Summary: AU, An Uninvited Ascian. Because they are together often, Nabriales immediately recognizes when the Warrior of Light loses the Blessing of Light. He keeps the information to himself, putting into play a new plan, one that is impossible to fail. Powerplay and a bit of an intentional public display.
Notes (lots of them):
For request: Tank Warrior of Light, Uninvited Ascian AU, Opposite of my story "Shroud." Due to the Warrior and Nabriales' close relationship, the Warrior is unable to raise a weapon against Nabriales. Nabriales doesn't share such reservations and the Warrior is inevitably harmed.
Rated A for Ascian; Nabriales is a bit forceful, but there's no non-con here.
The game never explicitly tells you how the WoL and Minfilia get back out of the Rift, so I'm just assuming they went back the way they came or by using the Return spell.
You'll note Nabriales is a bit more descriptive. This is intentional, as he is more casual and informal.
Part of this was influenced very slightly by 12th Chalice's comment in the 60 SMN quest; if you watch the cutscene in your journal, it's within the first 5 lines he says. As such, I'm being self-indulgent again. Someone stop me.
Gift
The delay is intentional; the Warrior demonstrates no haste in accepting his invitation, doubtless fending off a barrage of the Sharlayan meddler's questions and condemning his earlier interruption.
Let them pry; those who seek truth do not often favor the answers.
The woman blathers behind him, spewing more and more nonsense about how he will never succeed and how the Warrior of Light will stop him and whatever other drivel those prone to playing the hero spout. To have such faith in Her and Her former chosen when deeply within His domain is amusing; at least the prisoner provides him some entertainment while he waits.
Deliberately and sluggishly, the Warrior's presence eventually becomes known. Nabriales silences the woman, obscuring her presence. There is much for her to witness, 'twould be a shame if she interfered before they've begun.
His partner's annoyance is well hidden, a tenseness below the surface invisible to none but the most perceptive. Nabriales remains still as the Warrior approaches, until the former-champion is within a pace. Before he suffers another lecture on his impulsive behavior, he grasps the Warrior's arm, pressing their forms together, turning them both so that the former-champion is pushed against His effigy.
"If this-" Nabriales interrupts the fussing; the Warrior's pleasure is his pleasure. Shallow though mortal affection may be, when he touches his form's lips to the Warrior, the energy he tastes sends shivers through him, demanding he take more. "-Is what you wanted, could you at least have waited until my business was concluded?"
No, he answers with his body; he has been very, very patient. Now it all ends. Before His Grace, under witness of the false Goddess' representative, they will become one, and then -
Unnecessary clothing interferes; any remaining armor must be eliminated. Nabriales tugs at loose cloth, aiding in its removal so that he may savor bare flesh. Unarmored and unshielded by Light, the former-chosen is vulnerable to his control, shivers and bumps spreading at his aether's touch. With the slightest contact to the Warrior's core, he expands his influence, commanding emotions and desires be known.
The response is instantaneous and familiar, his essence numbing objectivity and rationality. His partner's body falls limp, annoyance and stubbornness finally broken. Vulnerable, submitting to his aether, the Warrior molds to his will; Nabriales pushes yet more, compelling his partner to experience all that he does, so that nothing separates them.
Only through this does Nabriales live; hostless and limited in potential sensation, he will not squander the opportunity to cause and embrace the volatile unpredictability of mortal lust.
Spicy, strong; the Warrior's essence tastes of well-hidden willfulness. Close as they are, he can taste his own essence through his partner's sense, distinctly sour, but just as strong. Defining essence as taste is futile, one simply is, but his lover's habits slip into him, providing words for known feelings.
Together they breathe, erratic and heavy. His fingers bite into mortal flesh as strongly as the Warrior's dig at him. They push themselves from the statue, struggling for control, both sharing Nabriales' refusal to submit. Of one mind, lacking independence, they press into the other, twisting and spiraling until they fall to the ground; all that is felt of the landing is a distant throb, pain overwhelmed by dizzy tingling and hot tremors.
The Warrior's touch is as His in subtle firmness, dominating thoughtlessly; with Nabriales' influence, the tendency is amplified and he finds himself easily below his partner's body. Driven by mortal passion and enhanced by aether, the Warrior tears off his mask and bites his lips, sitting atop his form, hips grinding into him. Just as Nabriales earlier, his partner is progressively more annoyed by shielding robes, limiting access to his aether-formed flesh.
Sour, so sour, spicy and bitter; it is electric, too strong, impossible to maintain, even as they peak, just starting to seek more. There is no flow, there is no consistency, there is only contrasting chaos. It is simultaneously revolting and magnetic, requiring withdrawal; it is impossible to withstand prolonged closeness to the other's core without complete merging. Would that they could continue forever, treading endlessly, deeper and deeper in the abyss, but in no world is such a thing be possible.
They simultaneously withdraw, slowly, painfully, the Warrior's physical lust unfulfilled, but satiated in every other way. He pushes his partner's will away, rejecting lingering thoughts of affection and desire, lest he be distracted. It is time; Lord Zodiark will no longer be kept from His prize.
Nabriales releases the spell keeping Her representative obscure and lets her drop to the floor.
He pushes himself from the ground. Spreading himself thinly through his partner has tired him, but the former-chosen is even more affected, body damp with sweat, head fogged. All is clear when together; all is muddled when apart. Thoroughly distracted, it takes the Warrior a moment to hear the screeching, hoarse cry of the intruder, repeating the same demand over and over, 'What are you doing?' she cries, as if their engagement 'twasn't immediately clear.
The Warrior's comprehension is delayed, but visible; Nabriales recognizes the thoughts that form, even unable to read them, as the narrative pieces together. The former-chosen turns to face him, condemning his betrayal, refreshingly blatant emotions covering tired features. Nabriales engorges himself on them.
This is how it must be.
"What have you done?!" Again with the obvious queries; Nabriales shrugs off the Warrior's hostility.
"You needn't worry. I've not harmed her." He motions to the woman, who still remains on the floor, clutching the staff to her breast. "I thought perhaps you could speak some sense into her."
Nabriales rarely receives such looks of loathing; the prisoner reminds him very much of a rat, nipping at his toes in a bid for survival. The rat knows it can be destroyed at any moment and only by the whims of the greater being is its continued existence secured.
Nabriales disregards her, drawing closer to the more passive Warrior. He is not pushed away, but ignored, his partner's attention completely on Her representative. This was his will, he reinforces. The Warrior's attentions must be drawn from him, no matter how distasteful the temporary loss may be.
Refusing to heed the logic, Nabriales moves his hand up, stroking his partner's face and running it through hair that is still clumped from sweat, encircling the Warrior's waist from behind. The woman looks ill at the display and he does not bother to hide his satisfaction.
"What is going on?" His partner questions the prisoner, showing no reaction to Nabriales' touch.
"I should be asking you the same!" An indignant response to the being she earlier advocated as her savior. After seeing them together, it is doubtful the rat wants to share any information with the former-champion. The Warrior's body stiffens, distressed at the rejection; Nabriales judged correctly, they were close. Her representative seems as disapproving of their relationship as Elidibus would be.
Nabriales cares as little for Elidibus' judgement as he does the woman's.
If the prisoner will not answer, Nabriales will. "She refuses to relinquish the staff. When she does, she is free to leave." Though he can not see his partner's face from his position, he can almost feel displeasure radiating into him. "I've no interest in your companion."
The dam bursts, the Warrior's withheld emotions flood through vulnerable fields. He is pushed away; the former-champion confronts him, confused, angry, and hurt. "All this for a staff?"
Finally - they have dawdled long enough, pleasant and necessary distractions though they were.
The Warrior turns back to the woman; the anger exhibited seems to satisfy the intruder, drawing the former-champion back into her trust. The Warrior questions; the woman answers, telling a story no different from his.
Finally deciding on the appropriate action, in a show of uncharacteristic and utter arrogance, the former-Chosen of Light stands before him, weaponless, unclothed, and unarmored, trusting that Nabriales will not attack – Nabriales approves.
"Minfilia, you must flee." The woman's better sense finally seems to get the better of her and she listens to the Warrior's command. The prisoner pushes herself from the floor, still clutching the staff as if it is more important than her life. She's correct.
"I don't think so." The rat will leave only when he wills it; she is to witness the rebirth.
A simple spell and Nabriales is behind Her representative, close enough that he can feel her heat and the tenseness of her body. The rat shivers slightly as he runs a finger down her face, as he did the Warrior's; she will remain under his control.
Muscles clenching, she forces him aside, fleeing as quickly as she can.
The woman is not fast, he must only incapacitate her. She makes no attempt to dart about or move unpredictably, it take no effort to see her goal. It requires no more than the weakest attack.
A cry, not the one expected, followed by the thud of a form falling to the floor and a pained moan.
No.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The sounds repeats from within as his lover struggles on the floor, trying to control and minimize the damage.
He was to weaken the Warrior, to maim, not kill. The Warrior was to defend, to avoid, not take an attack unprotected to guard another.
"Oh, Hydaelyn." The rat has the audacity to speak.
"Do not dare invoke Her name!" He allows his rage to spill. "You have brought this upon your 'Warrior of Light'. If you had but obeyed, this would never have happened!"
The woman shakes out of terror and distress. She should fear; Elidibus would dare not stop him now.
"Go." The Warrior's voice gurgles, lungs pierced. This is not how it was to be.
The rat flees; he does not stop her.
Unknown, unwanted, soft emotions embrace his chest as tightly as pain does his lover's, his aether erratic and barely contained. Nabriales knew this plan would result only in the Warrior's temporary estrangement, such reactions are expected, but the agony, the coughs and gasps and blood coursing down bare flesh, flesh he had only earlier touched and merged with, so that it was own, was never planned.
He rejects it all. It is all for Him; His goal must be the Warrior's goal, then all will be well. The Warrior is Gifted; death is not a setback.
The pressure sets itself deeper into the chasm, expanding the fracture, refusing to be downed by logic.
Alone together, Nabriales closes the distance. He must go through with the plan, it is the only way to correct his mistake.
There is no visible wound, but sticky red streaks the Warrior's hands and chest, leaking through closed fingers at each cough.
"Leave it be." His partner's voice is heavy, a mixture of weak demand and pleading; barely able to breathe, the Warrior absurdly fusses over the staff.
Only for his lover does he kneel. There is no affectionate touch, an impenetrable wall separating them, but there does not need to be. "If I was going to follow, I would have." He places a hand firmly on the Warrior's chest, regardless of will.
Seemingly believing his attention diverted from his goal, the Warrior ignores Nabriales and attempts to stand, a fool, stubborn motion that ends only in failure. On any other creature it would be mocked, but sweet disdain is overwritten by bitter satisfaction.
In a sense, it has been perfect, everything flawless. Unpredictability works in his favor and he need not battle. For many moons he has pushed, preparing, guiding Her former-chosen to His hand; the Warrior's body is offered almost at will. Never before has victory tasted so sour.
He pushes aside the weak sounds his lover makes, the thud, and forces the weakened Warrior to the ground. It is so easy, requiring a simple resonance; they were closer in their union moments earlier. Elidibus was correct; the Warrior's Gift is overwhelming, he need not even pull. In this place, He is strong and does not need aid in taking His offering.
Something foreign struggles, minimal, attached to a greater power, no doubt the last vestiges of Her control, as it has no influence over the Gift. It attempts to reject Him - not from the Warrior, but from itself. This thing will not interfere, he will not allow it to stop the uplifting. Nabriales pours energy into the space surrounding invader, eliminating the connection to his lover.
The entity withdraws, retreating almost willingly, the final barrier removed. Weakened though He is, His Grace's protection is far more potent than anything Hydaelyn is capable of.
Placidity and silence are all that remain, thick, gurgling rasps replaced by the deep breaths of what appears to be sleep, but the Warrior does not rest. Nabriales places a hand over the former-chosen's chest, feeling its rise and fall and the knit of core aether humming, restoring the damage he caused. It is a rare delight; mortal forms are drab, dull things, but the inverted flow of the Warrior's aether, previously unseen, electric below his hand, is the most beautiful thing he remembers experiencing.
Nabriales remains true, unmoving until it ends and his partner stirs, hands clenching, breaths quickening. His contact is oppressive, causing overwhelming dizziness in those unused to it.
"A dream. . ." The words are slurred, not intended to be spoken. He holds his tongue, but desires nothing more than to deny the Warrior the thought; it was not a dream, it will never be a dream. Belatedly noticing Nabriales' presence, the Warrior continues, dazed and confused. "You're still here?"
"I told you I would not leave." Nabriales will never leave.
The former-Warrior knows something is off, forehead and lips creased in a frown, jaw set, but says nothing. His partner is prone to the annoying tendency of withholding troubles, defaulting into reminiscent silence, bitterness building slowly over time until the shielding wall breaks.
"Your illness will pass in time." Nabriales pushes himself from his knee, continuing to speak, knowing that his lover will not.
"Minfilia – I'm going back." Exhausted and unsure, the former-Warrior's tone still bites in accusation. The anger is expected and will undoubtedly become more severe once his intentions and plans are revealed.
The first phase is finished; he makes no effort to stop his lover's departure. Soon, the staff will be His and he will no longer be required to subject himself to the fickle whims of the others.
In time, Nabriales is certain all will be well.
