled stump as he shouts out a string of curses.

The Tarnished spits out the foul finger, blood running down his chin and painting his mouth red as he gives the guard a toothy grin.

This only seems to piss him off more as the guard returns the favor with a swift kick to the gut, knocking him off the other soldier and right on his ass.

As he falls back the chain around the first guard’s neck constricts and he wheezes. His legs thrash wildly while he urgently grasps the chain and hooks his fingers under the metal links, pulling upwards to relieve some of the pressure on his windpipe.

“You son of a bitch! I'll make you regret that!” the second guard snarls and shoves his boot down onto the Tarnished's chest.

The Tarnished grabs a hold of the guard's leg, his biceps tensing as he tries to shove him off.

“Stop! They're coming!” comes the alarmed voice of the lookout.

“Shit.”

Instantly, the pressure on his chest abates and he sits up, shuffling away until the cool stone wall meets the heated skin of his back.

He glares daggers at the guards, mouth stained crimson, looking more akin to a rabid animal than a prisoner.

There’s a sharp intake of breath followed by a coughing fit when the first guard finally manages to untangle the chain around his neck and slips his head out.

“We need to leave no-”

“I do not recall giving you permission to be down here,” a familiar feminine voice interrupts the lookout mid sentence.

Immediately, the color drains from all three guards’ faces.

The Carian Knight from earlier walks in, Rellana, he remembers Messmer calling her. She is flanked by two Fire Knights who reach for their weapons.

Suddenly, remembering their place, the guards scramble to salute her with quivering hands.

She ignores them and looks straight at the Tarnished huddled in the corner.

“Leave.”

“We weren't-”

“Now,” she orders sternly. “I will be reporting your insubordination to our Lord at once. Now leave.”

Her tone leaves no room for arguments and all three guards flee with their tails tucked between their legs.

She approaches him slowly and he presses his back harder against the wall, the two knights following close behind her.

Their hands seize his wrists, pinning them to the wall as Rellana kneels down to take his chin in her hand.

She turns his face from side to side and prompts him to open his mouth so she can see where the blood was coming from.

Noticing that it is not his own blood, she hums.

Once satisfied with her examination, she turns and whispers something to one of the Fire Knights who releases him and walks out of the cell. When they return, they are carrying a bucket of water and a tray of some type of porridge.

Both items are placed before him wordlessly and Rellana and the second knight rise to their feet.

Poisoned food? How original.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes as he regards the food suspiciously.

What an unimaginative way to execute him.

“It's not poisoned if that's what you're thinking. Lord Messmer desires your survival for now. You may eat, or don't. The choice is yours.”

And with that, she takes her leave, her knights following suit after they lock the door to his cell.

Whether the soldiers feared Rellana or him more after the events of that night, there have been no further incidents. In fact, most preferred to simply ignore his existence whenever they were not required to bring him food or water.

It is dreadfully dull.

He almost wishes they'd just kill him before the boredom does.

He'd rather be staring down the pointed tip of Messmer's spear again than be caged in this cell like some kind of pet. At least then he'd have some type of excitement.

Maybe they really did intend to leave him here to rot for the rest of his life.

He sincerely hopes not.

Tired of pacing, he flops down onto the thin mattress with a thud and figures his time would be better spent napping than wearing a hole in the floor.

Or would it just be considered sleeping?

The lack of windows makes it impossible to tell the time of day but wholeheartedly contribute to the stale air.

Just as he's shutting his eyes, the iron door to the dungeons swings open, rusty metal hinges giving it a distinct squeak.

He feigns sleep.

“Fire Knight Queelign, sir!” The young guard greets with a salute. “Black Knight Gareth.”

“Spare thine amenities. Tis the ‘tarnished’ our liege bid us fetch,” answers the haughty voice of whom the Tarnished assumes to be Fire Knight Queelign.

The way he spits the word ‘tarnished’ like a foul curse does not escape his perception.

“Aye, sir. The one you seek is…oh,” the guard pauses as he notices him laying on the mattress, seemingly out cold.

“Apologies, he will need to be roused.”

Queelign clicks his tongue in disdain.

“Arise, foul tarnished! My liege beckons thee.”

Looks like he'll be reacquainted with the demigod's spear after all. They weren't kidding when they said: ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

“Up!” Queelign shouts impatiently as the Tarnished makes a show of getting up slowly with a loud yawn and a stretch.

Watching the Fire Knight’s face contort with barely concealed animosity brings a smile to his face.

Queelign catches the Tarnished's glee and clenches his fists, face growing red as a tomato at his gall.

“Amusement befits a fool, I see,” he says through gritted teeth.

The Tarnished only grins wider, bemused by the Knight's pompous behavior. If Queelign strained any harder he's sure the veins on the side of his head would be apt to burst and he’d love to be the cause of it.

This is the most entertainment he's had since he's been here so, naturally, he prepares a retort to irk him further.

“Hold thy tongue lest thou wish to part with it,” Queelign threatens as if sensing his intentions, clearly not amused by his antics.

This time he acquiesces, figuring it might not be wise to keep Messmer waiting. Wouldn't want to give him extra time to sharpen his spear, after all.

Queelign throws a brown clothen satchel through the bars and it hits the Tarnished square in the face.

He scowls at the knight but picks up the bag anyways.

When he opens it, he finds a simple linen shirt and pants along with his navy hood that they must've found after rifling through his belongings.

“Dress,” he orders. “Thou wilt not offend my liege by greeting him in thy current garb.” Queelign turns his nose up at him, gesturing to the tattered rags he was wearing.

Not like he put this on by choice, he huffs.

Again he obeys, curious about why Messmer would go through the trouble of having him personally escorted as opposed to just skewering him while he's cornered in his cell.

Maybe he just prefers playing with his food first.

Either way he was happy to finally be given the chance to do something besides sleep or pace around the stuffy cell…even if it did mean he would be thrown right back into the snake pit with Messmer.

He might even find an opportunity to escape if he's lucky.

After the Tarnished is dressed, Queelign nods to the young soldier who pulls the lever outside the cell that activates a hidden mechanism. Instantly, the Tarnished is yanked backwards as the chain on his anklet withdraws into a hole, shortening to the point he cannot move more than a few inches away from the wall.

A safety precaution then.

Queelign and the Black Knight stride in, the latter proceeds to cuff the Tarnished's wrists with those strength repressing shackles that Rellana had placed on him before but this time they link a second, longer chain to the middle. Once sure the restraints were secured, the lumbering Black Knight wraps the longer chain around his hand like a leash and unlocks the Tarnished's anklet.

“Tarry not and praise thine good fortune thou art not destined for the hippo pit,” Queelign remarks offhandedly and turns his back to them, making a beeline to the stairwell.

The Black Knight follows silently, yanking the Tarnished along with him like a disobedient dog.

Neither would tell him why he was being taken to Messmer and he stopped pestering them after the tenth time when Queelign nearly impaled him with his greatsword.

Both men keep an annoyingly close watch on him the entire time and tug on his leash whenever he so much as glances anywhere besides the floor.

They drag him through the winding halls and countless stairs to Messmer's chambers, his chance for escape never arising. Once at their destination, the Black Knight lifts him as if he were a sack of potatoes and tosses him into the dark chamber, slamming the doors shut behind him.

He flies several feet, landing on his face with a grunt.

Clearly no one educated these soldiers about the importance of manners, he grumbles as he sits up.

He squints his eyes, struggling to see much in the dark room. A shiver runs down his spine as he feels eyes upon him.

One by one the candles around the chambers ignite and bathe the room in an eerie light.

There's a radiant flash followed by a flare of searing pain as his shackles combust into deep red flames. They crumble into ash, his skin miraculously unburnt, as he feels his strength returning to him.

The sound of something sharp slicing through the air alerts him and he jumps back just as two curved silver blades impale the floor in the spot he was just standing. Realization dawns on him as he recognizes the blades: those are his!

“Aspiring Lord of the Golden Order.”

He starts and whips his head in the direction of the voice to spy Messmer regarding him from across the room with an indiscernible expression.

He suddenly feels very small as he's forced to crane his neck just to see the already towering demigod perched atop the lofty stage, his single golden eye glowing malevolently in the dim light.

Messmer paints a sinister picture as he raises his spear, the swaying candlelight causing the shadows to twist and dance around the room like vipers poised to strike. He lifts his hand and produces a sphere of crimson flames in his waiting palm.

A thin layer of sweat already begins to form upon his brow as the heat radiating off Messmer's flame is unbearable even at this distance.

“I will not suffer a weak opponent. Take up thy blade and prove thou art worthy,” his eye narrows contemptuously as his winged serpents writhe and snap their jaws in his direction.

He shudders as he glimpses their pointed fangs.

“Or meet thine end in the embrace of Messmer's flame.”

A challenge then? So be it.

He's never been one to back away from a challenge before, although it doesn't appear like Messmer is giving him much of a choice here anyways.

He glances over at the blades before him. They glint as they catch the light, their edges appearing especially vicious as if they'd been recently sharpened.

These blades have served him well and already felled many a foe, including other demigods, and thus shall they aid him once more.

Messmer lunges for him without warning and he needs no further encouragement to pry his weapons out of the stone floor. They come free with a sturdy yank and he dives to the left, narrowly avoiding the attack.

The orb flares second time after impact, expanding over a much wider radius, and he grits his teeth as the flames lick his skin and singe his pant leg.

Messmer rises to his feet and gives the Tarnished no time to recover as he continues his onslaught. Each thrust of his spear is calculated, deliberate, forcing the Tarnished back as he swerves to avoid his weapon’s reach.

He struggles to catch his breath as watches for any openings but Messmer is fast, faster than any demigod he's faced thus far. There's not much he can do so long as Messmer keeps him at a distance with his spear…but if he could get close he might be able to land some blows.

He runs backwards, keeping his eyes on Messmer as he closes the distance with an aerial attack.The tip of Messmer's spear grazes his side as he plunges down, shattering the stone tiles and sending bits of rumble careening towards his face. He shuts his eyes as they pelt his face and a jagged piece scratches his cheek, then curses from the blistering pain of the spearhead simultaneously cutting him open and cauterizing the wound.

There's a second where Messmer is still, his weapon embedded into the stone floor.

He takes advantage of this fleeting vulnerability and swiftly flanks the demigod as he swings his blades with practiced precision. The sharp edges bite deep and Messmer clenches his jaw as blood spurts from the slash.

Small triumphs can be celebrated later as Messmer glowers at him and rips his spear from the ground with a grunt.

The spear blazes in his hand and he swipes it before him in a horizontal arc.

Flames spew forth from the weapon and the Tarnished leaps back to avoid them. He loses sight of Messmer as he barely evades another wall of flames flying towards him.

Droplets of sweat bead down his forehead and sting his eyes. While he's blinking them away he sees Messmer barreling towards him with his hand outstretched to grab him.

“Shit!” The Tarnished exclaims in panic, simultaneously taking a step back.

He is too slow.

Messmer grabs him by the front of his shirt and the momentum sends the Tarnished falling backwards, taking Messmer with him.

All of the wind is knocked out of him from impact and he wheezes as Messmer's weight crushes him.

This is it.

He was really gonna die.

His eyes widen in terror as Messmer lifts his
spear, preparing to impale him straight through the heart.

He's not sure if it was the sheer amount of fear or the adrenaline pumping through his veins or maybe because he hit his head too hard but he makes possibly the worst decision of his life: he leans up to capture Messmer's lips in a kiss.

Desperation begets irrationality so to speak.

The demigod stiffens and drops his weapon.

Emboldened by his disarmament, the Tarnished wraps his hands behind Messmer's neck and moves his lips against his. The demigod is stock-still and he worries this might've been a terrible idea and will only infuriate him enough to prolong his suffering.

His eyes flutter shut as he prepares for the worst.

But there is no pain, no piercing of a spear through his chest, just the brush of soft lips against his own as Messmer returns the kiss.

Messmer's lips move slowly at first, almost hesitantly, before growing hungrier. There's a deep rumble in his chest as he nips the Tarnished's lips with his fangs and takes advantage of his gasp to delve his slitted tongue into his mouth. Their tongues slide together sensually, sloppily.

The Tarnished feels his cheeks burning at the sensation of having his mouth ravaged and pulls away to catch his breath, panting as his lips still tingle from their kiss.

Messmer leans down and brushes his nose against his neck, inhaling his scent.

“What doth thou hope to gain from thine salacity?”

His breath is hot against the Tarnished's sensitive skin and he feels goosebumps form as Messmer's low voice caresses his ears, thick with desire.

“Be it thy will to sway me from grace?”

Messmer’s fingers curl around his neck and press against his hammering pulse.

“And tempt me down thy lightless path?”

The Tarnished's whole body buzzes like a live wire.

That was not the reaction he was expecting but certainly more welcomed over the alternative.

“Is it working?” He teases breathily and bends his leg, letting his knee rub between Messmer's thighs.

He inhales sharply as he feels the stiff bulge.

He definitely did not anticipate that either.

Messmer hisses and yanks his hand away.

But it is too late; the ember of desire is rooted too deeply in his breast. It sparks an all consuming wildfire, prior reservations burned away by its flames, as he claims the Tarnished's lips in another fervent kiss.

All he can do is moan as Messmer devours him. Each sound is greedily swallowed up by the demigod’s wanting mouth, his lips surprisingly soft against his and so very warm.

Messmer pulls away, biting the Tarnished's bottom lip and dragging his tongue over it as he does.

His mouth finds purchase on the Tarnished's neck which he lavishes with more kisses. Fangs sink into his neck, drawing blood, and the Tarnished shivers as Messmer laps at the wound.

Cool scales glide over his feverish skin as the two winged serpents slither under his shirt and he tenses, mildly afraid.

One settles on the other side of his neck to nimble the spot right below his ear while the other stops at his chest. The second snake’s tongue flicks his nipple before striking at his pec.

He yelps from the stinging pain and clutches Messmer tighter.

There's a burst of warmth as Messmer ignites the Tarnished's pesky shirt, exposing his smooth chest and toned stomach as the cloth disintegrates into ash. His pants follow and he flinches as the heat of Messmer's flame gets a little too close for comfort to his sensitive bits.

Thankfully, Messmer's mastery over his flame ensures no actual harm comes to him or the serpents.

Not wanting to be the only one exposed, he slips his hand between their bodies and pulls down Messmer's loincloth.

“Oh…” is all he can manage, intimidated by his size.

He knew Messmer would be large but he didn't think he'd be that big. His length seems endless and as he coyly takes his cock in his hand, he finds his fist cannot fully close around his girth. He must truly be a masochist because the thought of him taking this excites him more.

“I can see why they call you ‘The Impaler’ now.”

Messmer tries to frown at his immature humor but he can see the glimmer of amusement in his eye.

“Foolish,” he scolds half heartedly but groans as the Tarnished begins pumping his cock in earnest.

He twists his hand around the shaft, letting his thumb glide over the slit of his cock and circle around the sensitive head each time he reaches the top.

Messmer's eye shuts and his brows furrow as he bucks his hips into his touch.

The look of utter bliss on his face as he pleasures him goes straight to his loins and he slides his hand down to his own cock while he admires the demigod's handsome features.

He keens loudly the moment his hand wraps around his weeping cock and Messmer's eye flits open.

As Messmer focuses on him and lowers his gaze to see what he's doing, he feels the demigod's cock flex in his hand.

“Thou art truly licentious, tarnished one,” Messmer groans as he runs his hands up the Tarnished's thighs, spreading them slightly. “I wish to take thee.”

“Wait!”

“Didst thou not desire impalement?” Messmer halts, watching him intensely.

“No! I mean yes but,” he trails off, suddenly feeling flustered under the demigod's scrutiny.

Messmer chose the worst possible time to develop a sense of humor.

“Did you happen to have any oil? It might make it easier to…”

Messmer blinks slowly, perplexed by the sudden inquiry.

“I do not.”

“That's fine, then. I just need a second to prepare myself,” he mumbles meekly and looks anywhere but at Messmer.

He feels the air shift as Messmer retreats. Even his snakes retract, leaving the Tarnished feeling cold.

Gods above, he really hopes he didn't kill the mood by asking. Maybe he's changed his mind and wants to kill him after all.

Maybe-

He jumps as he feels a thumb brush over his entrance and his whole face burns scarlet as he sees Messmer situated between his thighs, having removed his helmet and divested himself of his armor, examining his intimate areas with unnerving fascination.

“Wh..what are you?” He gasps and jolts as he feels the sudden sensation of Messmer's tongue licking his hole.

Messmer doesn't answer him and, instead, pushes his tongue inside.

“Nghh…”

He whimpers, bucking his hips as his tongue ravishes him. It feels slick and hot and so very wrong to have a demigod kneeling between his legs, performing such a perverted act on him.

Strong hands grip his hips and hold him in place as Messmer's tongue focuses on wetting his entrance.

His hands tangle in Messmer's hair, his thighs involuntarily squeezing his face while his serpentine tongue massages his inner walls.

Once Messmer is sure the Tarnished is adequately lubricated and relaxed enough to take his cock, he retracts his tongue, a string of saliva still connecting them before he sits up on his knees.

His snakes coil around the Tarnished's thighs and forcefully pull them apart as he shifts his hips forward and rubs the tip of his cock against his entrance eagerly.

The Tarnished bites his lip as he feels himself clench in anticipation.

This is really happening.

He's going to be fucked by a demigod.

Messmer begins easing in, grunting as he pushes past the tight ring of muscle and into the Tarnished's dizzying heat.

The Tarnished does his best to endure the burning stretch but god is he big.

Tears well up in his eyes as he squeezes them shut, his nails digging into Messmer's shoulders.

Dear Marika, he feels like he's being split in two.

Thankfully, Messmer is merciful and allows him time to adjust.

His chest heaves as he focuses on evening out his breathing. When he glances up he sees Messmer admiring him with an intensity that makes his stomach flutter and he coyly turns his head.

Gradually, the pain subsides and he gives him a slight nod.

“Okay..I'm fine now I think.”

Messmer does not need to be told twice. He pulls out enough so just the tip remains in before slamming back in.

“Fuck,” the Tarnished swears as he's impaled by Messmer's cock.

The pace he sets is brutal, each thrust sends another jolt of pleasure through his body as Messmer's cock reaches depths he'd not thought possible.

His hands slide down Messmer's back and over his hips.

“Messmer!” He cries out his name like a prayer, face scrunching in overwhelming pleasure as he grips his lover's hips tighter.

His prayers are answered with increasing ferocity.

Each time Messmer pulls out, the Tarnished uses his hands to greedily pull him back in.

“Ta…tarnished, thou art swallowing me whole,” Messmer manages between breaths, marveling at how his entire length disappears into the Tarnished's petite body.

He's too overwhelmed by the sensation of Messmer's thick cock filling him to speak and can only whimper and arch into him as he chases Messmer's hips with his own. Their movements made more fluid by the generous amount of precum leaking from the demigod's aching need.

He was not expecting them to have so much sexual chemistry: the wet glide of Messmer's cock and the heat of their bodies flush against each other is euphoric.

It feels so good, too good, to be stretched so thoroughly and deeply.

He never wants the feeling to end.

All at once, Messmer growls ferally and grabs his thighs to pull his legs over his shoulders.

His walls contract around Messmer's girth needily, the obscene sounds of his hips clapping against his ass driving him wild.

Mortified by the noises he's making, he covers his face with his hands to muffle his voice and hide his expression from the demigod.

Upon noticing this, Messmer roughly seizes the Tarnished's wrists and pins them above his head so he can keep appreciating the lovely faces and sounds he makes as he's sated by his cock.

He’s close.

He won't last much longer if the building pressure in his stomach is any indication.

Judging by how Messmer's hips stutter and the way his breath hitches, it's safe to say he is too.

“Oh Tarnished,” Messmer leans in, his lips brushing the Tarnished's ear.

“How I long to see thee swell with my offspring” he lightly nips his ear and thrusts in extra deep. “Alas thou lacketh a womb.”

Something slithers up his stomach and wraps around his dripping erection. Its smooth, scaly body squeezes him, flexing and then relaxing to create a pulsing motion that makes him see stars.

“Become my consort and I shall fill thee regardless. As many times as thou wouldst desire,” he says with a slight slur at the end, delirious with pleasure, and bottoms out in the Tarnished.

He rolls his hips one final time, making sure the Tarnished feels every last inch, as he spills his seed deep within the Tarnished's willing hole with a low moan.

The combination of Messmer moaning in his ear and the thick, molten cum filling his body to the point it's coating his thighs and overflowing onto the floor in a viscous puddle, is enough to push him over the edge.

“Yes, please yes!” he cries out as his own seed erupts onto his stomach and all over the winged serpent’s scales.

The serpent squeezes tighter, milking more of his cum until he is thoroughly spent.

They lie together for a while, catching their breath as they come down from their high.

Messmer hums contently and peppers the Tarnished's face and neck in kisses before finally working his way to his lips.

This kiss is much softer than the ones they shared before, now that their passions have cooled for the moment.

Messmer unsheathes from the Tarnished with a squelch, watching with fascination as his seed leaks from their hole.

He reluctantly tears his eyes away lest the mood take him once more; the way the Tarnished sprawls out on the floor limply with his arm resting over his forehead tells him he might be too spent for another round.

He should feel shame for his sin and yet…something foreign stirs within his breast as he gazes upon the Tarnished's fair face and dozing form. It is a different kind of warmth, softer than the heat of desire.

He does not regret his actions.

Even if he rashly proposed consortship at the height of their passions- which the Tarnished accepted.

The act of laying with one another is sacred amongst empyreans and reserved only for their promised consorts, perhaps that's why he felt the need to sanctify their union.

Consort: the word felt strange to him.

He'd never intended to take one for himself but…

As he combs his hand through the Tarnished's golden locks, he feels that soft feeling again warming his chest.

Truthfully, he cannot imagine anyone else claiming that title.

He looks up at the statue of his mother and wonders if she guided the Tarnished to him for this reason or if it was all just a coincidence.

His prayers are never answered so he decides that he does not need to know the truth.

Although, realization dawns on him: he does not know the Tarn- his consort’s name.

“Tarnished one,” he says quietly as he gently caresses his cheek to rouse him.

“Yes?” The Tarnished groggily responds after a moment, his eyes still shut as he balances on the edge of consciousness.

“What is thy name?”

The Tarnished cracks a single eye open and mumbles, “Aska.”

Sleep claims his fair consort once more.

‘Aska.’ Ash.

How very fitting for his consort's name to mean ashes.

Ashes are familiar, nostalgic even. He remembers the ashy soot clinging to his skin as a child before he learned how to control his flame.

The ash that filled his nostrils and his lungs when he nearly combusted as his mother gouged out his eye to place the seal for the abyssal serpent.

And the ash that stained his hands as he unleashed the tyranny of his flame across the Shadow Lands.

Ash has always been his constant companion and now…it remains his companion in a different sense.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile a very red faced Queelign and Black Knight Gareth wonder about the peculiar sounds they heard coming from the other side of the door.

They eye each other in bewilderment.

It sounded suspiciously…lascivious.

Surely not…

Their Lord would never engage in such depraved acts with a filthy tarnished!

It must've been a misunderstanding and those were the sounds of pain not debauchery.

Yes, that's it: a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Right?

He should never doubt his liege but his burning curiosity demands answers. Therefore he reaches for the doors, prepared to push them open and dispel his silly notions, when a strong arm blocks his path.

Black Knight Gareth shakes his head at him.

Some questions are best left unanswered.

Notes:

Although it is up for interpretation, it's safe to say that his mother's intentions were not so pure. That she always intended for the Tarnished to slay her son, ending the abyssal serpent in the process, and thus bury her past transgressions in the Shadow Lands forever. She has long since forsaken Messmer and his people.

Let me know what you think and how you enjoyed the story!

(P.S. Also let me know if you might be interested in a slightly longer, maybe more angsty and serious continuation of this fic. I may be in the process of cooking something up 👀)