Tags: size difference, scent kink, blood kink, anal sex, multiple orgasm, egg laying, mpreg, hurt/comfort, angst, romance, touch starvation, body worship, selectively mute! tarnished, top! messmer, insecurity, topping from the bottom, Messmer POV, possessive behavior, miscommunication, resolved sexual tension, fluff, face fucking, family
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chapter 4
In the depths of his grief, he seals his prayer room, unable to look upon his mother’s visage without also being reminded of his abandonment.
He seals his room, as well, and it remains sealed for days afterwards, with it only opening so that Eyrie may leave to the lower levels of his Keep and return with enough sustenance to last until the next time that he is forced to open it once more.
He hardly eats. Hardly sleeps.
Mostly, he sits on his throne, entirely uncomfortable, and stares at the double doors.
Or the floor.
It pains him to even think, so he dulls his mind. He is less a man, and now more of a living, breathing, statue. His hair is in tangles, his helmet long since discarded somewhere, although he cannot remember where. His body aches, feeling like it was falling apart, and the Abyssal Serpent readily makes use of the opportunity, spreading its coldness through his veins, leaving him clutching his cloak around him, fangs chattering, and his ashen skin even paler.
Time slips away from him. It could be hours, days—a century, since he sat himself atop his throne, and when his mind quakes with a headache, the pain so sharp it makes him hiss and bring a hand to his face, he finds that his hands are clammy.
Shaky.
His nails are jagged and uneven from digging into the armrests of his throne. He hadn’t even remembered doing it, but the blood pooling in his nail beds and the deep claw marks in the wood of his throne is proof enough. What an unstable, pitiful creature he was. To think that once, he had been feared.
He feels small.
Unimportant in the way that dust motes felt in the presence of the sun.
Was he so easily forgotten? So easily abandoned? Was it the affliction he was born with that caused his mother to treat him so, or was he always destined to be alone? Always fated to have nothing in the end, after giving so much.
He brings his trembling hands to his face, breathing hard.
Why must his emotions overwhelm him? Always, he has felt that the feelings within him were too large to be contained—too volatile. A tempest with no calm on the horizon. Often, he has been a slave to his emotions; his fury held in his left hand, and his misery in the right, and with those misshapen, lonely hands, he will clasp them together in a prayer that will go unheard, as it has always been unheard, all this time.
He chokes on a breath, curling inward on himself.
Warm, gentle hands pry his hands from his face. When he opens his eye and slowly lifts his face, he sees Eyrie, their handsome face despoiled with the frown on their lips. They take both of his hands into his and tug in askance, so he stands, begrudgingly, and morosely follows where they lead him: the washroom, the stone tub already filled to the brim and filled with an assortment of flowers, looking freshly picked.
A few sticks of incense have been lit and the smoke wafts into the air hypnotically.
His consort removes his cloak, his armor, and brings him over to the steps, using themselves as an anchor for him to balance his unsteady feet as he slips into the waters. He shivers when he submerges fully, his body far colder than he’d realized, and the warm water soothes his aching muscles. The humidity relieves his dry, flaking skin, and the water feels slick with the oils that were added.
When he closes his eye, mouth parting the slightest, his senses heighten and focus on the bouquet of mixing aromas: the blood from his broken nails and cracked skin, the wafting smoke that peppers the air.
Incense and iron.
A strange pairing, yet he discovers that he enjoys it deeply.
Very much like the man settling to sit just behind him.
Eyrie sits on their folded legs, thighs spread apart and bracketing where his head leans against the rim of the tub. He doesn’t have the strength to look them in the eyes. Perhaps he is ashamed of the state he is in.
How weak spirited and broken he must appear.
He has not the strength to do anything but sit there, soaking, but his consort takes it upon themselves to begin washing his hair, not even asking him to slip his head underneath the water to fully soak it. They cup their hands together and gather water to pour it over his head. Once his hair is wet enough, they open a few jars, more scents joining the washroom, and he feels their slicked fingers slip into his hair, beginning to massage the roots.
They are careful as they work the sweat and grime from his scalp, their blunt fingernails scratching soothingly, and he relaxes against the tub, head leaning more against the rim now, even if its uncomfortable. They notice the slightest of his discomforts, and Eyrie removes their hands from his hair to settle his head atop their lap, uncaring of how their pants become soaked. They get back to work seamlessly, now working their fingers through each section to untangle the many knots.
There isn’t even a hint of pain. They take their time, in no rush at all, given the way they start to hum a tune under their breath. Or maybe they start to hum because they notice his shoulders shaking again, and his eye becoming glassy with tears. Eyrie folds in the middle to kiss his forehead, before pressing their own against it.
It steadies him in a way that no prayer ever has.
Done washing his hair, they get up and strip naked quickly, joining him in the bath despite being perfectly clean themselves. They work up the cloth in their hands until it is sudsy before getting started on washing the rest of his neglected body. By the time they’ve finished, he can barely keep his eye open, sleep suddenly sinking its hooks into him.
With some coaxing, he is convinced to leave the tub, and Eyrie allows him to lean his substantial weight against them while they dry him off. They don’t shake from the exertion, they support him effortlessly, and he is reminded again that while they were smaller, within them was a strength that had rivaled the very messengers of the gods.
Why hadn’t they used their full strength when they had first met? Why had they allowed him to best them over and over, their deaths more brutal than the last?
It’s what he thinks about as they finish drying his naked body and help him into one of his robes. They carelessly dry themselves off afterwards and slip a robe on too, before guiding him by the hand to the nest, where he notices that food and water have already been brought over. He lays near the eggs, half seated up, and Eyrie moves some of the pillows to better support his neck and back, before they bring a few things closer. With food in hand, they take a seat on his lap, and although he has no appetite, he eats whatever they bring to his lips.
Eyrie’s shoulders relax the slightest, relieved that he is being agreeable. His attention sharpens when they pull a dagger from somewhere and glide the blade across their palm, coaxing out blood, before they lean forward and cup their hand against his mouth.
Their blood entices him immediately, and with a wavering inhale, he reaches up and presses their hand closer to his face, mouth opening so he can suck and lap his tongue at the wound.
He releases their hand after a minute, panting, and his serpents flick their tongues against the remaining blood on their palm. He is coaxed into laying down on his side, and he falls asleep with their arms around his head, cradling his face to his chest as he slips into sweet oblivion, helped along by the lullaby of their beating heat.
When morning comes, his spirit does not feel as weighty as it once had.
He would be mourning his mother’s absence for quite some time, but for now, at the very least, he did not feel shackled by his grief. It was difficult to feel entirely miserable when he notices as soon as he awakes that Eyrie had awoken before him, and had presumably been up for hours now, content to run their fingers through his hair.
They are looking at him with quiet, unmistakable affection.
Noticing him awake at last, their lips curl at the corners the slightest, and they lean forward and press their lips to his.
No matter what he faced that day, he could do it, if they remained at his side.
He eventually musters up the energy to dress in his full regalia, spear in hand, and he unseals his chambers to at last see whom, if any, of his men still lingered within the Shadow Keep. He opens the double doors to his chambers and takes a singular step, before noticing something shocking, indeed.
The entryway to his chambers was littered with many small tables, all brought from the lower levels, and they are adorned, practically spilling over with gifts of every kind—flowers, delicacies, bottles of wine, and four dolls made of straw and linen, all given red hair.
All eight of his elite knights have been waiting for his appearance, and their faces lift from where they all kneel upon the stone, where they have presumably waited for hours, if not days, as he grieved.
“Thou hath been released from thine oath. Yet, thee remain: for what purpose? And what is the meaning of these gifts?” He asks.
“Well wishes for thy brood’s arrival, milord.” Speaks one of them. “We most humbly request a new oath; to serve thee, and thine consort, as well as protecting thy lineage.”
His eye widens, and he blinks rapidly.
“Queen Marika hath abandoned us. The arduous, bloody war we have waged hath been for naught.” He explains.
None of his knights move a muscle.
“Thou could ascertain purpose elsewhere, under a Lord who is awash in Grace, yet still, thy wish to serve under my banner?” He continues.
“It would bring us much honor to remain in thine service, milord.” Another says.
He is quiet as he stands there for a long, long, time.
“Milord?” One of his knights speaks up, voice soft with concern.
“…So be it.” He says, voice wavering, tightening his grip on his spear. He stands at full height, back straight, and gestures for them to all rise. “I hereby reinstate thine oath. Thy will remain here, in service of the Shadow Keep, and its lineage. Put any that dare to stand in our path to the spear, my stalwart knights.” And he punctuates it with a stamp of his spear, the tip bursting with flame.
“Verily, milord. Our utmost gratitude.” One says, and all eight rise to their feet after bowing reverently.
He walks with his knights to the lower levels of his Keep, and they inform him that while they themselves remain, along with the menial servants, that his foot soldiers have left, dispersed like sand in the wind. He isn’t upset—he was expecting the Shadow Keep to be entirely emptied after his dismissal. The fact that all his elite knights remain, along with his lady blacksmith and a few others, is far more than he would have ever anticipated.
He is curious however, if one remained: his commander, Gaius, who has long since sequestered themselves within the depths of the Church District. Once, he called him a brother-in-arms, feeling kinship because of their shared afflictions from birth, his being a vessel of the Abyssal Serpent, and theirs being their unmoving legs, requiring them to remain forever on a steed of some sort, although they favored the massive boar that he himself saw them raise from a mere piglet.
It has been a long, long while since he has directly spoken with them.
A conflict arose in the belief on whether his mother would return.
He is ashamed to see that their prediction was entirely correct, and that he had cast aside their camaraderie for nothing. Still, they decided to remain and lead his men. Their loyalties towards Marika had long since dried up, but the bond they shared remained, although he was uncertain as to why.
Perhaps that is why when he is finished speaking with his knights, he finds himself traveling through the Church District and wandering towards the very back of his Keep.
There was another, once upon a time, that he had also considered a brother, but unlike Gaius, they had turned on him. Despite the sting of their betrayal, he could not bear to have their death sullied by an ill-fitting grave. In his despair, he had made sure that Knight Huw was given a proper, honorable place to rest eternally. He’d only visited their tomb once, not ever again having the heart to look upon it and stir up old memories.
He does not want the same fate for Gaius, who yet remained. Surely, his knights have spoken to them already about the newest discoveries, but it felt improper to assume such, and so he continues through the Keep until he reaches the clearing that he knows they reside still.
The weather is calm.
Serene.
It is a stark contrast to the whirling, anxious feelings within him.
His presence is noticed immediately. From under the shade of a few trees, he sees Gaius seated upon the grass, leaning against their boar. Their helmet lifts upon him drawing nearer, and they raise a gauntlet to steady it upon their boar to at least force themselves into a more upright position, but he lifts a hand, dismissing the gesture, and Gaius relaxes once more.
It has been quite some time but taking a seat on the grass next to them, leaning his back against their boar, still felt natural.
“…Thou possess the magic to foretell the future, it seemeth, for thy estimations upon this crusade have proven correct after all these years.” He speaks quietly, not looking at them, instead watching the blades of grass ripple in the calm breeze. “My mother will never return. Never again will I look upon her face, nor will I feel her warmth.”
Gaius is quiet as he speaks, not even moving a muscle, and it makes his nerves frazzled.
“I have called off her crusade.” He admits after some time, face lowering. “Much, have we lost in this war, and much, we remain to lose, if we continue this folly. I will play no part in it. I do not have the heart to lose what I still have within my grasp. I come to thee, now, to ask…” And he falters, his hand curling into a fist in the grass. “I ask to know thine thoughts on the matter. Wilt thou remain here, as commander of a purposeless army, or will the winds carry thee off to greater heights? No longer are you shackled to this poor, abandoned son.”
“…Tis a shock, certainly.” Gaius speaks at last, voice a deep rumble. “When I envisioned the day that this would happen, I expected to find thee utterly miserable. Distraught, and inconsolable. Yet, thine spirit smolders within. Tell me, what is the source of thine strength, still?”
His face reddens immediately.
“I have found someone.”
“An even greater shock.” They hum, amused. “The knights mentioned a consort. And, to my disbelief, a brood.”
“Yes…”
“And thy consort and brood remain here, in the Keep?”
He nods.
“That alone should make my answer clear, yes? I will remain beside thee to protect the Keep, as well as thine beloved. May thine lineage prosper. May they bare none of the afflictions we were born with.”
He sucks in a breath, eye widening, and turns towards them.
He was so certain that they would leave—that they would throw the very words he so furiously said to them so long ago back in his face.
“Thy were always prone to weeping.” Gaius tuts, reaching over to curl a gauntlet around his shoulder. His serpents refamiliarize themselves with their scent.
“I am not weeping.” He seethes, turning his face away, and they begin to laugh richly.
He sighs, relaxing more against their steed.
“I have missed thine voice. Thy steady resolve.” He admits. “Forgive my transgressions. My misguided fury.”
“An appropriate apology would be bringing thine consort for introductions so that I may swear allegiance, or wouldst thou prefer I ride my steed through the Keep and trek mud all over the finery?” Gaius returns.
“I will bring them at once.” He says, standing up quickly in his eagerness, and he forgets his tall frame and his helmet knocks into a tree branch, making it crooked. He huffs as Gaius laughs once more as he straightens it.
He returns to his chambers, and Eyrie notices him at once, walking over from their seat upon his throne. He’d left the doors open behind him, and they notice the many tables with gifts outside. He takes them by the hand at once, leading them out of their shared chambers, before sealing the entry.
They look up at him, curious.
“…I wish for thee to meet someone.” He tells them shyly. “My remaining brother-in-arms, as well as the commander of my men.”
Eyrie smiles, nodding agreeably.
“It is a far walk. Wouldst thou allow me to carry thee?” He asks.
They nod once more, but before they allow themselves to be lifted into his arms, they grab a few bottles of wine off the table, as well as three goblets. He wraps one of his serpents around them to keep the bottles secured as he picks them up. Once they are settled safely in his arms, he clears the entryway leading to his chambers and exits to the bridge leading up to it. Without any effort, he jumps, landing on a rooftop, and Eyrie’s expression brightens, thrilled to feel the wind against their face and excited at the precarious leaps he so confidently makes.
They are laughing in their special way as he continues racing atop the Shadow Keep. When he eventually lands back on the grass at the entrance of the Church District, they are still hiccupping, their dimples on fully display.
He will have to remember to do this more often, seeing as how it brought them so much joy.
Near to the clearing where Gaius resides, he sets them down and uncoils the serpent he kept around their arms, although his serpents tend to hover around Eyrie anyways, as the two of them walk out of the hallway and outside.
Gaius remains under the shade of the trees, but they have moved to sit atop their steed, which now stands at attention as they approach.
“Beloved, this is Gaius—he hath been at my side for almost as long as my serpents. A considerable feat, considering the many trials and tribulations we hath faced.” He explains.
Eyrie sets the bottles of wine and goblets to the grass, before straightening and looking upon his commander, their purple eyes sparkling, and their smile bright as they bring an arm to their waist and neatly bend in the middle, dipping their head in a bow respectfully.
To his delight, Gaius, with the smallest of gestures, directs their steed into lowering, returning his consort’s gesture.
The three of them reside in the clearing for hours, drinking wine as Gaius speaks of some of their shared exploits, and while they and his consort are well acquainted with alcohol, he quickly finds himself losing his faculties after a measly two servings, his face flushed, and his emotions sensitive. He does not want to look weak, so he continues to drink, despite his better judgement.
He ends up flat on his back, laying in an undignified manner as he stares up at the stars, one arm slung over his forehead.
Gaius pauses their speaking, and there is rustling in the grass as Eyrie sets their goblet aside and crawls over to him, their face hovering over his. They brush some of the hair out of his face, looking mildly concerned, but also amused.
“Milord hath always been sensitive to wine.” Gaius remarks, laughing under their breath, and he weakly raises his head to scowl at them, but his head spins, and he makes a weak sound before laying back down. “Come now, it is disgraceful to force thine consort to carry thee back to thine chambers. Find thy strength once more, I beseech thee.”
“Thy have always known the exact string of words to irritate me.”
“A high compliment, milord.”
He hisses weakly. His serpents are in as much of a drunken stupor as he, and when they try to extend out towards Eyrie’s face to rub their muzzles against their cheek, they do so sloppily, missing the mark and bumping into their eye instead.
Eyrie helps him into sitting up, his face lolling to the side, and he leans his full weight against them. He has no idea how he is going to carry them back to their chambers.
His consort is full of surprises.
After bowing their head towards Gaius once more in farewell, they take both of his hands into their own, and their eyes close, before yellow light engulfs the two of them. He feels the oddest sensation—like his spirit being rearranged piece by piece and then settled once more.
When he opens his eyes, he is in front of his chambers.
The revelation of that is dizzying enough to make him swoon, and he falls against Eyrie, who catches him despite his weight, and they slip an arm around his hips, encouraging him to lean as much as he needs to against their smaller form. With some trouble, he unseals his chambers, and they lead him inside towards the nest, doing him the favor of removing his cloak, helmet and grieves, before bringing him some water, which they feed to him delicately.
He pulls Eyrie to his chest after they set the water aside and he holds them tightly, even wrapping his serpents around them possessively.
“My sun and stars…” He sighs, nuzzling his face into the crown of their hair and taking a deep inhale. He moans, unable to help himself, and opens his mouth and drags his forked tongue across the curve of their neck. Their skin tasted like sweat and sunshine. He could take a bite and taste their delectable blood, but he craves something else. He uncoils his serpents and his arms from around their waist and settles them into sitting atop his chest, their thighs bracketing his face. He rubs his cheek against their inner thigh, nosing at it, and he can smell their musk now, and he sighs, mouth parted.
They move against him, but he drunkenly realizes that it is only so that they can stand up briefly, their feet tucked in the gaps of his arms, as they roll their tunic off, before slipping off their leather trousers and tossing them aside. They take a seat back gently on his chest, closer now to his face, but still not as close as he desires. He drags them closer until they are practically seated upon his face, their hardening cock nudging against his chin.
He presses many desperate kisses to their thighs, lightly nipping at the muscle with his fangs, before he curls his tongue around their cock and squeezes. Eyrie sighs prettily, lowering a hand to pet his hair, and he shivers, coaxing his tongue up and down their shaft, so pleased to be overwhelmed by their scent. All that he can see, smell, and taste, is Eyrie. Even still, he is greedy, and he uncoils his tongue from around them and opens his mouth to take them. He is mindful of his fangs, but they still graze them the slightest due to their length, but the minute pricks of pain make Eyrie’s hips stutter, forcing their cock deeper into his mouth and he flicks his eye up to look at them, pleased.
They fuck his mouth so lovingly, giving him every inch that he so desperately wants, and when they are fully sheathed in his throat, he swallows hard, wanting to take them even deeper. He is being noisy, he realizes, moaning constantly and panting like he was in the throes of a fever, yet he cannot muster up the energy to feel ashamed. When their hand curls into his hair, pulling firmly as they pick up the pace and thrust into his mouth, his legs shake, toes curling, and he moans so loud he thinks he hears it reverberate off the walls of his chambers.
They finish in his mouth and he drinks their seed greedily, feeling its warmth slip down his throat and into his belly, where he deliriously wishes suddenly that it would take root. The thought of being filled by them makes his hips buck, and he finds himself falling apart suddenly as they remain in his mouth.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep afterwards. It is less that he falls asleep, and more that he is ensnared by it.
He is dull-witted and groggy when he awakes, hair a mess as he sits up, and Eyrie is awake already, seated a little away from him so that they can lay against some pillows with their legs bunched up to be used as a table. They have their journal out, and their piece of charcoal, but upon noticing him awake, they close it and set both aside.
He is curious as to what they had been doing, but his mind feels like it’s being squeezed into a vise, and his mouth feels tacky, his throat dry. Eyrie is kind, and helps him through his sickness, and even after it takes hours for him to feel well enough to dress himself and begin walking around.
Unfortunately, as his brain becomes alert, he starts to remember things from the previous night. Namely, how shameless he had acted. He was far too shy to initiate displays of affection first, yet he had all but begged for them to use his mouth. Even worse still, he had finished from that alone, so enthralled with the feeling of their cock bruising his lips and slipping down his throat.
His face turns scarlet and he slaps both of his hands to his face, flustered.
Eyrie notices him just standing near his throne, audibly cursing himself, and they walk over and tug his hands down, forcing him to look at them. He wonders if they are going to reprimand him for acting so lewdly, but to his shock they gesture for him to lean down a fair bit. He acquiesces, and they release his hands, cupping his face now with one, and slipping the other into his hair. Without warning, they grip a handful into a fist and his breath stutters, and he falls completely to his knees, biting back a moan.
When he dares open his eye, Eyrie is watching him with significant heat in their eyes. They bite their bottom lip hard enough that blood wells from the wound, before leaning down and kissing him sweetly, humming quietly. He kisses them back and laps at the wound.
It is their first kiss of the morning, and it leaves him reeling and gasping for air. They separate from him, smiling wryly now, and they release his hair, brushing it neatly for him.
With a wink, they walk away from him, leaving the chambers to take their daily trek through the Keep.
He is more than content to remain in their shared chambers and watch over the eggs. He lazes about in his nest for a few hours, falling asleep briefly a few times, but at some point he awakes again, because he feels a great many of his knights approaching his chambers at a startling pace.
He stands up at once, throwing his armor on and grabbing his spear, and exits his chambers.
“Milord, an interloper hath attempted to sneak within the Keep, but thine consort hath already subdued the assailant.” One of his knights informs him.
“From where didst thou see the interloper approach?”
“The main gates, milord. It was a grave error on our part to leave the arena with no beast or group of knights to secure it. Commander Gaius hath already offered to move from the Church District to remain at the Shadow Keep’s entrance, to prevent such a blunder from repeating. Our sincerest apologies.”
“The assailant hath already been taken care of. No harm hath come this time, but we must remain vigilant. Tell me, what did this intruder look like?” He asks.
All his knights, and then himself turn towards the hallway leading up to his chambers. He feels Eyrie approaching, and in a moment, they reveal themselves, their expression furious as they drag a corpse alongside them, holding it by the scruff of their robes.
It is a Hornsent, their peculiar mask the tell-tale giveaway.
His war may have officially ended, but his enemies would remain, it seemed.
Eyrie tosses the corpse to the cobbled stone, and at the same time the very winds pick up, the skies darkening with their foul mood. They say nothing as they walk past his knights, and him, and he unseals the doors for them at once so that they can stalk inside and check the eggs. Assured that no harm had come to them, he watches as his consort steps out of the nest and disappears down the hall of their chambers.
He thinks he hears the door to the balcony open and close.
Frowning, he turns back towards his knights.
“Impale this interloper’s corpse and have it on display at the main gates to remind our enemies that although the war has been called off, we will give them no quarter.” He informs them, and they leave at once to do so.
He would like the honor of impaling the Hornsent himself, but he is more concerned with consoling his beloved. He finds them at once, as expected on the balcony, their blood-stained hands gripping the railing with enough force to make them shake.
He moves to quietly stand at their left, his singular eye glancing at their face.
Their expression is as stormy as the clouds overhead, and it is like the moment their scowl deepens, there is a sudden rumbling of thunder.
“…All is well, Eyrie.” He assures them, daring to speak at last after a few minutes of silently watching them. “Gaius will protect the main gates from now on, and I have ordered two of my knights to guard the entryway to our chambers. Not even a shadow will be able to sneak in. No harm will come to our brood.”
They do not seem alleviated by his words. The thunder continues to rumble, and Eyrie’s eyes clench shut tightly, before they lean against the railing to cover their face with their hands, their shoulders now shaking too. That black, ominous fire is beginning to ripple around their form, as if they were catching fire.
Their anger, while rare, seemed limitless once aroused.
“Beloved.” He attempts weakly, starting to reach out despite the flames, and once his fingertips brush against it, he hisses, but continues to reach out to them.
The sound of his pain snaps Eyrie out of their fury.
The flames leave at once, and they drop the hand from their face, turning to look at him with alarmed eyes.
They look at his outstretched hand, noticing the burns on his fingers, and their eyebrows furrow together, their mouth opening in horror. They take his hand in both of theirs, kissing each fingertip, their eyes becoming wet.
Rain begins to fall, crashing all at once upon the Shadow Keep, and there is no shade on his balcony, or canopy to protect the two of them from the downpour, but he does not mind in the slightest lifting his cloak with his free hand and holding it over his consort’s form to shield them as he guides them back inside.
They are quick to grab their flask, and while they could simply hand it to him so he can take a sip, they insist on having him sit in the nest so that they can cradle his chin while they gently tip the flask against his lips.
He does not understand how they can drink this—it is thick and cloying, like honey, but there is a tartness to it that makes his jaw tingle. He supposes if it is a matter of life and death, one would not care about the taste or texture.
Even after the burns have magically healed, they continue to pay attention to his hand. They flip it over, palm up, and with a sullen, ashamed expression, they write over and over onto his skin: ‘Sorry’.
He shushes them, despite them not physically talking, and pulls them into his lap, their back against his chest, and rests his chin atop their head while he slips his arms around their waist in an embrace.
“All is well.” He tells them once more, and this time, the words seem to reach them. Little by little, their body unclenches, their muscles relaxing, and they press more of their weight against him. When his serpents move to inspect them, Eyrie begins to pet them each, gliding their palm across their scales. He hums, enjoying the shared feeling.
The sound of the rain is soothing. Despite sitting upright, he thinks that he could easily fall asleep like this. Eyrie was so warm, after all. He wonders if they were always this warm, or if the black fire within them had a hand in the matter. Either way, he feels his focus slowly fading away. He is still tired from the drinks the night before, and with the added stress from the Hornsent from earlier, he wants nothing more than to sleep the rest of the day away.
But he hears something.
Something quiet. It is like a delicate exterior being chipped away under a pick.
Eyrie gasps sharply, wiggling out of his hold, and he knows now that something is up. He opens his eye and follows where they are moving—towards the tier of the nest with the eggs, which he notices that all four of them are moving slightly.
The eggs are hatching, he realizes dully, so stunned that he doesn’t move. He just sits there, wide-eyed. After a minute his senses return to him and he jolts, as if electrocuted, and crawls over to Eyrie’s side and watches with bated breath as the eggs continue to move about.
Two of the red and black eggs are steadily cracking apart second by second in synchronization. The larger of the two becomes still for a second before the top half of the shell suddenly pops off entirely, two little humanoid hands reaching out. They are brown, the nails on the small fingers clawed.
He and Eyrie peek into the egg and discover their first child: a hybrid, the top half humanoid, the bottom serpentine. Where a pair of legs would be is instead a tail, the color a deep red, with white spots freckling it here and there. The meagre hair littering their scalp is the exact shade of his own. He can tell from how the tail is thinner, and tapers at the end, that the first to hatch is a girl.
He stares down at his tiny daughter. She wriggles in the remnants of the egg, eyes closed, and makes a lot of noise, lively in a way that relieves him deeply. He is frightened to reach out and touch her. His hands are so large in comparison, and his nails are sharp. Eyrie moves closer and gently slips both of their hands into the egg, scooping up the babe, and holds her up for him to see better.
She squirms and cries, fussy, and her little hands reach out for something.
It takes an encouraging smile from Eyrie, but after a few seconds he musters up the courage to reach out with a singular finger. One of her hands finds it immediately, latching onto it, and like magic, she becomes calm.
His vision becomes misty, and his breath hitches in his throat.
When she lets go of his finger, Eyrie brings their daughter towards their face, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before laying her gently onto a pillow and swaddling her with some of the sheets. The next egg finishes hatching, but it does so weakly in comparison to their daughter, the process taking far longer for them to break free. It is another hybrid—the top humanoid, the bottom serpentine, but it is a boy, and his skin is paler even than his, their hair black as night. Their tail is white, and there is an opalescent sheen to their scales.
His son makes not a sound as they are cradled in Eyrie’s hands. They are content to sleep after exhausting so much effort. They are set beside their sister, who notices their presence at once and seems to subconsciously turn towards them, one of her hands reaching out.
He starts to weep, unable to help himself, and once Eyrie has their son comfortable, they slip a hand behind his head and guide his face to theirs, pressing their foreheads together. They kiss the bridge of his nose, then the tip, before at last bringing their lips to his.
There is a loud squeak. Both of them whip their faces towards the two remaining eggs, and he sees that the last red and black egg has fully hatched, and has even managed to crawl out a little, their head peeking out, but eyes still closed.
It is a man-serpent, peach in color, with maroon spots and stripes all over their scales. His second son begins to squeak again, their forked tongue peeking out past their lips. When Eyrie picks them up, they cling to their fingers and the warmth, tongue flicking out repeatedly. Rather guiltily, he thinks that his consort might regard them differently, as they were less human than their first two children, but the softness in Eyrie’s eyes does not falter upon looking at the man-serpent. They kiss the top of their head just as they did with the others, before settling them onto another pillow.
It is strange that the black egg is hatching as well, given it was the last to be laid, but it seems to be having a difficult time breaking free. Barely any of the shell has been broken after all this time, and when the movement stops, and things become quiet, he starts getting nervous. He begins to pick away at the shell himself, mindful of his nails, or using too much pressure. It takes a while, because this egg was the largest, but once he makes a significant gap at the top, he peers inside the damp innards.
His heart drops into his stomach.
A black serpent is coiled within, the end of the tail wide with a sudden taper, so he knows that this is another son. But they are not moving. He does not see any part of them moving, not even to breathe. He begins to frantically pick off the rest of the top half of the egg, hoping that perhaps fresh air, or the low candlelight will rouse them into moving.
Or making a sound, at the very least.
Eyrie moves closer, now peering inside, and they grow still when they notice the lack of movement as well.
For a terrible, terrible moment, he thinks that his last son has died upon taking their very first breath, perhaps because he’d been initially wary of it, that alone somehow sealing their fate, and he begins to hate himself, starting to weep again for causing them pain.
He folds in half, face buried into the sheets as his crying becomes louder.
“Beloved.” Eyrie says firmly, and loudly enough that the rain outside does not drown out their words.
Sniffling, he lifts his face and looks at them.
The black serpent is held within their hands. His son is moving now, although very weakly. Their muzzle rubs against Eyrie’s palm, the tip of their tail now twitching.
He gasps, sitting up now, and moves his face closer to their hands so he can inspect them closer.
His son’s movement is no trick of the light—they were alive.
He is so relieved.
Eyrie lays them down carefully with the rest of the children and he moves over to them so that the two of them can just stare at their sleeping forms. His consort leans against him, smiling brightly, the brightest he’s perhaps ever seen, and he slips an arm around their waist and pulls them closer.
The rain outside quiets.
Hours later, when their children awake, and become fussy because they are hungry, Eyrie looks down at their chest and their notable lack of breasts, before giving him a dumbfounded look.
“There is no need for a wet nurse. I was fed blood exclusively in my infancy.” He explains, and they visibly relax.
Eyrie pricks their finger and feeds their daughter first, letting her have her fill. She has a voracious appetite, and after the wound dries up, she begins to fuss immediately, and Eyrie has to cut their finger again to satisfy her. Once she settles down, they pick up their other hybrid, their black haired son, and they feed quietly, only eating half as much as their sibling before growing tired again.
He feeds the rest of their sons, cutting the crook of his finger, instead of the tip, because he does not want them to harm themselves with his nails by accident. The man-serpent shares the same appetite as their sister but is a lot noisier about feeding. He finds it endearing; it was like they were reassuring him that they were healthy.
His last son to hatch, the black serpent, eats the least, to his disappointment.
He tries to coax them into taking more of his blood, but they seem tired more than anything. Even Eyrie’s far more delicious blood doesn’t rouse any further appetite. Disheartened, he lays his son back down.
It is not until a few days have passed, and his children’s health are stable, that he at last allows visitors. Gaius is the first to be brought to his chambers, brought there by the same strange magic Eyrie had used to teleport him, which saved his brother-in-arms the problem of navigating their boar through the Keep, but their dysfunctional legs still proved a challenge. He has no problem lifting their massive form and bringing them over to the nest, where he helps them take a seat.
“Hath a name been decided for any of thy brood?” Gaius asks, removing their clunky gauntlets and revealing their silver-toned hands, which were calloused and marred with many scars. He gently places his daughter into their awaiting hands, and Gaius’ helmet lowers, even crooking to the side as if looking upon her with deep fascination. His daughter rolls around, lively, and even tries to coil her chunky red tail around their thumb, much to their amusement.
Her eyes were the first to open among their children, and he was struck by the shade of green of her eyes—they were exactly like his serpent’s eyes, and his own eyes, once, before his mother had plucked them to seal away the Abyssal Serpent.
Eyrie moves away from him to grab their satchel, taking their journal out and tearing out a page, before handing it over to him.
He sees a startling number of names written down, some crossed out, some written repeatedly with the spelling varied.
He sets the paper down and looks at Eyrie, and they seem sheepish.
He is overwhelmed by the love he feels for them.
“Judging by the look in thine eyes, a fifth child should be soon on the horizon.” Gaius says, and his jaw drops, scandalized, and he blushes.
“Do not speak of such things in the presence of my daughter!” He hisses, but Eyrie is hiding their mouth with the back of their hand and their shoulders are shaking in a telling way.
He huffs and returns his attention to the paper they’d handed him while Eyrie continues introducing their children.
Gaius’ disposition saddens a little when they realize that his black-haired son’s eyes, which were purple, were milky and unseeing. They do not hold him for long, because his daughter is bonded with them, and seems very protective, always making a lot of noise when she is away from her brother for long.
Eyrie settles the man-serpent into Gaius’ enormous hands next, and his son immediately starts biting at their fingers, not even hungry, but simply fiery in temper. They, and their sister, share the green shade that his eyes once were.
“Feisty young lad.” Gaius remarks, pleased. “He is sure to make a capable warrior if his spirit remains as such.”
And finally, his last son is set into their palm, the black serpent asleep, until feeling a much cooler palm than their parents. Slowly, and very sleepily, his son cracks their eyes open, revealing the purple that was mirrored in Eyrie’s gaze. Their tongue flicks out and takes in Gaius’ scent, the color of it black as well.
He’d been expecting their eyes to be red, upon first opening, much like the Abyssal Serpent, but he is far more pleased at this outcome instead.
After days of deliberation, the two of them eventually come to a decision on names. Their daughter is Nia, his black-haired son and second hybrid, Erasmus, his third son, the man-serpent is Aedan, and the black serpent, his last, and unfortunately sickly son, is Mesha.
His children grow rapidly in size as the weeks pass, and they become well acquainted with not only Gaius, but his knights as well, who visit often with more gifts, all of which his children adore. Once they become big enough to move around on their own, problems arise, as Erasmus has trouble navigating things because of their blindness, and they need to either rely on their sister, Nia, who makes enough noise that they can follow her, or they are simply carried in his or Eyrie’s arms.
Mesha spends most of their time sleeping, only active a few hours of the day, and his son is content to bask in the sun, wrapped around Eyrie’s shoulders like a necklace, growing weightier each day, as their need for blood remained, while their siblings had begun to incorporate solid foods into their diet.
They may only feed strictly on blood for the entirety of their life. He isn’t sure yet, as the rate at which his children would mature, as well as their sizes, were all up in the air, given they were hybrids.
Aedan turns out to be a handful. The man-serpent once able to walk, quickly learns to run, and they spend all day running circles around his chambers, knocking things over and getting into what they shouldn’t, their energy endless, compared to Mesha and Erasmus. It becomes even more difficult when they learn that like all other man-serpents, they can stretch out their neck, and they do so only to take things that they shouldn’t have, namely still burning candle sticks and glass jars filled with shiny things.
Nia and Aedan often play fight, his daughter a size or two bigger than them, and her hair is longer now, settling just below her ears, and it is wavy and prone to being frazzled, much like his. Her skin, while not as dark as Eyrie’s, has freckles all over her shoulders and back. She and Erasmus share similar faces, both being heart-shaped, with large, beguiling eyes, with long lashes, the color and clarity differentiating, but even their noses were similarly shaped. It was as if they were twins, despite being in two separate eggs.
Perhaps the fact that both their eggs had started hatching at the same time held significance.
Erasmus has a solemn, sleepy demeanor, but they are very affectionate, always reaching for hands to hold, always slinking towards Eyrie, or himself, to either wrap their pale arms around a leg, or gesturing to be held. He has started wearing little bells on his cloak, to help his son locate him, and Eyrie starts wearing thick, golden bracelets that make noise whenever they moved the slightest.
Often, as he watches the children sleeping, he struggles to believe that any of this is real.
He’d always thought that at the end of things, he would be alone.
Hated.
Yet, here he was, surrounded by many that loved him.
Sometimes he is so overwhelmed by his own happiness that all he can do is cry.
Eyrie is wonderful with the children, always so attentive and affectionate. They do everything in their power to keep them happy; spoiling them rotten with sweets and gifts from outside of the Shadow Keep. They often put on performances, sometimes juggling several torches in their hands while they danced, and other times doing pretend fights with their mimic-tear, using wooden weapons exclusively, and they even dress up, wearing a Divine Beast head they acquired from somewhere to play the role as the ‘loser’, and they always make sure to make its death as silly as possible.
He is seated on his throne for another such occasion, the children on his lap, save for Mesha, who is looped around his neck, and he cannot help but throw his head back and laugh along with them as Eyrie rolls around the floor, kicking their feet in pretend agony as their mimic-tear pokes them with a wooden sword half-heartedly.
Things are perfect.
For a time.
At night, when the children are sound asleep, Eyrie often awakes to slip out of the nest and go to the balcony, where they gaze in the direction of Rauh, where he himself feels power growing. He’s caught them on the balcony multiple times now, but it is now, as he lingers in the doorway, not yet announcing his presence, that he notices something different.
The hands that grip the railing are engulfed in the black flame that they held within their core, but what startles him is the fact that he can hear them speaking. Eyrie is whispering fervently under their breath, as if in a desperate prayer, but when he sharpens his hearing, he notices at once that they are cursing; damning something, although he is unsure of what or whom.
Perhaps the Hornsent, or any that would invade the Shadow Keep and do them all harm.
Perhaps the world.
Their face lifts and they look up towards the heavens, and the black flames only increase.
His eye widens as realization hits him all at once.
Eyrie was cursing the very gods, all of them, and with such indiscriminate contempt.
They are so engrossed in their fury that they do not even realize that he has stepped out onto the balcony and has joined their side.
“What troubles thine spirit?” He asks, and the sound of his voice stops the string of virulent curses that spill from their lips. Eyrie falls silent, and slowly, the black flames dissipate, but their ire remains.
They reach for his palm as always to give their answer, but there is too much to be said, too many thoughts for them to put to life, and they grow frustrated.
“One moment.” He says, leaving to go grab their journal and their charcoal, which he hands over at once when he returns.
Eyrie flips to a blank page and begins to write furiously.
“Another of Marika’s children remain. One who seeks to become a god.” They write, and they must pause several times to calm their hands enough to continue. “They seek to subjugate us, charming us into obedience, like we are dull-witted animals, but I have long since grown weary of the manipulations of the gods and would-be Lords. I will not suffer such indignity.”
His consort’s eyes smolder with black flame as they hurriedly continue to pour out their thoughts.
“There is nothing divine about these interlopers. The gods are on a conquest like any other war lord, taking what pieces they can, and corrupting what they cannot. It is a sham, the whole of it. I will not be a slave to their wants. I will bend to no one’s will. I rebuke the title of Elden Lord, and I rebuke the Greater Will and its vassals. A curse upon the so-called gods who have left the world broken and desolate, who have left prayers unanswered for far too long. No more. None shall take the throne as Elden Lord, and I will see to it that the path to divinity is destroyed. I will become the bane of the gods in all their forms. This, I hereby swear.”
He sees it now plainly—their fate.
He is doing a grave disservice keeping them here.
“…If it is thy wish to wage war against the very gods, then I will do all that I can to assist.” He speaks up at last, somberly. “Even if it means remaining here and protecting our children. I will gladly do so, and dutifully wait for thine return. And I have no doubts in my heart that thy will return, once the battle has been won. Never have I seen such strength—such willpower.” And he cups their face in his hand, brushing his thumb against their cheekbone. “I have faith in thine cause, my beloved God-Slayer.”
And he leans down to bring their foreheads together.
In the days after, Eyrie prepares for their journey. The children are beside themselves with their sorrow, often clinging to his consort’s legs in an effort to stop them from gathering their things. It breaks their heart, that is evident, but they must do this.
He consoles the children as best as he can, but he himself is beginning to feel the misery of their absence, even though they have not left yet.
On the night of their leave, he, along with the children, whom he carries in his arms, follow behind Eyrie as they descend the floors of the Shadow Keep. Commander Gaius perks up from their spot at the water laden arena at the main gates, and follows behind Eyrie as well, wanting to wish them farewell, and good luck on their travels.
Erasmus, Nia and Aedan squirm restlessly in his arms, so he lowers them to the grass, and as soon as he does, they wrap themselves around Eyrie’s legs, with Nia even climbing up her father’s clothes with her sharp nails like she would a tree, before wrapping her arms around their face and beginning to cry.
Mesha, arousing from slumber at the sound of their siblings discomfort, uncoils from his shoulders and he is shocked to see his weakest son manage to find the energy to go slink over to Eyrie, coiling around their leg until they reach the hem of their tunic, which they sneak under, as if they want to be brought along.
Aedan is torn between their sadness and their anger, and they beat their little hands against Eyrie’s thighs just as much as they rub their face against them. An unending river of tears spills from Erasmus’ unseeing purple eyes.
The steadfast expression on his consort’s face quickly shatters, and their lip quivers as they suddenly fall to their knees, gathering all their children into a tight embrace.
He slips onto the grass as well, wrapping his arms around them all.
“I will return.” Eyrie says upon standing once more, their voice as clear as day, and steadfast.
They whistle, and their spectral steed is called from whatever pocket realm they resided in when dismissed. Before fully seating themselves atop it, his consort slips a hand into their satchel and pulls something out: their journal.
They hold it out to him.
In its contents are his consort’s innermost thoughts, starting from their travels in the Lands Between, and stretching to their time in the Shadow Realm.
He accepts it gratefully, face bowing the slightest.
It is only right that he gives them something in return, for the journal. It was something that he’d been meaning to give to them, but it had slipped his mind.
Reaching towards his center, he takes some of the flame that is apart of his very being, before holding it out, offering.
“Let my flame meld with thine own. Let it keep thee warm, on these lonesome nights. Let it burn away divinity to ash.” He tells them.
Eyrie gently takes his chin in their hand, lifting his face, before pressing their lips to his. His eye flutters shut, and he melts against them. He kisses them again, and again, growing desperate, but Eyrie moves their face away, eyes sad, before pressing their forehead to his.
Sucking in a breath, and fighting back tears, he nods.
It is time for them to leave.
With his beloved gone, his days are busy with the children, who have begun to talk the barest amount, aside from Mesha, who lacked the vocal cords and mouth shape to imitate speech. He has yet to open Eyrie’s journal, but that night, when his kin are asleep, and loneliness starts to claw its way in his heart, he cracks it open at last.
Not only are their thoughts jotted down as they began their journey in the Lands Between, but there are many illustrations as well. It gives him a glimpse into the place his mother had left for, but he is far more interested in Eyrie’s opinion on such a place.
He makes his way through the journal bit by bit each night.
After defeating the Greater Will’s vassal, the frequency in the notations lessen, sparking up again when his consort arrived in the Shadow Realm, where he sees they have depicted the Gravesite Plains. He is familiar with most of what they depict, so he does not spend as much time on these pages, eagerly flipping to the next, and he almost drops their journal when he sees what lays on the next page.
There is a detailed drawing of his brooding profile.
“His gaze is intense. Striking. Much like his fighting style. Never, have I seen such fierceness.” Eyrie had written next to the depiction of himself.
But it isn’t just one drawing of himself—there are dozens, all varying.
It is a little odd to see his own face smiling back at himself, but the excerpt next to it makes his heart flutter.
“His smile is like a fire in the darkest of nights. I wish to make it so that he is always smiling. If only I held the power to do so…”
Next to a portrait of his sleeping face, they write: “He calls out my name in his sleep when I move. He holds me so tightly. I have never felt wanted in such a way. I have never felt like I deserved it. But he convinces me otherwise. May I be so lucky as to always have him to convince me.”
There is even a drawing of him kneeled in front of his mother’s statue, deep in prayer.
“In him, I saw the same loneliness that has always lingered within me. A sadness that fury will not extinguish. I have always wondered if that feeling was evident in my own features. Perhaps that is why I have long since decided to conceal my face.” They write next to it.
There are drawings of the eggs, and later, the children, and even his spear has been committed to paper, yet not a single drawing of Eyrie’s own face is shown.
A grave shame.
He vows to have a portrait commissioned at once.
“He sees himself as malformed. Truly, nothing could be further from the truth. He is so handsome; the bones of his face regal and his body is one that I am eager to explore.” Is written next to a picture of his face without his helmet on.
“His hair is so lovely. Such a breath-taking shade of red. And his voice…I could write endlessly about his voice. How it affects me, and how enthralling it is to hear the noises of pleasure that I ease from his lips. He is so shy despite his fierceness. It is sweet. His heart is pure—I will cradle it within my hands as softly as I can. Never, will I let go of it.”
He closes the journal as he succumbs to his emotions.
“Oh, my sun and stars…” He cries, and it is loud enough to wake his children, who crawl over to him at once, concerned. He cannot formulate any further words past his blubbering.
He simply clings to them.
Eyrie has been gone for quite some time now, but he remains patient.
He has waited far longer, and for far less.
On the sleepless nights when a goblet of wine, nor their journal, soothes him, he stands on his personal balcony, looking towards Rauh.
He does so, many, many times, his mind always subconsciously keeping a look out for Eyrie.
The power he felt growing in Rauh fades, dissipating like a foul stench carried off in a cleansing gale, yet still, they do not return.
No matter how much he prays, he does not see them—
Until he does.
There is something racing towards the Shadow Keep.
Blinking, he realizes that he’d just seen black hair and a spectral steed disappearing towards the main gates.
With a sharp gasp, he scrambles, nearly tripping over his feet as he races into his chambers and hurriedly crawls over to his sleeping children, waking them up by gently nudging them with his serpents incessantly. They are still half asleep as he gathers them all into his arms, and he nearly runs into his double doors before he remembers last second to unseal it.
He storms down each floor, uncaring that he is only dressed in his robes, the length of which ripples behind him like an after image with wind that’s picked up from his hurried descent. When he reaches the last floor, he becomes even more desperate, running now, and his bare feet splash against the arena at the main gates, and he barely even remembers that Gaius is there, until he nearly rams into them in his hurry to slip past the main gates.
Just as he exits the main gates, his damp feet resting upon the stone steps, he stops.
Eyrie is approaching steadily on their steed, and upon noticing him, even from this distance, he sees their entire demeanor brighten.
The winds pick up, and as they draw nearer, Eyrie dismisses their horse, jumping off it as they are carried by a gale that leads them right into his awaiting arms.
“Welcome back, my beloved God-Slayer.” He says, smiling into their hair.