Post by Zola Rhomdaen on May 7, 2022 22:47:34 GMT
Content warning: explicit sexual content
(Continued from Nightmares & Dreamscapes 2 and Thunder Road.)
After six days of hard marching and camping in the wilderness, Zola finds herself relieved to have a roof over her head and four walls surrounding her at last. She is alone in her comfortable, dimly-lit suite at the Four Fair Winds, seated leaning against the headboard of the four-poster bed and tuning her lute, turning the pegs and picking at the strings.
It’s a relaxing exercise. Focusing on the sound of the notes helps her take her mind off things — a sorely needed break for her, even more so than a physical one.
Soon enough, her fingers begin to move almost on their own volition, plucking notes from a song she heard in the Moon and Web on a lonely evening years and years ago. She hums along with the melody at first, then opens her mouth to softly sing the words.
“And a falling star fell from your heart
And landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them
And now it’s left me blind…”
Zola can’t remember how the rest of it goes.
There is no delaying it any further.
She puts the lute down on the floor next to bed and slips under the covers. She stares up at the chiffon canopy for hours and hours, unable to fall asleep.
And for the entire time, she thinks of Ophanim.
She doesn’t remember when her eyes drew shut and her consciousness drifted away, but she remembers feeling the marks on her chest and on her back creeping around her body like a cold embrace.
And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became
When she opens her eyes again, she is in an unfamiliar place. The skies are black, the dust threatens to choke her up, and most of all, it is hot. The ground seems to almost sizzle on the soles of her bare feet and the perspiration on her skin starts immediately.
Zola looks up to see Ophanim lounging in a lavish chair — or maybe it’s a throne — drinking from a goblet, his black dress shirt buttoned up halfway this time. It is so dark that she can barely discern the colour on him, but he is already staring at her. With, to her surprise, genuine delight in his face.
“Darling! I was hoping you’d come! Wine?” he offers cheerfully. He seems a lot more…energetic than the previous times she’d seen him, the aristocratic blasé-ness about his existence now gone.
She stands planted in place to the ground, a little scared. She thought he’d be angry at her — and maybe he is and this chipper attitude is a mere cover. “Ophanim…? What’s made you so excited?”
“Oh, you know why. It’s happening! Finally!”
“What is?”
“Everything! The prophecy, the big fight, the blah-blah, you know!”
Jumping up from his chair-throne, Ophanim sidles over to her with a large goblet of wine in his hand and a gleam in his black-and-red eyes. Zola blinks and her hands accept the goblet absent-mindedly, too surprised to think.
“What— Why are you excited about that?” she demands. The emotions are welling up in her like ocean waves drawn to the moon, her inner song turning increasingly frantic. “Ophanim. You heard what Themis said. We’re going to have to fight. You… You might die!”
He waves a hand dismissively before grasping her chin gently and kissing her, though the elation of tasting his sweet, wine-touched lips again is woefully short-lived. “We’ve been over this, love. I don’t mind. And if you’re there, all the better.”
Zola’s hand flies up to cup his cheek, a thumb stroking his cheekbone as she gazes into his eyes sadly. “Why? Just tell me why… Tell me why you’re so resigned to dying,” she begs.
“Does this look like resignation? I must be losing my touch.” He smiles at her, then takes her hand and sends a trail of kisses up her arm, on her shoulder, and on her neck.
“What is it then? Do you want to die that badly?”
Ophanim stops his various smooching and looks at her puzzled. “Zola, I’m— Oh, I see.”
He nudges her hand holding the goblet up towards her face. “Zola, I’m not bothered by this. I’m not resigned to a fate,” he says. “I chose this, willingly. I may have been bored at the time but it wasn’t for lack of a better option. This is thrilling. Zola, Pollux is in my possession. We will dance again, my love.”
He lifts her bodily and lays her down on the almost too hot-ground. She gasps and winces. The goblet falls out of her hand and there is a hiss as the spilt wine evaporates on the surface.
“Death does not frighten or dismay me, nor should it you. I want to die by your hands, Zola.”
He leans in to kiss her but stops a millimetre away from her lips to whisper.
“We can die together.”
Despite the searing heat on her skin, Zola’s blood freezes in her veins.
She grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him as she sits up, then she shakes him like he’s gone mad and brings her now-tear-streaked face closer to his.
“Ophanim, you thundering idiot—!” she yells in his face, her voice cut off by a sob ripping through her throat. “You chose this because you think it’s aesthetically beautiful, didn’t you?!”
He doesn’t look guilty or embarrassed. Instead, he looks immensely pleased and smug, and somehow vindicated that she finally sees it from his point of view. He traces her tears with a careful finger, shushing her. “You’re even more beautiful when you cry.”
“Don’t make me slap you.”
“I’d like that, actually.”
The drow scowls at him and rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Can’t you see that you dying would deny the world of even more beauty? It’s bad enough that your work only stays in the Nine Hells. You have so much to live for…”
He just continues to shush her gently, not taking in her words. Rather, he is waiting for her to accept it. This horrifying reality. When she quiets down, he pulls her in close and whispers in her ear, “There is no greater beauty I could achieve than crossing swords with you again.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Her voice and her sobs come out muffled with her face pressed against his muscled chest. “Who would be the audience for that? Just your friends and mine. You can do so much more…”
“True art doesn’t need an audience to be good.”
Zola pulls her head away from his embrace and looks up at him with large, tear-filled amber eyes. “Run away with me,” she whispers, a smile tugging at the edges of her trembling lips. “We have the whole world at our disposal. There’s so much to see, so much to do. You can design for lords and ladies, kings and queens…”
Her hand finds his own and entwines their fingers together. “…with me as your muse.”
Ophanim pauses for a moment. But he doesn’t seem to be considering her proposal — rather, how to break something to her gently.
Finally, he speaks. “Zola. I’ve done it all. I’ve seen it all and had it all.” His free hand begins to untie the laces of her dress. “There is only one thing left now. And I want it, with all my heart, and I want it like this. With you. By you.” His sharp nails scratch across the mark on her back like fire, causing it to arch. “Don’t let it trouble you. Enjoy it while you can.”
“What about what I want? I don’t want to die yet. And I don’t want to kill you.”
“Then live. End my life before I end yours. Be the woman who danced among the flames, in the open sea. Fight me. End me. Everything dies, Zola. That’s a fact. But we can be remembered in the art we made together. Skin and blood and moonlight.”
“You’re so fucked up,” she says despairingly. “Why do I even like you?”
He throws his head back and laughs in absolute delight. “Because we’re two halves of a whole,” he says, smiling.
Zola’s dress slides off her shoulders and down past her breasts as she sniffles. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“There’s a balance to all things, Zola. Live, die. Love, hate. They’re all the same things in the end.”
“Ophanim, don’t try to philosophise. It’s really not your thing,” she scoffs, wiping away her tears again.
“So don’t make me resort to it then, simple as that.”
So be it.
With frustration and sorrow and all-consuming desire, she grabs the front of his shirt to pull him down and kiss him roughly.
Neither of them say anything more to each other for a long time. Words turn into moans, longing gazes into hungry looks, gentle kisses into sucking and biting. Tears and sweat and slick and cum mixing together. The heat from the ground is almost unbearably scorching as Ophanim lays her flat on her back, lifts her legs up in the air, and fucks her, but she has grown numb to it and she screams out to the gods for more of him. Her head is full of smoke and fire as he stops briefly to catch a breath, only for her to crawl atop his stomach and taste him with her hungry mouth, and excite his flame again.
No more pining, no more longing — she is his and he is hers.
I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you
When the two of them are finally spent, they lie on the ground with her in his arms. Her finger absently traces circles on his chest as she listens to the beating of his heart.
“I’m sorry for…calling you a copycat,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “All the best ones steal. Steal something and make it better.”
She can’t argue with that.
They look at each other for a long time. His hands are never still on her marks.
When the heat threatens to burn her up entirely, he kisses her once more and whispers, “See you soon.”
“Wait.” She grabs his wrist, forcing herself to withstand the swelter for a little longer.
“What?”
Zola stares silently into middle distance for a moment that stretches out seemingly forever, as the words of the song come rushing back to her.
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
And no dawn, no day, I’m always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
Of your heart
She kisses his knuckles and looks up, her amber eyes meeting his blood-red ones. “I won’t let it end this way,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’m not going to let somebody else tell me what my fate is. I make my own destiny, love.”
As her vision grows dim, the last thing she sees is his sharp, sharp grin.
“As do I.”
On the 8th day of Mirtul, a note is delivered to Haspar Knoll in the Witching Court, its parchment dotted with dried marks of teardrops.
Co-written with Lykksie 💚💔
“Cosmic Love” by Florence + The Machine
(Sorry not sorry for using a non-Springsteen song.)
(Continued from Nightmares & Dreamscapes 2 and Thunder Road.)
After six days of hard marching and camping in the wilderness, Zola finds herself relieved to have a roof over her head and four walls surrounding her at last. She is alone in her comfortable, dimly-lit suite at the Four Fair Winds, seated leaning against the headboard of the four-poster bed and tuning her lute, turning the pegs and picking at the strings.
It’s a relaxing exercise. Focusing on the sound of the notes helps her take her mind off things — a sorely needed break for her, even more so than a physical one.
Soon enough, her fingers begin to move almost on their own volition, plucking notes from a song she heard in the Moon and Web on a lonely evening years and years ago. She hums along with the melody at first, then opens her mouth to softly sing the words.
“And a falling star fell from your heart
And landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them
And now it’s left me blind…”
Zola can’t remember how the rest of it goes.
There is no delaying it any further.
She puts the lute down on the floor next to bed and slips under the covers. She stares up at the chiffon canopy for hours and hours, unable to fall asleep.
And for the entire time, she thinks of Ophanim.
She doesn’t remember when her eyes drew shut and her consciousness drifted away, but she remembers feeling the marks on her chest and on her back creeping around her body like a cold embrace.
And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became
When she opens her eyes again, she is in an unfamiliar place. The skies are black, the dust threatens to choke her up, and most of all, it is hot. The ground seems to almost sizzle on the soles of her bare feet and the perspiration on her skin starts immediately.
Zola looks up to see Ophanim lounging in a lavish chair — or maybe it’s a throne — drinking from a goblet, his black dress shirt buttoned up halfway this time. It is so dark that she can barely discern the colour on him, but he is already staring at her. With, to her surprise, genuine delight in his face.
“Darling! I was hoping you’d come! Wine?” he offers cheerfully. He seems a lot more…energetic than the previous times she’d seen him, the aristocratic blasé-ness about his existence now gone.
She stands planted in place to the ground, a little scared. She thought he’d be angry at her — and maybe he is and this chipper attitude is a mere cover. “Ophanim…? What’s made you so excited?”
“Oh, you know why. It’s happening! Finally!”
“What is?”
“Everything! The prophecy, the big fight, the blah-blah, you know!”
Jumping up from his chair-throne, Ophanim sidles over to her with a large goblet of wine in his hand and a gleam in his black-and-red eyes. Zola blinks and her hands accept the goblet absent-mindedly, too surprised to think.
“What— Why are you excited about that?” she demands. The emotions are welling up in her like ocean waves drawn to the moon, her inner song turning increasingly frantic. “Ophanim. You heard what Themis said. We’re going to have to fight. You… You might die!”
He waves a hand dismissively before grasping her chin gently and kissing her, though the elation of tasting his sweet, wine-touched lips again is woefully short-lived. “We’ve been over this, love. I don’t mind. And if you’re there, all the better.”
Zola’s hand flies up to cup his cheek, a thumb stroking his cheekbone as she gazes into his eyes sadly. “Why? Just tell me why… Tell me why you’re so resigned to dying,” she begs.
“Does this look like resignation? I must be losing my touch.” He smiles at her, then takes her hand and sends a trail of kisses up her arm, on her shoulder, and on her neck.
“What is it then? Do you want to die that badly?”
Ophanim stops his various smooching and looks at her puzzled. “Zola, I’m— Oh, I see.”
He nudges her hand holding the goblet up towards her face. “Zola, I’m not bothered by this. I’m not resigned to a fate,” he says. “I chose this, willingly. I may have been bored at the time but it wasn’t for lack of a better option. This is thrilling. Zola, Pollux is in my possession. We will dance again, my love.”
He lifts her bodily and lays her down on the almost too hot-ground. She gasps and winces. The goblet falls out of her hand and there is a hiss as the spilt wine evaporates on the surface.
“Death does not frighten or dismay me, nor should it you. I want to die by your hands, Zola.”
He leans in to kiss her but stops a millimetre away from her lips to whisper.
“We can die together.”
Despite the searing heat on her skin, Zola’s blood freezes in her veins.
She grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him as she sits up, then she shakes him like he’s gone mad and brings her now-tear-streaked face closer to his.
“Ophanim, you thundering idiot—!” she yells in his face, her voice cut off by a sob ripping through her throat. “You chose this because you think it’s aesthetically beautiful, didn’t you?!”
He doesn’t look guilty or embarrassed. Instead, he looks immensely pleased and smug, and somehow vindicated that she finally sees it from his point of view. He traces her tears with a careful finger, shushing her. “You’re even more beautiful when you cry.”
“Don’t make me slap you.”
“I’d like that, actually.”
The drow scowls at him and rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Can’t you see that you dying would deny the world of even more beauty? It’s bad enough that your work only stays in the Nine Hells. You have so much to live for…”
He just continues to shush her gently, not taking in her words. Rather, he is waiting for her to accept it. This horrifying reality. When she quiets down, he pulls her in close and whispers in her ear, “There is no greater beauty I could achieve than crossing swords with you again.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Her voice and her sobs come out muffled with her face pressed against his muscled chest. “Who would be the audience for that? Just your friends and mine. You can do so much more…”
“True art doesn’t need an audience to be good.”
Zola pulls her head away from his embrace and looks up at him with large, tear-filled amber eyes. “Run away with me,” she whispers, a smile tugging at the edges of her trembling lips. “We have the whole world at our disposal. There’s so much to see, so much to do. You can design for lords and ladies, kings and queens…”
Her hand finds his own and entwines their fingers together. “…with me as your muse.”
Ophanim pauses for a moment. But he doesn’t seem to be considering her proposal — rather, how to break something to her gently.
Finally, he speaks. “Zola. I’ve done it all. I’ve seen it all and had it all.” His free hand begins to untie the laces of her dress. “There is only one thing left now. And I want it, with all my heart, and I want it like this. With you. By you.” His sharp nails scratch across the mark on her back like fire, causing it to arch. “Don’t let it trouble you. Enjoy it while you can.”
“What about what I want? I don’t want to die yet. And I don’t want to kill you.”
“Then live. End my life before I end yours. Be the woman who danced among the flames, in the open sea. Fight me. End me. Everything dies, Zola. That’s a fact. But we can be remembered in the art we made together. Skin and blood and moonlight.”
“You’re so fucked up,” she says despairingly. “Why do I even like you?”
He throws his head back and laughs in absolute delight. “Because we’re two halves of a whole,” he says, smiling.
Zola’s dress slides off her shoulders and down past her breasts as she sniffles. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“There’s a balance to all things, Zola. Live, die. Love, hate. They’re all the same things in the end.”
“Ophanim, don’t try to philosophise. It’s really not your thing,” she scoffs, wiping away her tears again.
“So don’t make me resort to it then, simple as that.”
So be it.
With frustration and sorrow and all-consuming desire, she grabs the front of his shirt to pull him down and kiss him roughly.
Neither of them say anything more to each other for a long time. Words turn into moans, longing gazes into hungry looks, gentle kisses into sucking and biting. Tears and sweat and slick and cum mixing together. The heat from the ground is almost unbearably scorching as Ophanim lays her flat on her back, lifts her legs up in the air, and fucks her, but she has grown numb to it and she screams out to the gods for more of him. Her head is full of smoke and fire as he stops briefly to catch a breath, only for her to crawl atop his stomach and taste him with her hungry mouth, and excite his flame again.
No more pining, no more longing — she is his and he is hers.
I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you
When the two of them are finally spent, they lie on the ground with her in his arms. Her finger absently traces circles on his chest as she listens to the beating of his heart.
“I’m sorry for…calling you a copycat,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “All the best ones steal. Steal something and make it better.”
She can’t argue with that.
They look at each other for a long time. His hands are never still on her marks.
When the heat threatens to burn her up entirely, he kisses her once more and whispers, “See you soon.”
“Wait.” She grabs his wrist, forcing herself to withstand the swelter for a little longer.
“What?”
Zola stares silently into middle distance for a moment that stretches out seemingly forever, as the words of the song come rushing back to her.
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
And no dawn, no day, I’m always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
Of your heart
She kisses his knuckles and looks up, her amber eyes meeting his blood-red ones. “I won’t let it end this way,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’m not going to let somebody else tell me what my fate is. I make my own destiny, love.”
As her vision grows dim, the last thing she sees is his sharp, sharp grin.
“As do I.”
⚔️🌙⚔️
On the 8th day of Mirtul, a note is delivered to Haspar Knoll in the Witching Court, its parchment dotted with dried marks of teardrops.
Co-written with Lykksie 💚💔
“Cosmic Love” by Florence + The Machine
(Sorry not sorry for using a non-Springsteen song.)
