Twenty-six
He could see the wall of light in the near distance, the sign that they were nearly out of the gnarled and knotted brush of the Tirashan.
It wouldn't be a moment too soon, and Taesas wouldn't feel sad if he never came back to this Maker-forgotten wood.
His palms still burned.
The amount of magic he had been able to work on himself was intermittent, at best. With the lingering effects of Nethra's blood magic and the muddling poison he had been fed prior to that, his recovery had been slow. It had taken time, days, to muster enough will to resist her control enough to begin work on the Litany. What little reserves he had, he had burned on the barrier to keep him and Vell alive long enough for her to rip apart the Veil.
The flesh was closed and the most acute of the pain had been dealt with, although his hands were still raw and red. If he could get a good meal and some rest, he could muster enough strength to heal them more cleanly, hopefully back to perfect condition.
His stomach still burned.
The days of hunger, the poison and the exertion of his labors all had left a twisting knot in his stomach that ached with every step and panged with every small divot his unsteady feet found. He could not remember a single meal he had taken while under Nethra's control. The only memories that stuck were the few brief moments he was able to resist and the long, slow process of weaving the Litany runes.
Was this was starvation felt like? His head was throbbing, his stomach wrenching and his mind cloudy. There were elves in the alienages of Orlais that starved to death every winter. The kitchens of the Circle were always stocked. The tables in the Enchanters quarters on the upper levels could often rival the fare of lesser nobles' courts, even. If not for the rebel trekking alongside him, he couldn't say that he might not have stooped to pick mushrooms or herbs from the dirt and stuff them greedily into his mouth.
His neck still burned.
The patch of flesh on the left side of his throat was beyond saving now. Nethra's healing had been crude and unfinished, enough to stop the mortal bleeding but little else. The flesh had not healed cleanly, leaving a bumpy, scabbed tangle of raw and rough skin overlapping itself. He could not see it, but as he ran his fingers across it, he could tell it was a grotesque token of Nethra's affection for him.
With time, concentration and a mirror, he might be able to do more to repair the wound so that it would not result in an unsightly scar. Doing so might require reopening the wound, cutting out the damaged flesh and repairing it magically. He did not relish the thought of the process, sitting in front of a mirror with a blade carving carefully around his own vital arteries.
If not for the Staff of Fen'Harel grasped in his left hand, the entire endeavor would have been a disastrous failure. Sadly, the mission had only succeeded because of the rebel. Had the Grand Enchanter not been quite so cunning, he dared not think about his fate in that scenario.
Vell hadn't said a word since they left the Dalish camp. She had only walked along side him, keeping with his slow pace as he shambled along, attempting to keep to the trails and do what he could to heal himself.
Serault would not be far now. He could send her along her way and take Briala's mirror back to Montsimmard, arriving at Skyhold long before Vell even made the first Inquisition camp outside the city. Once he was fed and rested, he could begin to plot the dialogue he would want to open with Vivienne to express his extreme displeasure at the course of events on the errand she had forced upon him.
"I would be remiss not to thank you for your assistance at the Dalish camp," Taesas said, stretching over a fallen tree trunk and balancing himself on the staff heavily as he lifted one foot and then the other.
She didn't respond outside of a slight "hmph" as she too stretched over the tree.
"And the Dalish who was with you. A regrettable loss," he said. When Vell didn't respond to that either, he continued. "Who was he?"
"His name was Ghilathen," Vell said. "Who was he? I don't know."
The answer was part truthful, part truthful ignorance and part guarded speech, he could see. She hadn't flinched when his throat was cut. He was Fiona's creature, no doubt, which only made Taesas wonder how the Grand Enchanter had come to make such a strange bedfellow.
"The demon you killed was very formidable," Taesas said, ducking under a low bough. "That was no small feat. I honestly could not be sure you would be able to defeat it. I owe my life to the fact that you were capable."
Vell spat, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her lip moved, then stopped, and she didn't answer that. The encounter had stirred something within her, something different than the terror he had seen on her face at Ceraux. While that had disarmed her, this had emboldened her.
He could see the edge of the treeline now, just a few hundred feet ahead. It was midday, and the bright light from beyond was stabbing his tired eyes like knives when Vell stepped in front of him.
Vell put up one hand, pressing it against his chest to stop him.
"Tell me why you killed the Keeper."
Her mouth was drawn, her eyes were cold and her posture was solid. Her feet were spread slightly wider than her shoulders, standing before him like one of the immovable trees. It was clear she wasn't going to let him walk past her until he answered.
"She was already dead," he said as he stopped. "I was putting an end to her suffering."
He might have been able to save her, if he had been at full strength. He wasn't.
"That wasn't mercy," Vell challenged.
"I was in no condition to cast any spells, as you saw."
He might have been able to summon enough mana, if he wanted to give her a quicker death. He didn't.
"Bull shit," Vell challenged again. "Your hands were burnt to the bone. Yet you made a point to wrap them around a stone and crush her head. How many times did you hit her?"
"Enough times."
He might have been able to stop after the first or second blow, if he could have convinced himself that would be proper retribution. He couldn't.
"Why did you do it?" The tenor in Vell's voice was almost a threat, that sturdy, strong inflection. Taesas could always appreciate it when someone hit the note just right, even her.
And yet, she was merely rebel. A fool. An idiot girl who didn't know the first things about the functioning of the world.
"Am I to be judged by you?" He lifted his right hand, pointing to the golden rings in her left ear. "Perhaps I should be questioning you. Why did you kill those Templars?"
"They tortured me." She answered without hesitation, as if she had gone through the process of justifying it to herself many, many times.
"Not all of them," he said. "You killed them because you wanted to be 'free.'"
"I am free," she said defiantly. But her voice didn't hit that some powerful tone, because in her voice, she knew it wasn't true. He knew it wasn't true. She was out of the Circle, but still merely a pawn.
"And now I am free, too," Taesas said, leaving it at that.
She didn't need to know more. She didn't deserve to know more. If she had half of a contemplative brain, she would understand the statement for what it was.
"I could have killed you."
That statement had a different bite to it, the kind of statement an overconfident bard would make when circling her prey, while on the inside the butterflies were gnawing a hole in her coward's stomach. Vell had killed. But she would not kill him.
"And yet you didn't."
Taesas stared her in the eye now, impressed that she was not afraid to hold his gaze. He could see that fire in her, that hate simmering behind the blank, cold mask of disdain she wore now for him. Inside her, there was a tumult, the balance between her anger and her twisted and flawed sense of right and wrong. She wore the mask of a predator, but she was not.
He held that gaze for a moment longer. He lifted his chin just slightly, so that he might cast his eyes down on her just a little more, to remind her that she was only an amateur. She was merely a hot-blooded killer, a feral animal. She lacked the grace and intellect to truly be feared.
"Are we done here?" he asked.
"Just about."
Vell's hand wrapped around the wooden staff above his, and a second later, her fist was driving into his stomach with a crack of thunder, a puff of green flame and a force behind it so strong that it lifted him off his feet, ripped the staff out of his fingers and threw him into the trunk of the nearest tree behind him. All of the wind was knocked out of his chest as he crumpled into the forest floor with a gasp, a crack and one more injury to nurse.
As he lay doubled over on the ground, he remembered the familiar pulse of energy that he had felt above the cliffs of Ceraux.
That blow had the power of the rift behind it.
She gave him one last furious, pitiable look, and turned away.
"Vell." The name came out as a breathy wheeze as he struggled to breath normally again, but by the time it escaped his lips, she was already bounding out of the forest and away with her back turned. By the time he had enough strength to push himself back to his feet, she was gone, with no hope of catching her.
Taesas dusted the dirt off the front of his clothes, tucked the two braids behind his ears and stepped out of the Tirashan toward Serault.
Defeated.
Brevere recoiled in a moment of surprise as he stepped to the open doorway at the front of his manor.
"Enchanter Taesas! What an unexpected delight!" he said, delighted. Then he got a closer look, "Oh my. A thousand apologies, but you look frightful."
His neck was throbbing, the raw patches on his hands weren't healing as smoothly as he hoped and his clothing was still filthy. This was no way to appear at the house of a lord in Orlais, but after the past couple days, Taesas was momentarily beyond caring about propriety.
Ambassador's Briala gatekeeper at the eluvian had been prepared to guide him back to Montsimmard. But as he looked at the swirling liquid of the mirror, he had decided to change plans.
Vivienne could wait.
No doubt she would be a kettle of perfectly contained wrath when she found out he had lost the prize to the rebel girl. He was in no hurry to return and be subjected to the polite but pointed soliloquy outlining her disappointment.
"It's been a dreadful week, to say the least, Antone," Taesas said, forcing himself to crack a smile as if being beaten and bloodied as he had been were something that he could shrug off so easily. "I hate to insert myself like this, but might I impress on your hospitality for an evening or two? Until I've recovered."
The Marquis tossed the door open wider, his face beaming with delight at Taesas cutting straight to casual use of his first name, no doubt. "Yes, of course! Please, you are always welcome in my home."
Taesas stepped inside, his foot touching the first black and white marbled tile of the entryway, before noticing three figures standing at the railing above the central staircase, glasses of wine clutched in their hands. He recognized the woman on the far left, Brevere's wife Margot. The other two, he couldn't tell by a glance. Nobles, certainly, but perhaps smaller lords, local vassals of the marquisate.
"I didn't realize you were entertaining," Taesas said.
The marquis chuckled. "I'd hardly call this lot 'entertainment,'" he whispered. "There's a reason I'm a portly man, Tae. Too many guests and too much wine and food to treat them with."
As they approached the stairs, the conversation between the two nobles and Margot became audible as all three glared down at the elf that had invaded their house. Taesas could taste the palpable bitterness as Margot glanced over the rim of her cup while drinking much too deeply.
"I didn't know the marquis had a predilection toward animals," the man said, his northern accent confirming Taesas's suspicions that he was local nobility. His dark hair and oily moustache suggested there was more Nevarran blood in him that Orlesian. His voice was quiet enough to feign a private conversation, but purposely loud enough to be overhead.
Margot snorted at that, while the man's wife at least had enough class to look abashed at her husband's crudeness.
"Of course I do, Daniel," Brevere said sharply, as he glanced upward while beginning to ascend the staircase with Taesas.
"I don't try to hide it. I did, after all, choose to marry an odious sow."
An immediate silence settled over the room, except for the click of their footsteps continuing up the stairs. Margot's dull eyes were two lumps of smoldering hatred as she pursed her lips and pinched one of the pearls of her necklace between her fingers.
Margot knew better than to try to respond after a brutal insult like that delivered in front of guests. The lord's face was so twisted with shock and a sudden onset of fear at Brevere's gall that he suddenly looked as if he might vomit onto his own chest. His wife looked as if someone had punched her in the stomach, too.
"Marquis, I-" the man stumbled.
"Shut up," Brevere interrupted and the man immediately fell silent in the shadow of his better. "Enchanter Taesas, this man has insulted both my honor and yours. Would you like to dispose of him?"
"I am too weary from the road," Taesas answered.
Marquis Brevere raised his eyebrows as he looked back at his guest. "Well, Daniel, lucky for you that this 'animal' is too tired to take your life. Thank him. For you life."
"Thank you, Enchanter," the man said, as his eyes lowered with shame.
"Very good. I would say it has been a pleasure, but it hasn't. Show yourself out," Brevere ordered, his voice strong and confident, with that perfect tenor, strumming the perfect music of the Game played at the most masterful level. "And decide which of your children you think will be best be able to cope with the hardship of growing up as a cripple."
Taesas and Brevere were already walking away after that, and Taesas didn't bother to turn around to see exactly how white with dread either of their faces grew at that threat. Brevere withdrew the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed the sweat off his forehead as he walked.
"I must be growing old," he said. "I find I have much less patience for the nonsense of the young."
"Are you actually going to cripple one of his children?" Taesas asked, turning his head to admire a new oil-painted nude the marquis had hung in the corridor since his last visit.
The marquis chuckled at the question. "It is a half day's ride back to Daniel's slovenly keep of stones, sticks and mud. The anguish he and his wife will undergo discussing which of their inbred children least needs the use of his or her legs should be sufficient. Frankly, I'm rather more interested to hear what their reply will be, whether they will provide an answer, plead for forgiveness and mercy or attempt to defy me."
Taesas rubbed the wound on his neck as a sudden jolt of pain pulsed through it and radiated into his shoulder.
"Have I ever told you how envious I am of your cunning, Antone?"
Brevere's excited breaths all smelled of wine, but it could be ignored as the marquis' hands kneaded through Taesas's aching shoulders and back.
The large bathing tub was gilded. The water, once nearly scalding, had cooled considerably but was still warm. The bath smelled of fragrant oil.
Brevere had been prepared to leave once the servants had set the tub. In gratitude for his hospitality, Taesas had offered for him to stay to converse. Brevere needed no convincing as Taesas began to disrobe, the marquis once more dabbing beads of sweat off his forehead with his kerchief as his eyes danced over the elf's exposed groin.
Brevere had sheepishly confessed that he had taken an interest in massage and then gathered the courage to ask if he might put his learned techniques into practice. Taesas agreed, another transaction completed to earn more of the marquis' goodwill.
Although he had not expected it, the marquis' hands still had some strength in them despite his age and his touch was more therapeutic than Taesas might have expected.
Taesas drank deeply from his glass of wine before leaning back deeper into the tub, closing his eyes and indulging in a moment's relaxation. His head was pounding from the lingering strain from the Tirashan and the dehydration of both the wine and the hot water causing him to sweat.
He needed a moment to wash away the grime of the forest, to cleanse himself of his failure and, most of all, to purge the embarrassment of being bested by Vell.
Taesas had planned to abandon her as soon as possible once they returned under the protection of the glass tower of Serault, taking the eluvian hundreds of miles away before she had any idea at all where he went. He had not expected her to do what she did, although he now cursed himself for not anticipating it. She was a thug and he had been in no condition to defend himself.
"Tell me, Tae, why are you hiding here?" Brevere said as his fingertips worked into the grooves between Taesas' shoulder blades.
Taesas would have preferred a peaceful quiet, but apparently Brevere wanted to play the Game. On friendly terms, of course, but for as much as an ally the marquis had always been, he could never be completely trusted.
"What makes you think I'm hiding, Antone?" he responded, checking a question with a question.
"I happen to know you never call on others unless you have need of something," the marquis said. He slid the palms of his hands up along the sides of Tae's neck. "Which reminds me, please thank Lady D'Tarlege next time you see her for me. She sent me a wonderfully painted nude of an unidentified man. Bold colors, although captured in a very dignified and restrained way."
Taesas could only smile at that notion and at Brevere's competency. It was always said that there were no secrets in Orlais, at least not to those who knew the proper way to listen for them.
"I didn't realize you two were friends now," he said as Brevere threaded his fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp as if he knew exactly where all the throbbing was.
"I confess I can be a terribly jealous man."
"She asked me to run away to Antiva with her, you know," Taesas said, reaching for his wine glass again. "At the time I dismissed it for the joke it was. After this last week, I can't say the idea sounds too unappealing."
"With all the Crows and guilds in Antiva, I suspect you'd have an even harder time hiding there than you would here."
Taesas smiled again, knowing Brevere was not one to let his prey stray too far away. A little off-path banter would do, but the marquis was notorious for finding a way to pull back to where he needed them to be. Admirable.
Taesas placed the wine glass to his lips and tipped it again, enjoying this particular vintage red his host had chosen. The cellars were deep and always well stocked. He placed the glass back down on the tub-side table and let his hands fall back beneath the surface of the water.
Brevere let it go for a moment, working his hands back down to the intersection of neck and shoulders, his thumbs swirling in slow wheels across Tae's oil-slickened flesh.
"I never took you for one to try the silent treatment," the marquis said. "I assume you must be trying to avoid the First Enchanter."
"Must I?" Taesas said calmly, doing his best to mask that Brevere had the correct scent of the trail.
"I admit, I'm not privy to the inner workings of the Circle of Magi, but I'm not aware of anyone in Orlais you would want to avoid disappointing except for Madam de Fer."
He was right, of course. He had corrupted the marital beds of numerous comtesses, had insulted Dukes to their faces and even cautiously dabbled in the affairs of the Empress on occasion. There had been some minor failings, some unexpected twists at the well-delivered play of an opposing target, but nothing that could not be overcome.
But this, having the staff in his hand and then losing it to a malcontent, this was shameful.
"I expect she will be quite wroth with me when I return to Skyhold," he said, surrendering the point to Brevere.
Brevere allowed himself a small, satisfied laugh at having won the match.
"You have nothing to fear from Madam de Fer," Brevere said.
Taesas was glad that he was not drinking from his cup, because he might have choked.
"I have everything to fear from her," he disagreed.
Brevere gave an exasperated sigh at that, as if he were dealing with a poorly disciplined dog that wasn't following commands or attempting to convince a rowdy child to obey their parent.
"And here I thought you were more wise," the marquis scolded as he rested his hands atop Tae's shoulders. "Tell me, what makes Empress Celene so powerful?"
"Celene is the midst of a civil war that's ground to a stalemate," Taesas interjected.
"Granted," Brevere said. "On her best days, then. From where does Celene derive her power?"
"She's Empress. The sole sovereign of Orlais. A magnificent student of the Grand Game."
Brevere's fingers trickled down over Taesas's shoulders, timidly exploring the ridge of his collarbone. "On the surface, yes. But Celene is considerably more powerful than her uncle Florian ever was. More powerful than even her grand-uncle Judicael. Why is that?"
The marquis wasn't normally one for riddles. Taesas lifted his wine glass and downed the remainder of the cup, considering the question for a moment as Brevere's fingertips slowly traced across his chest left and right.
The Empress was powerful because she held the greatest seat of power and was competent enough to hold it. There was no mystery there, that he could see.
"You have me stumped, Antone," he said after a little more consideration.
Brevere sounded excited, almost, as he began. "You're correct, in part, that part of Celene's power comes from being Empress. There can only be one leader of Orlais. And yet, Celene has always allowed the whisperers to whisper that maybe someone else should be the one wearing her crown. Not only allowed, but she has, to some extent, even encouraged the idea by so willfully ignoring it.
"She's powerful because she tempts others with something they can never possess," Brevere said.
Taesas considered it for a moment. "And you're suggesting I'm the same?"
"Absolutely," Brevere said, leaning forward now, letting his hands slide down the front of Taesas' chest as his nose nuzzled into the back of the elf's head. He inhaled deeply, as if it trying to imprint the scent into his brain. "I know I can never have you for my own. And, by the Maker, it drives me mad."
The marquis' head turned, his teeth nibbling at the pointed corner of Tae's ear, a groan as his hands clenched against the strong muscles of the enchanter's chest. Taesas didn't attempt to stop him as he considered Brevere's assessment.
He couldn't discredit the reasoning. He had been invited into the homes of many, many nobles because he was a curiosity of Orlais. It had started with Brevere, but it had grown well beyond a chance encounter of the First Enchanter needing an elf to entice the marquis. From there, others had taken notice too.
They saw the rarity, the novelty of a mage let loose from the tower of Montsimmard to come play with them, like a prize falcon being removed from his cage and unhooded to pierce the endless sky. They saw the taboo, too, an elf sculpted and cultured to tease the dark fantasy that played inside their heads.
One or the other, alone, they might have seen before. Influential and connected mages were allowed out of the tower. Many nobles sought to keep the most well-spoken, clever, talented or attractive elves in their household. But put together, he was something they had not seen, something that no one else had.
And, therefore, something everyone wanted.
All of that was true and it had been the route he had parlayed to influence. Taesas had known that, already, but there was something more that Brevere had been driving at. The point he had been trying to make, Taesas still sat and considered, inattentive to the exploring hands and enchanted sighs the marquis was making as he caressed Tae.
There was one question, the first question, the heart of the conversation, that still lingered unanswered in his head.
What was he, then, to Vivienne?
He was already beyond the point of being drunk as he pulled the cork from another bottle of red wine and poured it messily into the glass.
The single candle burned orange-yellow in the bedside lamp, the lavish bedroom otherwise cradled in darkness as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank again. His headache had subsided, somewhat, although it would certainly be back in the morning. He didn't care.
The quiet rapping of knuckles on the door broke the silence of the room. He gulped another swallow of wine and placed the glass down on the bedside table.
"Enter," he said loudly enough.
The golden handle turned slowly, the heavy wooden door peeked open and the servant stepped confidently inside.
"How may I serve you, my lord?"
She was middle-aged. Dark-haired. Skinny. Elven. Brevere had offered him the full hospitality of his home. He had adequately fulfilled this request.
"Close the door."
The servant obeyed, shutting the narrow crack she had left open. She turned around, folded her hands behind her back as she had been trained and kept her eyes respectfully lowered toward the floor. She did not move away from the door.
"Come here," he commanded as he tipped the wine bottle and refilled his half-empty glass.
Again she obeyed, her slippered feet silent on marble floor as she approached. She kept her eyes downcast, but he noticed the way she stood up straight, her shoulders and chest puffed out. This was clearly not the first time she had been woken like this in the middle of the night.
"Would you like some wine?"
"No, thank you, my lord," she said quietly. She was not nearly as tall as him, but not short either. She was wearing a good cloth nightgown, clean and well-made. The woman had a good life here in Brevere's estate.
He downed the rest of glass, chugging gulp after gulp until the cup was empty. He tossed it aside, wiping the dribbles that had formed on his lips with the back of his hand.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked as he slipped his hand underneath her chin to lift her eyes to his. She had dark eyes, and he was pleased that she did not try to avert her gaze.
"Yes, my lord."
"And you do not object?"
He slid his hand from her chin, tracing the line of her jaw up her neck and along her long, thin, pointed ear. His fingers rested on the black hair that fell down just at her shoulder with a slight curl at the bottom.
"I serve as my lord commands."
She spoke the words truthfully. She was a servant. She understood her place. It was clear that was not the first time Brevere had her sent to someone's bedchamber. He wondered when that first time had been, who it had been for, and if she had been frightened. Perhaps she did not relish this duty. But she accepted it, as any good servant should.
"I am going to ask you to do a few things for me and I expect you to obey me. I am the master." He released the strand of hair from between his fingers, cupping his hand around the back of her head gently. "Do you understand me?"
The woman did not hesitate, answering as any good servant should. "Yes, my lord."
"Good," Taesas said, reaching into his pocket and removing the folding straight razor. He smiled inwardly at the way she jumped as the blade snapped and locked into place, a momentary look of fear as she fixated on the sharp steel. He could feel her entire body tighten in his hand that cradled her head.
"I'm going to cut your hair now."
The tension in her posture released as she exhaled. Nervous, but calm. "As you wish, my lord."
Taesas stepped around her, twisting locks of her hair in his palm and pulling them lightly away from her head. When the strands were taut, he placed the edge of the razor to them, only needing to saw lightly as the keen edge sheared through her thin hair. He tossed the clump of hair to the floor and moved to the next patch.
The servant did not make a single sound as he worked, pulling her hair back and cutting it roughly with the razor. She stood stalwart, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes forward. She shivered as his fingers brushed along the edge of her ears as he collected errant strands and cut them.
When he came around to her front, her eyes were closed. She calmly inhaled through her nose, each exhale coming concentrated through a small O made by her lips, almost as if she were trying to whistle a happy tune. Taesas lifted the short bangs off her forehead and sawed them away too.
He ran his hand through the hair, lifting some of the longer areas he had missed and hacking them down until all that remained was a rough, short thicket of black hair closely cropped to her head.
He folded the razor and slipped it back into his pocket. As she heard the click of the razor, the servant opened her eyes and looked to him, awaiting his next command.
Taesas ran his fingers across the edge of her left ear.
"Take off your gown."
Her hands reached behind her neck, pulling the strings of the bow that held the garment in place. As they unraveled, she slowly pulled the nightgown away from her shoulders, letting it fall around her feet. She stepped out of it, kicking it a few feet behind her on the floor, then returned her hands behind her back, making no effort to cover herself.
Taesas traced the curve of her narrow hips, eyeing the bare mound of her pubis and the narrow cleft that divided it between her thin legs. Her breasts lacked the perk of a younger woman, with pointed, pink nipples firm in the chill of the bedroom.
He pulled the cords and slipped out of the oversized robe Brevere had given him to wear while commissioning a new set of clothing for Taesas before his departure and tossed it onto the bed. He gave his semi-hard manhood a single, lazy stroke with his right hand.
Taesas pulled her with his other hand, shoving her onto the bed. He followed behind her, urging her into the middle of the mattress. He pushed her down flat onto her stomach, turning her head so that her right cheek was resting on the covers just below the pillows.
He took the belt from the robe, pulled her hands into the small of her back and lashed her wrists together. Taesas pulled the cord as tightly as he could, knotting it firmly so that it would not slip or break. The servant fluttered her fingers in apparent discomfort.
He ignored it, straddled her legs, spit into his hand, rubbed it around the head of his cock and slipped inside of her. Her mouth twisted and eyes closed as he slowly pushed himself deeper, until he could go no farther.
He pulled back. She inhaled. He thrusted again. She moaned softly, an imagined utterance of pleasure meant to gratify and flatter him.
He pulled back. She hummed with more fake satisfaction. He thrusted, in one hard, fast movement, until he was buried to the root. The servant gave a surprised yelp and swallowed.
He pulled back. She groaned.
Taesas leaned forward, placing his left hand onto the mattress. His right hand, he threaded through her now-short, rough-cut hair. His fingers rolled in, squeezing the clumps of hair tightly into his palm. He pushed down, pinning her head to the mattress.
And when he began to thrust again, she cried out.
He admired the way her mouth contorted and twisted, the way her shoulders tightened and strained as she tried to move her hands, the way her eyes clenched close as she struggled, and the groans, wails and shrieks that escaped between her lips.
He grunted with each stroke, staring down at the girl, soaking in every moment of the passion, a mechanical in and out of his breath, the up and down of his hips, the loud and stinging clap of flesh on flesh.
Taesas bent low, taking the edge of her ear between her teeth and biting down. She squealed as his teeth punctured the skin, piercing flesh, unimpeded by the six golden earrings that weren't there.
His hand pulled, jerking her neck as he tugged on the fistful of hair, increasing the speed, increasing the strength, filling every inch of her with each forceful thrust.
He could smell the scent of the forest, could feel the humid air on his flesh, could see the midday sun on his shoulders as he pressed her face into the dirt.
He could recall the way he caught her fist in his palm, the way he bent her wrist back from the failed assault, the way she crumpled to her knees under his superior strength.
He could hear the sound of tearing cloth as he tore her clothes away, he could feel the way she squirmed in the mud powerless to resist him, he could taste the sweat as he ran his tongue along the nape of her neck and across each of the rings she wore to celebrate her murders.
He felt the ecstasy of ever thrust, of the tightened muscles of her legs, her back, her arms, her neck, futilely trying to resist him. He felt the way she squirmed, half-hearted, only a feigned attempt to fight her way from beneath him. He felt all of her sex, the pulses of warmth and wetness, the tightness of muscles squeezing around the base of his cock, the willingness at which it took him and drew him further inside of her.
He could feel the moment when her body betrayed her, when futile rebellion became complete obedience.
She could do nothing but surrender in the shadow of his dominance.
She would willingly submit to him. She would willingly accept her defeat. She would willingly accept her place below him. She would willingly plead him for mercy. She would willingly receive him. She would willingly beg him for pleasure. She would willingly pant, willingly moan, willingly scream for him.
Vell would willingly acknowledge him as the master.
Taesas' groin clenched, his orgasm spraying deep inside the servant girl, his hips pushed fully inside of her, his back arched as pulse after pulse of ecstasy washed through his body.
After the fleeting moment of immeasurable pleasure, he exhaled the breath he had been holding in his chest. He trembled with the aftershocks of pleasure as he withdrew his now-numb manhood from inside her.
He released his grip on the servant's head and lifted his other hand from the mattress, stretching the stiffness and tension out of his finger muscles, before running his hands across his sweat-slickened forehead and through his damp hair.
Below him, the servant girl was still, except for the quiet sound of pained whimpering from the mattress.
Taesas ignored it. He inhaled slowly as he tried to regain his breath, taking just a moment longer to bask in his triumph.
He was strong.
He was powerful.
He was the master.
He was nobody's lesser.
He would make sure Vell knew it.
He would make sure Vell remembered it.