Warnings: M for brief depictions of rape, violence, and torture.
Despite everything that happened, he was still tied to this world.
The steady progression of "what ifs" kept him living, struggling, despite his yearning for the void. His body fought to regain its control over him, demanding what he had neglected it; sleep, food, water, anything.
He stood, exhausted, swaying in place.
Live. I have to live.
He was fixated on the mirror in front of him. He mentally groped around for what to do next. Getting out of bed had been the first step, one of many deliberate actions he forced himself to do.
I woke up. When was that? When did I get out of bed? How long have I been standing here?
Physical weakness had made his arms and legs heavy and unresponsive. It was as though some invisible force was steadily sapping his strength—when considering what he was and what he had done, was it really all just in his head?
Abruptly, he shattered the glass with his fist. He watched the bright red drops roll off of his hand and then was overwhelmed by what he felt—blindingly, vividly alive. He tried to breathe but was only able to shudder and gasp, something never quite turning into breath. His throat went raw with dry sobs that would not turn wet with tears. Not even the fresh cuts on his fingers seem to be capable of drawing them from his eyes. He was uncertain if, after everything, he was still able to cry.
It was just like it was back then. Back before Kaistern had sacrificed his body for him so that he could live, so that he could finally cry.
He grabbed his arm to keep himself from attacking what was left of the mirror.
What purpose did a creature like him ever have but to cause others misery?
His first memory had been of crawling into a corpse, skin and fur stretched around him like a faux-womb. Parasite that he was, he needed to steal the bodies of others to survive. He had been birthed in a flood of blood, scrambling through steaming viscera and still-living, screaming bodies. Men, mothers—children, too. Their screams had all blurred together until they dissolved into sounds of agony. And he could remember his urgency at the time, the glee he had felt at the way the humans had so easily fallen apart at his borrowed claws.
He remembered the hot fervor, the mindless chanting in his head; Tear them apart, tear them all apart. And then they'll understand what they've done. And destroy, destroy, destroy, destroy—Rath caught himself in shock at how the memory had affected him, even now, finding himself panting and saliva dribbling down his chin.
It was all laughable; breaking the mirror, hurting himself, and remembering what he had done at a time like this. He couldn't help but laugh while kneeling to join the shards of glass on the floor.
Don't you deserve this then? You deserve this, don't kid yourself into thinking otherwise.
He felt a mixture of nausea and hunger. The sensation twisted around his guts like it was a living being. It clawed up his throat like it was intent on devouring what was left of him.
He almost wished it would kill him. He wanted nothing more than to be freed of the miserable thoughts that pervaded every moment of wakefulness and caused him so much of the pain he felt. He wanted to wrap his fingers around his throat and squeeze until...until—almost.
It was easy enough to want to die, to obnoxiously assure everyone that he would end his own life one day. He had believed that he was capable of doing it. It wasn't that he never had the chance. How many times did he find himself alone, blade in hand? He had plenty of opportunities to barricade his door and cut his own throat. It wouldn't have taken long. Why then had he been unable to do it? Why did he wield death as a threat so often when he never meant to make good on it?
You're a coward. Remember? You even tried to get Cesia to do it for you.
"Oh, Rath."
The quiet baritone, admonishing, sent a shiver up his spine and he scrunched up tighter into his sitting position, knees to his chest and arms clamping down. He pretended that he had not heard the soft coo of his name.
This can't be happening. It has to be a nightmare. In the past, he would tell himself such things over and over. Close your eyes, you'll wake up soon enough. You'll be back at the Dragon Castle soon enough.
He wanted to protect himself with memories of what no longer was. But his efforts would always amount to nothing. The nightmares would soon solidify themselves and he once more would be reminded of the truth, his new reality, and all the horrors that came with it.
"Moping around as usual I see."
Rath could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Hands slid up his back, rubbing gentle circles into his taut muscles. It was a front to confuse him, but he knew perfectly well what those hands were capable of.
He struggled to even out his breath. The dizzying nausea from earlier had disappeared and now fear wormed its way inside him. He began to tremble as the hands dipped over his shoulders and snaked down his chest. He was pulled back to rest against a taller body.
The voice was to his ear now, close and languid.
"What ever could be on your mind?"
He wanted to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to leave, go far from there and go anywhere—be anywhere—but there. Being forced to play these sadistic games wore him down and stripped him of his dignity. He felt like a bird being prodded from all sides, beating itself bloody against the bars of its cage. His carefully constructed mask crumbled. And for what? What exactly is this all for?
The shards housing his distorted reflections dug into his knees but didn't break the skin—he hoped that they would eventually. He needed some sort of escape, something to take his mind off of the cold, nervous sweat that had now engulfed his body.
"Please—please don't."
The quiet plea slipped out so easily, as involuntary as his tremors. But he immediately regretted it. How could he have forgotten that slip ups like that had been the very reason for his repeated torture?
Simply put, there was a certain way he was supposed to act—he was to be a very certain type of prisoner. He was supposed to be pleased, smile gratefully, and be thankful for his captor's benevolence. Thankful for the fact that his worthless life had been spared. He was expected to get down on his knees, beg, and pine for withheld intimacy. Over and over again—in truly dark moments of physical and mental weakness, he couldn't fake it.
He knew better. It wouldn't do him any good to fight and waste energy to avoid the inevitable. He would only make it worse by throwing himself against the bars of his cage.
His face was suddenly rammed into the floor with such force that his vision blurred. He groaned when his arm was pushed up behind his back, restraining him and pinning him down. With the weight on top of him, he found that it was impossible to move.
He cracked his eyes open when his head finally felt like it had stopped spinning. He didn't like the helpless look on his face, reflected back at him in one of the nearby pieces from the broken mirror.
Fingers curled into his hair and roughly yanked his head up. He kept his watering eyes trained to the side.
"What have I told you about doing that?" the tut was venomous. "How many times do I have to drill it through your thick skull?"
Rath grimaced as he was half-dragged into a standing position. He kept his knees bent, trying to alleviate the pain that radiated from his scalp down his neck.
He choked when the hand left his hair and then closed around his throat. He wildly met Nadil's eyes.
"I makes me wonder if should even bother."
Nadil tightened his grip around Rath's throat and adrenaline shot through him. His hand flew up to Nadil's wrist which he found was immovable. His ears began to ring. He knew Nadil was waiting for him to say something, to react the way he wanted him to. It was another indignity he was reluctant to endure. But there was also a primal urge, a clear and direct order from his body that swelled within him that was too intense to bully back down.
"I won't do it again! I won't. Promise—I promise," Rath messily babbled out, barely able to stomach how pathetic he sounded. Was he finally crying? There was warmth on his cheeks and something dripped down his chin.
At these words, Nadil released him. Rath gulped the air nosily and lifted a trembling hand to his neck. He was conscious of Nadil watching him.
"There's a good boy."
Encouraged by this, Rath continued to speak. His voice was hoarse.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't...myself."
The feathered strands of Nadil's hair tickled Rath's face as Nadil moved closer. The glass cracked under his boots. He traced the line of Rath's jaw with the back of his finger, stroking the skin there with deceptive gentleness.
"Good boy," Nadil praised again, visibly pleased with Rath's behavior.
Rath meekly met Nadil's eyes.
Nadil cupped his face and pulled him into a kiss. Rath stiffened but otherwise kept still. Nadil's other hand came up to tilt Rath's head up and he pressed a thumb under his chin, encouraging him to open his mouth. Rath complied, breathing hard through his nose when he felt Nadil's tongue push against and under his. Nadil deepened the kiss, drawing Rath closer and fitting their bodies together. Rath blindly grasped for something, found, and held Nadil's woolen cloak.
When they finally parted, Nadil's order was succinct.
"Go. Sit."
Rath did as he was told. Mouth tingling, he sat—collapsed—on the large four-poster bed knowing full well what Nadil intended. He did nothing with his arms which felt heavy again. His entire body felt numb.
He watched Nadil unwrap the cloak from his shoulders and lay it over the foot board of the bed. Both it and the tall head board were carved from a dark almost black wood. The wood had likely been scavenged from one of the gnarled trees that just barely managed to grow around the unforgiving landscape of Kainaldia. The head board was ornate in the way it had been carved; vague, abstract patterns with ivy vines curled around them, the leaves done with loving detail.
He hated it, the mere sight of it.
Rath shifted his eyes to the bedside table. He was met with familiar engraved designs there as well and he only grew sick with the knowledge that he knew these patterns by heart. He had lost count, couldn't remember how many times Nadil had taken him on this very spot. He felt the nausea return.
Nadil's fingertips rested on his chest and eased him onto his back. It was an unobtrusive and simple gesture, but there was undeniable strength behind it. Rath could feel it in the way Nadil maneuvered him. Nadil didn't have to force him anywhere. This fact frightened him more than anything else. He wanted to keep his eyes on the bedside table but fear, rather than curiosity, turned his attention back to Nadil.
A knee at his side sank the bed down further. Nadil loomed over him, loosening the first few buttons of his vest. Finished, he placed his hands on either side of Rath's face. His eyes were dark, smile enticing.
Rath felt the heat rise to his cheeks and held his breath as Nadil neared.
"You know," Nadil murmured, mouth now against Rath's forehead, "contrary to what you might think, I really have taken a liking to you."
As Nadil said this, he pushed Rath's legs apart. His hands fell to Rath's loose-fitting pants. They had fit him better at one time, but purposefully starving himself had made them hang from his wiry frame. His shirt was much the same.
"Wait. I—," Rath began, frantic, as Nadil started to ease the garment down.
An icy, unwavering stare was soon fixed on him—a bored "Yes?". A challenge.
Nadil's mouth twitched when Rath remained silent. The words, something pitiful no doubt, had lodged in his throat at Nadil's look. Hearing no further protest, Nadil retreated to settle down between Rath's legs.
He inhaled sharply when he felt Nadil's tongue, warm and wet, slide down his inner thigh. He clamped a hand over his mouth, in case anything slipped out that he might regret.
"It feels good doesn't it?" Nadil taunted and, without bothering to wait for a response, continued his work.
Nadil's fingers slipped down his legs and tightened their hold on his calves, nails biting into the skin there. The material of Rath's pants were now bunched at his ankles, the air on his exposed skin made him shift around in discomfort. Nadil slipped item off completely and tossed it to the side.
He jerked when Nadil's mouth was on him and his hands shot down to grab Nadil's hair. He hadn't expected Nadil to move so quickly and so, instinctively, he tried to push Nadil's head away from him. But he was too weak—his arms shook with the effort—and Nadil was unyielding.
Nadil hummed in amusement as Rath feebly struggled against the heat of his mouth. The vibration sent a rolling chill through Rath's body. His skin shined with perspiration, the dampness cooling rapidly against the frigid air.
It was unbearable—there was pleasure, but it wasn't wanted. The mere thought that Nadil was making him feel something close to gratifying revolted him. But his body was betraying him, reacting to the stimulation. Muffled groans began to spill out from behind the fingers of the hand he had brought back up to cover his mouth. The fingers of his other hand now pulled at Nadil's hair. The sheets twisted as he began to arch up involuntarily in response to Nadil's tongue, seeking more, more, more—release.
He came violently after what felt like an eternity, thoroughly disgusted with himself.
Taking his time, Nadil's mouth trailed up from between Rath's legs to his belly button. He pushed up Rath's haphazardly buttoned shirt, exposing his heaving chest, and nipped hard at the skin over Rath's ribs, drawing a gasp. Nadil lapped at the reddening skin with steady, coarse strokes of his tongue.
He felt disconnected from his body. His mind was frantically informing him that he was in a dangerous situation now—the rousing urge to escape was returning. But it was also warm in the bed, the sheets were soft on his skin and cradled him. Though his heart still maintained its quick tempo, his muscles had grown lax in his post-coital haze.
Both Rath's shaking hands were now entangled in Nadil's hair and he no longer made an effort to push Nadil away. Nadil's mouth was electrifying against his skin. His body was well-attuned to Nadil's voice and his touch. It was a curse, it seemed, that Nadil had placed on him since he had first stepped into Nadil's quarters just under a year ago.
"Why fight it, Rath? Why fight me?" Nadil whispered huskily into Rath's ear. "Isn't it better like this?"
Rath shuddered as Nadil leaned in for a rough kiss. He tasted the saltiness of his own sweat and come on Nadil's tongue. He was out of breath when he was finally freed. His bottom lip smarted from where one of Nadil's teeth had nicked it.
"Wouldn't it be easier to lie still and enjoy it?"
Nadil's thumb traced the outline of Rath's lip and he bent down to suck the dark red liquid off his finger.
Rath closed his eyes in response, unwilling to answer in the event that his mouth might betray him like the rest of him was. He loosened his grip on Nadil's hair and turned his head away. Nadil's fingers found his upper arms and pressed down on them, further trapping him between the bed and Nadil's body.
"That typical stubbornness," Nadil murmured. "You were always quite the handful for Lykouleon, weren't you?"
Rath flinched at the Dragon Lord's name.
Memories flooded stark images into his head; the tidy gardens of the Dragon Castle and expansive palace grounds around it, of the soft snorts of the darnas in their stables. They began to melt, deform into grotesque shapes consumed by fire and blood.
He clenched his teeth when Nadil continued his mocking, sudden clarity returning to him out of his newly-recalled grief. The fear he felt was quickly evaporating, leaving blind fury in its wake. The prior frustration he had felt at himself now was channeled entirely towards Nadil, the conductor of his immediate torment.
How dare he speak Lykouleon's name. How dare he—
"But I suppose he's rid of you now, isn't he?"
Rath violently pushed back against Nadil's weight, struggling against the arms that held him down, but Nadil reacted just as quickly to subdue him. The agile movement stunned Rath momentarily as he was bodily turned around and pushed face first into the bed. Nadil dragged his nails down Rath's side, eliciting a pained yell.
"That was a stupid thing to do." Nadil's whisper was vehement.
Rath squirmed but this only served to exhaust him further. He finally stilled, his breath coming hard, mouth open against the rumpled sheets. He defiantly kept his eyes on the beside table, refusing to give Nadil the satisfaction of seeing him so unsettled.
"I guess I'll have to teach you that lesson after all," Nadil murmured, nose pressed hard against Rath's neck.
The bed creaked as Nadil rose to his knees, dragging Rath up along with him. Nadil's nimble fingers had wrapped themselves around Rath's wrists, pinning them together behind his back. His other hand came around to grip Rath's chin tightly.
"I hate you!" Rath finally spat out, panting from his effort. It was a lost, childish proclamation but it was all he could say. There was a maddening rage bubbling up inside of him, unrelenting and with nowhere to go. But it was now less clear to him as to who it was actually directed to.
"Good," Nadil replied, tightening his grip on Rath. "You can only begin to understand true suffering through hatred."
Rath jumped when Nadil chuckled near his ear and bent him over. He pushed Rath's face back into the sheets.
And then there was pain.
It raced up his backbone and settled around his lower abdomen. It lanced his guts and began to tighten his muscles to the point that, if it continued on any longer, he was sure they'd tear apart. His body uselessly tried to writhe against the foreign intrusion, trying to force out his assailant. The burning sensation ripped through him, inside him—concentrated and worse, inescapable.
He let out a muffled scream. Then he begged for it to stop, one freed hand scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.
"What's the matter? Where did all that fight go?" Nadil breathed out, unmistakably gleeful, against the back of Rath's neck.
The bed continued to creak nosily and the room spun as time seemed to drag on.
Nadil's fingers gripped his hips tightly and they were the only things that were holding Rath up. His legs had begun to cramp and fighting back had drained him terribly. The taste of blood was in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue and a thin trail of blood had rolled down his chin, dripping on the sheets. The pain was, somehow, steadily growing worse and there was no indication of it stopping or alleviating. He almost wished he could black out, to shrink into himself until it was all over. But he remained awake. And he felt everything, every movement, every heavy breath against his shoulder.
He was only capable of waiting for it to be over. His pained cries, over time, had eventually turned into gasps and soft yelps.
The calculated thrusts abruptly grew less so and Rath let out a harsh intake of breath when he felt something pump inside of him and drip down his thighs.
And then silence. Silence only broken by his haggard panting. The pain had finally subsided to a dull ache. His body felt like it wasn't his.
But it isn't yours, is it?
He blankly stared up at the winding design on the pole that connected with the canopy above the bed.
Nadil's voice seemed wrapped in cotton and Rath's stupor was not broken by his light caresses against his cheekbone.
"Another lesson learned, isn't that right?"
Rath trembled. His wheezing had subsided but the pain in his lower back throbbed angrily when Nadil's shifted from his place behind him. His hips, unable to hold their position any longer, dipped back down and he laid on his side. Nadil elegantly maneuvered over to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Humiliation coursed through him. This was his punishment, it had to be. This all had to be punishment for his mistakes, for the people he failed to protect—for all the people he had hurt. He was being punished for existing, for wanting to live despite what he was. He could think of no other reason. It was all too cruel, all too terrible to be anything else.
Nadil startled him by speaking, Or rather, muttering in another language. The words he could make out in his fatigued state sounded old; an ancient demon language? The air crackled after the short utterance, signaling a magical incantation had taken place.
At once, darkness began to creep along the corners of his vision and his eyelids grew heavy.
A sleep spell, he realized too late. He felt momentary alarm that it was working so quickly or rather that it worked on him at all. He had always been immune to those sort of spells.
Nadil finally dressed—the movements a soft, slow flutter in Rath's fading vision—and left him.
Rath felt weightless as he began to fade in and out of consciousness and, unable to do much else, he surrendered to it.