CW/TW:
BDSM, Sexual content
It was a nightmare, and it howled in the darkness behind her closed eyes. He didn't breathe, but he exhaled the cold against her skin. What was more terrifying was how she couldn't see. He didn't let her. She could only feel him. Her cheek was pressed against the wall of the closet and he loomed against her backside. His presence was oppressive. The leathers behind her creaked and his heavy hand raked through her bloody curls. Ashtorath.
When she was sure he was gone, she peeled herself away from the closet wall. She had heard the door crash behind him and then the heavy thunk of his footfalls on the ground. Then it faded into a heartbeat and was gone.
She remained in the closet and wept until it hesitantly opened. A splash of rectangular yellow light spread across her face.
Nina saw her and gasped. She had expected to see a bloody murder scene, but Llara was alive. Unharmed. Whole. Her sex was still in lace and her breasts bound in lingerie. Ashtorath did not violate her. He did not eat her. He did not break her bones or stab into her mind with horrid magic of the Unquenched. No. He did nothing but smell her, gently touch her, comb his fingers through her hair, and lick her. For hours.
Nina helped her friend stand. She explained that Ashtorath paid a huge sum to the Head Mistress for Llara's time. Llara gnawed her lower lip and told her friend that Ashtorath would come for her again and again. He promised. He had threatened.
The second meeting happened the following night. The buildup was just as tense and ominous as the first. This time he would rip her arm from her socket and devour it in front of her. This was the time that he was going to plunge his hand into her chest and crush her still-beating heart in his fist. This was truly the end for her.
It wasn't.
Nor was the third meeting.
He came every night that week and barely touched her each session. Although she never let her guard down, she was becoming accustomed to his demands and how he wanted her. It made him bark at her less if she just mechanically performed. It was perfect, but very stiff and tense. She knew that he was going to kill her. She was ready for the steel bear trap to snap shut against her body. It could happen at any moment. She needed to be ready, to be expecting – just so she could retain her dignity.
It didn't matter, anyway. If Ashtorath wasn't going to kill her in one of these meetings, then Lillandyr was going to kill her in just a few months. Either way, she was a dead woman. She just wasn't sure if it was the snake or the corpse that was going to destroy her first.
The end was the same.
The second session with Ashtorath was very similar to the first. Except it occurred in a proper room instead of the closet. He had her extinguish all the lamps and watched as she stripped down to her silk undergarments. His eyes were dead but still, they seemed hungry. It wasn't a lascivious desire; it was something far more dangerous and devouring. He unbuckled and unlatched his iron metal armor and wore only his black oiled leathers. Then he pushed her against the wall. It was forceful. She bruised her elbows as she instinctively tried to brace herself. Then he breathed in her scent. It was like a wolf tasting the fear of its prey. But he never sunk his teeth into her throat. He never sliced her skin from her sinewy muscles and hard bones.
His icy, waxy hands snaked through her crescent curls. Blue moonlight spilled through the lattice of the only window in the room. It felt like the bars to a gilded cage and she was a bird who couldn't sing.
The third time was a little worse. He wanted her bare, nude. She did as she was told and stripped till she was naked. Now, she thought, he will kill me.
Terrified, she did not cry. She never cried in front of her clients. He scorned her a few times and demanded that she stop pretending. He demanded that she fear him.
She did fear him, but she was brave. She would stand firm. Death was death, from his hand or Shadowglade's, and she was going to keep her head held high until the end. Everyone was going to die, Llara thought. The only control she had was how she was going to react. She was a whore, an object, a thing to be used and traded. She wasn't even a person to anyone other than herself. No man or woman cared for her or loved her. Not her Madame, Head Mistress, or her sisters. Not Ashtorath, not her clients. No one. And that was fine, that just meant that she wasn't going to give them what was not theirs to take. Her heart, her soul, and her cherished pride.
After her final gentle refusal to cry and beg and plead, he stopped asking. He just demanded that she cease her fake smiling, curtsying, and bowing like a trained monkey. He didn't want her rote script of a trained whore.
Which suited her just fine, too. She allowed her forced, practiced smile of a courtesan to fall away to the floor along with her dress.
At first, the other girls feared and admired Llara for taking on an Unquenched client. It earned her respect for a short period of time. No courtesan had ever taken to an undead before. Then again, an undead had never wanted a whore, unless it was to devour.
Then they resented her. She was making twice as much as they were and was not taking any other clients. Rumor spread about her being Ashtorath's whore very quickly. Gossip always spread in the Flesh Quarter like wildfire. No man dared to touch her after an undead creature had plunged his icy, gruesome cock inside of her. The other girls noticed no sounds came from her room. No moans of pleasure or groans of pain. Not even the dull hum of conversation. She hardly seemed to be working at all. What sort of game was this? Was she making a mockery of them?
Except, they did not dare to ask what she did, and nor did she tell. She dressed when she felt that he was done, and waited for him to leave. Then she left and headed straight for her room without a word to anyone.
One girl complained to the Head Mistress, but then was quickly reminded that Llara only had a few weeks left to live. Llara was unlucky, after all. She should not be envied.
Nina's death came and went. Time was flying by too fast, and her personal clock was running out. It was why Llara could not attach herself to anyone, not even to the people she liked. It was all too fleeting and she had trouble saying goodbye. Nina's body was wrapped in bleached linens after Lady Shadowglade slaughtered her in tribute to Baellith. She was burned in blessed, holy fire. She was once a whore, but all was purified and forgiven. Incense perfumed the air. Prayers were muttered as ashes were scattered, all under the old, full moon. She didn't cry, but she knew she would very much miss her friend.
Llara saw her future in the flames of Nina's death. That would be her very soon. Then she would be replaced by a younger, prettier girl come the next new moon.
She cared less and less what the other girls thought and whispered about her. Yes, she was "sleeping'"with an Unquenched. Though they never performed anything remotely sexual. Yes, that made her tainted by the Dead God, Nehmain. Because of Ashtorath, she was filthy and plagued, they said. Whatever she touched was then cursed and fetid. She was shunned.
She kept her chin up and her eyes heavenward. She didn't need anyone else to have hope. She said nothing when the other courtesans began to giggle and whisper behind her back. They pointed to her and muttered softly when she left the room after another one of Ashtorath's sessions.
The girls gossiped about her and she became increasingly isolated. The one woman she found any kinship with was gone. Her only refuge was Ashtorath, and truly, he was no escape at all. But he was someone else and he did not judge her. He touched her, smelled her, and sometimes tasted her. She didn't like her meetings with him, but she no longer hated or despised them, either. He never hurt her, and everyone else did.
The following day, her things were stolen. Her dresses were taken from her closet and the small trinkets and jewelry that she did own had gone missing. It was silent mockery from the other girls. All that was left was what she was wearing at the time and two of her more plain dresses with no ornamentation.
She asked for her portion of the commission from the Head Mistress to buy herself something beautiful. It hurt her that the other girls would treat her so poorly. She didn't retaliate, confront, or even acknowledge that she had been stripped of her personal possessions. She reminded herself that it didn't matter. Nothing did anymore. She had a week to live.
So there was no reason not to splurge on something that made her feel lovely. She spent an afternoon getting herself fitted into a gorgeous corset set. She purchased matching leggings and a garter belt. The corset was beige and made of whale bone. It had intricate ivory lace and was accented in tiny, silk, pink roses and pearls. It looked antique; it looked like something from a different time. Her body looked classical and curved. She was a vision, an incarnation of the female Baellith. She had decided to wear it for Ashtorath that night. If it was the last thing she ever wore, she wouldn't regret it. It was worth all the gold in the world.
Perhaps, she thought, since he would be the only man she would know until her death, she ought to enjoy herself and feel beautiful until the end.
As usual, Ashtorath was on time and stomped into the Gilded Lily. Although it was becoming more routine, he still terrified the other girls. The Head Mistress was too eager to accept his giant pile of gold and motioned to the room where Llara was waiting for him.
She was indeed anticipating him. This time, she had prepared herself more than usual. She painted her lips the same crimson color as her hair. She wove pearls and pale beads into her curls. She bound herself into her new corset that was the color of coffee with mixed cream, trimmed in white crochet. It complimented her skin and cascading scarlet locks. She wrapped her shoulders with a matching lace scarf. She lounged on the bed expectantly for him, her cheek propped in her palm with an inviting, enigmatic smile. She wasn't afraid, and that was perhaps the most striking thing.
He entered the room and stared at her. He stood rigidly and said nothing for a very long time. Since no breath came or left his mountainous frame, it was unnerving. An inanimate object made of black iron and ice merely bounded into the room and then stopped. He was frozen in place. Finally, after she felt stiff, awkward, and a little chilly, her smile dropped away. She was foolish. Color spilled into her cheeks from embarrassment. Who was she to seduce him? Nothing had changed simply because she decided to be more confident and wear something nice. Of course he wouldn't react to her efforts. He didn't care, either.
Then she was reminded that she did not dress up for him, she did it for herself. Her eyes lifted to his challengingly. Say something, she thought. I dare you.
He closed the door with surprising softness. It shut and locked with a click.
Ashtorath said nothing as he unlatched his spiked metal armor. He unclasped the complex hooks, buckles, and straps until he was stripped to his leathers.
She saw that he was once very attractive in life. His body was strong and thick, his hair a long sheet of snow. The leather clung to his every corded muscle and beastly curve. He stared at her again, hungrily. He watched her for a prolonged period of time. His cold tongue looped around his lips like a predator. She felt as if he were gnawing her piece by piece with his eyes.
Unexpectedly, he continued to undress. She had never seen his naked, raw body before. She watched him, though a part of her demanded she look away.
His body was gray and tinged in purples and blues on the joints and corners. Every piece of him was riddled in jagged, angry scars. Slashes, cuts, wounds, all were sloppily soldered together by flesh. A long scar striped his torso, from his abdomen to his pectorals, as if he were a victim of a beating. No mortal man could survive these wounds. Each one of them was fatal.
However Unquenched were already dead. When wounded, priests of the god Nehmain molded them back together. It was Necromancy. She had never seen it in person before. It was both fascinating and abhorrent.
Ashtorath circled the bed. He gazed down at her with a tipped, curious look. He waited. She knew he wanted to lie beside her, but was hesitant to move.
She didn't want him to ask, or worse, demand. So she slid aside to give him space.
He drifted down into the bed beside her with surprising ease and gracefulness. The bed sagged and groaned under his weight. His body was a giant glacier that radiated frost. Just being so close to him littered her skin in gooseflesh. He did not reach for the blankets and sheets to cover himself. He would have never gotten any warmer.
"Kiss me," he commanded as he stared at the ceiling.
Once again, she delayed. His eyes snapped to her, sharp and callous. Kiss me, the demanding look repeated.
She leaned on top of him. Her hand pushed onto his chest. Ice. Her painted red lips pressed firmly onto his mouth. She flinched when his hand cradled her head. He held her into the kiss and she felt as if she were falling into a black, bottomless well. His cracked fingertips needled into her scalp. He was kissing her with fervor, with want, with desire. His tongue was a wet icicle and it slid into her mouth.
Her brow knotted. She wanted to pull back with disgust but his grip was like a vice. Escape was impossible. He yanked her on top his body and continued to need her, to thirst for her lips. It had never been like this before. She thought, for a fleeting moment, that he wanted her as a man of flesh and blood would want her. She sank into the kiss and straddled his waist. A huge, paw-like hand snaked across her breasts, over her laced corset.
"Strip." The next one word command barked.
She reached behind and tugged the tan ribbon that held her corset together. Slowly, it began to blossom open. He had seen her naked many times before, but it had never been so intimate. She had never felt truly nude in front of his scrutiny. Why would he want her above all the other girls? The thought began to make blood pool into her ears and face.
She peeled away her corset. The frigid touch of his fingers made her pale, rosy nipples immediate peak. A swipe of her hand brushed her heavy, red hair behind her ear. She didn't know how to read his expressions. They were foreign, alien to her. Living people twitched, moaned, and smiled. He did none of these things – yet she was sure his fascination with her was more visceral. He wanted her, she was certain of it; she just didn't know how. How does one physically please a corpse?
It escalated more quickly than she wanted. He grabbed her and forced her down to his face. He kissed her and groped her with his iron hands. He wasn't warm until her body heat began to reflect off his skin, like the warmth off the sun bouncing off the moon. She tried her best to ride the waves and not fight him. She tried to pretend that he was a client, or an actual lover, to make it easier. She wanted to pretend that he was someone who felt, desired, or cared. She couldn't help but keep asking why – why was he doing this? What was he getting out of it? Could he truly even feel anything physically or emotionally? He must, or he wouldn't be going through this trouble.
But it never seemed like it. His fingertips slipped between her thighs and he remained as stoic as a tombstone. She smiled at him to reward him, and gradually ground against his hand.
"Moan for me."
She sang for him, like a trained songbird. She rolled her hips and tipped her head back in a sensual, slow, practiced dance. She knew what men liked, but then was swiftly reminded that he was no man.
Her hand traced back and she brushed the outline of his cock to tease him. Immediately, she was stopped. Like a viper, he snatched her wrist roughly and squeezed hard enough that she briefly worried her bones would crumble to dust. He glowered at her with a murderous flash of anger and vile, spitting hate.
"You're... hurting me," Llara softly whimpered.
His grip clenched just a little harder, as if he wanted to snap her hand in two. Another instinctive, small noise escaped her lips as if she were a tiny, trapped animal in the jaws of a monster. Kill me, she thought. Do it now and spare me the pain.
Ashtorath's teeth bared into a snarl. A clear line of drool dribbled down his chin. He choked her wrist just a little harder. Her hand went white, numb, and cold.
"Stop..." she begged quietly, turning her face away from him. She couldn't bear to watch her bones break.
"Never touch me there," he said as he released her wrist with a shove. She cradled her arm on the edge of the bed, now burning with a red imprint that would soon bruise. She flexed her hand – good, it still worked. Nothing was actually broken or fractured.
She didn't question him. She didn't need to. It was all implied. Blood did not circulate in his body. Nothing worked. He probably felt like he wasn't a man. It must have been a point of embarrassment and shame. Oddly, it made him seem vulnerable, it gave him a flaw. It made him seem like less of a creature and more like her. He felt weak, which meant he felt something. It relaxed her a little. He didn't want to be reminded of what he could no longer do. She nodded in silence and understanding.
Llara sat on the end of the bed near his legs, her fingers running along the pink impression his hand had left on her skin.
Slowly, he sat up and watched her. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her as if she were some exotic puzzle. "Why aren't you ever afraid of me? Why don't you ever cry?" he asked in a flat, metal voice. "Why aren't you afraid that I will kill you?"
"I am afraid of you. And I know you're going to kill me someday. And I do cry," she said as her wrist dropped between her knees. She tilted her head to look at him over her bare shoulder. "But I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing it. And if you don't kill me, then Lady Shadowglade will. So..." she said as she turned away from him to look at the moonlight through the window. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"
She could feel a sudden spike of anger rolling off him. She didn't care. Let him be angry with her, she thought bitterly. She wanted to curl into a ball and weep. Instead, she crossed her feet by the ankles and sat half-naked and listlessly slouched on the bed.
"What do you mean?" he hissed, "that Lillandyr will kill you?"
"In one week it will be the first full moon after my hundredth," she calmly explained. Then she rose from the bed and began to dress. Whatever it was they were doing, it was clearly done.
By his silence, she could tell he didn't understand. He watched her as she dressed. His gaze was just as starving and harsh as it was when she pulled her clothing off.
"Courtesans living in the traditions of Baellith are sacrificed on their one hundredth name's day." She turned to him as she closed her silk robe, stashing away her nudity. She tied the black sash tight across her waist. "Lady Shadowglade slaughters us on her altar. Then the body is given back to the courtesans, wrapped in linen, and then burned. It's always been that way," she said matter-of-factly. "It keeps the girls young. A new girl will be brought in on the black moon. Young and old." She stepped away from the bed to pull on her slippers. She borrowed them from another girl, since hers had been taken. "So what I do or don't do – feel or don't feel – cry or don't cry – it doesn't matter, Lord Sunmourne. Your hands or hers?" She shook her head and didn't finish her sentence.
"I will buy you from her." The words shot out unexpectedly with a cascade of power and impulse.
"What?" she asked with a hint of disbelieving laughter. "What?" she repeated with more seriousness.
His face seemed severe and threatening. "I will buy you from her," he repeated with malice. He looked down at her as he stood from the bed. The words slashed across her like a whip. She wanted to flinch and cower instead of thank him or ask him why.
He bent down to pluck his leathers from the ground. He began to dress himself. Without any prompt or words, she assisted him. She cinched the cords of his protective under-armor and eased him into the creaking, worn, black skin. She pulled aside his drape of long, alabaster hair. It moved like liquid mercury, shined, oiled, and beautiful.
She felt grateful. If he did follow through, it gave her a little longer than a mere week of life.
"I will buy your bond from my half-sister," he said more calmly as she continued to help dress him back into his spiked, plated armor.
"I believe you," she said smoothly. Though it was unprecedented. A part of her didn't believe him. It had never been done before. She didn't want to believe him because she didn't want to be disappointed if it didn't, or couldn't, happen.
"But you must be mine. And mine alone," he added with an apathetic grunt. He looked down at her as she snapped a buckle closed near his waist. Her eyes lifted to meet his. She wouldn't have freedom, he was explaining. She would belong to him. She understood this without asking for clarification.
"Okay," she muttered nearly inaudibly. Her eyes fell to the ground. What could she say? She couldn't refuse him. It was the closest she would have to freedom.
He lifted her to her feet by the arm. He watched her again through his dead, unfeeling eyes. Then he dived down to kiss her. He couldn't be soft, he never was. His kisses were mean and cold, and his touch was grabbing and pinching. It was always as if he were swimming blindly through a dark, black current looking for something. Warmth, affection, light. It was always just out of reach in the black tunnel of his misplaced affection.
Her hand slid around to the back of his head as she kissed him back. His hair was cool and soft, a wall of white, silky water.
He snapped his lips away, breaking the kiss. He didn't look back as he stormed out of the room. When the door was slapped open, it cracked along the hinges.
Llara saw several girls turn and stare at her as her dead client thundered from the room and out the front door.
She coyly smiled at them, and said nothing. She had another secret that she wasn't telling.