A/N: I had an excuse to think about Valtor's PoV on the flashback in chapter 1 of Fallen Love and things spiraled out of control. You get a peek at his creation and how he perceives himself. Oh, and lots of possessiveness over Griffin! Wouldn't want too much self-reflection to make him a better person!
The purple of Griffin's hair stood out like the brightest star on the night sky. In the busy ballroom, oversaturated with deep reds and greens, royal blue and shining gold, numerous indigo and eggplant shades came close to fooling the untrained eye but to Valtor were nothing more than pale imitations.
He'd recognize her anywhere, wasn't misled by the striking shift in her that was as familiar to him as her golden eyes. He'd ran his hands through her long locks every night in bed, marveling at how they darkened from day to day without a touch of magic. So sensitive to the lack of daylight on the dark side of Melody's biggest moon.
The near year they'd spent there harmonizing all their stolen magic to improve their control of it and expand their capacity for absorbing more hadn't resulted in as drastic a change as Valtor was now witnessing. As if she hadn't seen sunlight at all since she'd disappeared on him months ago.
She was bare, wearing her own face and not a trace of magic at her fingertips, anywhere on her body. As part of the official delegation of the Dimension's leading political force, she wasn't considered a thief, wasn't considered a threat.
It wasn't freedom.
She'd gotten her way with the hair – a couple of strands framed her face while the rest was pulled back in a loose updo with only a few mischievous locks spilling from it down her back. The rest of her, however, was stuffed in a heavy, ostentatious gown. The rigid bodice constricted her chest just so; it would be uncomfortable for dancing alone and would make battle completely impossible. Layers upon layers in her skirt dangerously hindered her mobility and the excess of fabric wrapping her arms and dragging down to the very floor was a liability in the full ballroom. It could be easily grabbed or even stepped on–like a chain keeping her at her masters' side–to subdue her. As if she were an unruly dragon.
They'd designed a cage for her and then dressed it up as a symbol of protection. All the golden embroidery diminished her, overshadowed her pale skin and hid her from the eye as if the gown were worn by a ghost. She was dressed in their colors to make her one of them, a carbon copy of their incapacious beliefs about his nature.
Claiming him an abomination at least afforded Valtor some independence from them unlike the idea that he was just a fraction of their power–their birthright–to be reabsorbed, reclaimed. He was as unique as the Dragon Fire he was made from. The most versatile power in the universe that had changed, altered itself until it had become air and water, earth and living matter, and sparked, breathed in the core of every thing in existence. How were they its rightful owners when in their narrow-mindedness they could only see one path for it, one possibility that suited them best – that it was their exclusive possession?
It was his, too–it was him and vice versa–in ways they couldn't dream. And so was Griffin.
That gown was sacrilege on her. He ought to rip it off her strip by strip of fabric until she was gloriously naked, gloriously herself again. Then he'd kill everyone else for looking at her and feed her their blood, bathe her in it. The red intensity of it on her skin would frame her like the beating heart of the universe, make any life impossible without her.
Instead, he'd kill her. He'd unleash upon her the demise she'd doomed herself to rather than free her from the yoke she'd willingly accepted – for herself and for him. Only the walls of Domino's royal palace stood between him and victory and only they again separated Griffin from death at his hands.
His mothers weren't like his own appetites. Them Valtor couldn't resist.
Burning.
That was the first sensation seared into his being. Not like a fire was burning–a natural form of existence–but how a person burned when they were suffocating, dying.
From inextinguishable Flame he'd become a creature, a living being. Breathing hadn't been instinct yet. Amidst the flood of knowledge, of awareness he was gaining of himself as an entity, cut from the fabric of the universe but separate from it, he'd not yet realized how he was supposed to exist, to survive in this new form.
He'd been omnipotent before, endless, almighty. Then he'd been confined to a body that needed oxygen to live – like ordinary, unremarkable fire.
His creation had been agony. He'd resolved to never turn back, to live with his new form–with his forced servitude to the Witches–and all the possibilities it afforded him.
For a thousand years he'd built himself up – magically, politically, rising when empires fell and creating from their ashes, all of it leading him to his greatest opportunity – meeting her. Someone who shared his vision and wasn't bound by his specific... circumstances.
Griffin was brilliant, her mind more cutting than a diamond, especially for her young age.
Too many schemes and countless forms of magic passing through his hands had long erased his initial years from his mind, from his body even. Decades, centuries of expertise in all manners of combat and courtly conduct had long become second nature, taken over his muscle memory to push out anything else. Seconds after he'd taken his first breath he'd had millions of lifetimes' worth of knowledge at his disposal from his mothers' observations of history and human nature.
Still, he'd lacked his own experience, hadn't had an example to follow when his mothers were shackled to their incorporeal existence, could only interact with the world through him or their followers, who were less than impressive. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind he could find traces of the exuberance of youth, the lack of caution when the whole world had been promised to you and was at your fingertips. The intoxication had been overpowering even to someone like him, who'd had the luxury of eternity to savor it, hadn't been possessed by the mad, obsessive need to rush before he'd run out of time like a mortal would have been. Like Griffin would have been.
She'd proven herself above it all, cold calculation and flaming resolve, ruthlessness to match his and endless, hungering curiosity. She'd earned herself the glory of being his partner and she'd still taken her sweet time deciding if she'd wanted it. She didn't do anything lightly, least of all something with such catastrophic consequences as leaving his side.
He wanted an explanation.
He wasn't going to get it.
Not tonight or any other time. She chose and she chose wrong, betrayed his confidence in her for people that would burn her on a pyre if they deemed it a more useful strategy against him than exploiting her intimate familiarity with him for their own gain, never hers. She would never share in any victory they thought they could achieve, would be banished to Omega or another prison dimension for the rest of her days.
He'd never given her reason to fear for her life even if that wouldn't have been unjustified. Loyalty didn't guarantee the Ancestral Witches' mercy; only usefulness did. Undeniable proof that she'd have always been safe.
Now he had to let her leave with his enemies, eat their food, sleep under their roof, humiliate herself for every next breath and still live on borrowed time.
The only proper retaliation for her carelessness with her own life would be to clutch her to him, as close as the restrictions of the physical plane would allow, and kiss her until the burning lack of oxygen set a panic inside her. Until every fiber of her body was ablaze with agonizing awareness of what she'd be losing if he didn't let up, let go of her and she still chose to succumb to it if that were his will. Only then would he retreat just enough to let her gasp for breath and cling to him with all the might of the life rushing back into her.
A whisper of his magic steered the crowd out of his way and to separate Griffin from her company.
She didn't startle when he grabbed her hand, clasped at him in turn instead. Without a moment's hesitation she followed him, didn't spare a glance at the couples spinning in a tight circle around them on the dance floor to close them in, form a barrier to keep out her guard dogs.
Her body swayed with the music but her focus was on him, her intense stare on his face, on his lips.
Valtor caught himself smiling, grinning almost as if he had a reason.
If her goal had been to punish them both for still being this enamored with him, he had to concede to her success. And a vindictiveness that suited him, suited a partner of his so perfectly that it only highlighted the space pushing to cut between them after she'd allowed the illusion that were possible.
Her eyes were still familiar, hadn't changed like the rest of her in the months of her life she'd robbed him of. Whatever insanity had possessed her to leave him, had cleared up already – to no avail. He could wait centuries for the opening, the opportunity that would allow him the freedom of having her by his side again but she'd be dust by then.
"Was it you?"
He could barely hear her over the music despite how close he was clutching her to him – like a fucking omen for the fate she'd hurtled towards without a second thought.
Whatever she was asking, she couldn't put her whole heart into it. Then again, she shouldn't have to put her whole heart into anything that didn't involve him. It was his. She'd given it to him and he wouldn't allow her to take it back even if grasping at it tore it in half.
"It was."
She knocked the air out of him when she collided with his chest. The magic streaming from him masked the breath he sucked in just as well as it enveloped them in a world of their own, hiding them from prying eyes.
In their restored privacy he could enjoy the way she was pressed against him again. It only confirmed his earlier observation – she'd grown noticeably thinner and for that he couldn't blame their enemies; it wasn't their brand of cruelty. Every inch of her body–familiar or changed–seared into his brain every time his breath moved him against her.
He couldn't help himself, needed a taste of her. Only a fleeting one, a minute brush of his lips against her hair, the shell of her ear. All her fault, the absence building for months upon months had cut through him even more viciously as soon as he'd laid eyes on her. She'd weakened them both, turned their strength of unity into a crushing dependence that he couldn't shed. It was unforgivable.
"I am the architect of your nightmares, Griffin." Her name tasted like blood, like wine. "Each and every one of them."
Her magic bled from her form as if he'd pricked her all over. It clung to his skin like nails in it, solid, a tangible presence, yet still with the fluidity of water that would drown him.
His own power pulsed and prickled under Valtor's skin as if it were a returning bloodstream he'd been deprived of, as if it were a cramped up limb that'd pained him to move all this time. The rush of it nearly swept him away with the dawning realization that she would be his downfall – in one way or another.
He had to find the piece of the puzzle that had been eluding him for ages – not just for his own freedom but for the sake of having her again, for the luxury of hating her to his heart's content.
"Your suffering belongs to me."
If that was the only thing she wanted to give him, he would take all of it.
Hints and clues for the course of events in Fallen Love are waiting to be found in here. :)