Hello! So, I was disappointed by the third season, but this doesn't prevent me from scribbling about my favourite mage... My first sex scene and romance ever -better late than never.

Playlist : "No one walks away from me" from GoT.

"Sublimation": Dark magic spell.

Hope you enjoy it. :)


"Is it good?"

"..."

"I want to know."

He grabbed her braid, pulled it a little. A little mouse whim. Of course, she liked the things he was doing to her. Would she opened her eyes, he would see them full of tears. Would she opened her mouth, he would hear a "Yes, your Grace" trembling with pleasure. For long minutes he had been feeling her shudder, contract and undulate under his fingers. She was the one who, without her cap, had come to carry some logs at one in the morning when, for six weeks, dark magic had been officialized as the one heating throughout the castle. She was the one who had stuck to his desk and moved everything with the least common sense when she was supposed to clean the windows at the other end of the room. It was she who had pretended not to notice that her blond braid was obviously flattering his crotch. It was she who smiled when he put his hand on her thigh.

No matter how magic he dyed her hair black, she was nothing like her. Younger. Frailer. More passive. More sensitive.

She still hadn't answered his question yet.

"Is it good?" he repeated, his voice slow, low, hoarse, his left hand planted in her scalp.

The moan she uttered left no room for doubt. She was narrow, damp, offered. He gently withdrew his fingers, kissed her, pushed aside the parchments, feathers, canivets, notes, scattered books, and laid her half down on the desk.

"M - M'lord, what are you doing to m-me...?" he heard her stammer.

The king of Katolis did not answer, put a knee on the ground, lifted the skirts. The legs and the blackened fleece were inundated. He plunged his head, nose, beard, mouth, tongue into it. The girl arched so hard that he wondered if her back had broken.

No. Certainly, she was nothing like her. But the more he continued, the more he believed in it.

That was preposterous.

The study walls were thick, made of Arlind stone; there were shelves filled with books, paintings, tapestries; it must have been nearly two in the morning; a spell of insulation absorbed the late echoes. Yet Viren had the impression that the whole castle could hear the young woman's enjoyment.

Let them hear her.

He got up, grabbed her ebony hair, hugged her tightly as if he never wanted to let her go.

He had already let her go, years ago, far away from here. Never again. Never again. He breathed in her scent - no longer a mixture of fried onions and wildflowers, but real finest court scent; he caressed her shoulders - not frail but muscular on the battlefield; he rubbed the fabric - not wool but crimson brocade ...

Hush ... hush.

And then he kissed her as if he wanted to treasure her last breath.

Viren opened his eyes. The hair regained its yellow colour as soon as it was pulled out, small wisps of straw falling on varnished wood. The air returned to the lungs, centilitre after centilitre.

- Sire ...

She indeed had a little mouse voice. Her hair's root was already starting to turn blond again.

- Hm?

Rumpitur incantatores, Viren knew it. Onion, wool, fragility, blondness. Yet he could not let her go. She was shaking too much. She would have been shattered like crystal.

- ... Thank you, m'lord. Thank you very much ... for all of that. But ... m-my name ... m'name is Jonale. Not ...

Then she stopped.

Viren stepped aside, gallantly offered her his hand to help her descending off the desk. She picked up her cap, her underwear. Her blond braid looked like chaos, drawn in all directions; her crumpled wool skirt, not to mention the apron; her scarlet cheeks like strawberries; the candles that still light up the office underlined her tremors; her legs barely supported her ... but when he pointed to the couch in the corner of the room, she shook her head.

Viren did not realize until that moment that she was sniffing and that her eyes were red.

The ornate wooden door closed on the scullery maid girl, Viren rubbed his face. A tic that he had never managed to get rid of. He was exhausted, wicks fell before his eyes, he was starving until dizziness, darkness was filling the study ... and on the official portrait hanging on the wall, far above his head, the drops of paint glared him with something close from a reproving look.

But that wasn't the worst thing Viren had ever done, was it?

In the corner of the room, Aaravos swirled an illusion of a Katolis crown around his finger with a mocking smile. Viren wanted to snatch them from him, smile, crown. But he remained motionless as the demon's graceful silhouette took a dance step towards him, a second, a sixth, amplified by echoes.

Aaravos didn't say a word and waved his chin. Looking down, Viren saw that his right hand had started to flatter his left wrist.

It was a tick he had caught in prison.

Viren hurriedly folded up his velvet sleeve, cast a dark glance at the elf - it only smiled, a smile in which Viren read at once amusement, disdain, pity. The scene had been replayed over, over and over, so much that Viren no longer even saw the point of holding his grudge. He seized the real crown placed in a crimson case open on the desk. Then he circled his head with it. Too late. A blink and he was alone again.

Tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow, at dawn, the Army of the Pentarchy would begin its crusade towards Xadia, ripped from its broken links. Soldiers, reiters, mercenaries, cavalry, infantrymen, lords, generals, constables, lowest and finest ranks, Katolis, Del-Bar, Néolandia, Evenere and even a handful of rebellious medjai and xiphos from Duren. To be rowdy baronets when it came for mere honour, crumbs of independence or parcels of land, the common threat from the Orient had made them forget all their grievances as surely as an amnesia spell. In barely a few months, all of them had gathered as one man at the foot of Katolis palace's walls; and all of them were only waiting for dawn and his order to start moving.

The most massive army to ever set foot on the surface of the world; with Prince Kaseef, Ser Soren, Princess Claudia, and, as a spearhead, himself.

Spearhead. Viren hadn't used that expression for months. One year, exactly. From Thunder.

Tomorrow he would finish what he started at the time.

Once the royal brat and the cell behind him, it was on his wrist, not his hunger, thirst, fever nor the advanced gangrene devouring his leg that he had dedicated his first sublimation.

But the next ones would all be for the two of them, their majesties who he had failed to save. For her, above all.

And then, for all of humanity, while he was at it.

After all, that wasn't the worst thing Viren had ever done, was it?

He put the ancient crown of Katolis back in the box, then went to lay down a bit.


Hope you enjoyed this !

I like portraying him as the Dark One, – the Widower, – the Unconsoled, lit up by the Black Sun of Melancholia. His only scene with Sarai has a lot of melodrama potential...

Reviews ? :3

Madou