Burning Chains

Chapter 11

Mohg stared intently at the needle and golden thread in his hand, squinting as he carefully poked the filament through its eye. He had been trained in many of the arts expected of a young lady of Queen Marika’s court, but embroidery was the only one he had actually enjoyed. Perhaps part of it was that when he was younger, repeatedly stabbing something helped him manage his anger. Not to mention how useful the craft was for a lord without a personal tailor. All of his lavish robes had been his own work, the twisting golden vines of his stole a result of his careful practice. These would be the finishing touches to this particular piece. He had been secretly working on his wedding robes for quite some time now, lovingly forming the shape of blood roses with his needle and sewing small beads of red glintstone into the design. He supposed he was lucky his forces came in contact with Knights of the Cuckoo so often. Their primal glintstones always turned such a beautiful shade of red when he was done with them. Though he’d found it far easier to extract the crystals by introducing one of them to his god and then merely sitting back and watching as his mind broke and the crystals took over his body. Such fragile things, sorcerers, their minds fractured so easily after seeing even small glimpses of the truth of the world.

Mohg felt a warmth at his back but pretended not to notice. Unlike his wet blanket of a brother, he knew when to feign surprise. Familiar hands, far larger than he was used to covered his eyes.

“Guess who.”

“Could these be the hands of my betrothed? Surely not, for he is so much smaller than I,” Mohg joked.

“Oh, but I am your beloved. How can I prove it to you?” Gareth played along.

“I would recognize his kiss anywhere.”

“Could it be that you just want to be kissed, my love?”

“Perhaps.”

Gareth bent Mohg’s face to the side, still keeping his eyes covered and pressed his teeth to his. Though it didn’t feel like much, the weight of his beloved’s skull against his face gave him a sense of solace more even than a more traditional kiss might have. They were hardened alike, horn and charred bone, changed by powers that could not have been housed in their once fragile bodies. They were both changed but they had been changed together, horns growing ever more twisted and flesh burning away in tandem. What could be more powerful than that, to know his love would follow him even into the darkness at the edges of the stars?

Mohg let his hands wander, taking in his beloved’s harder jaw line. Sensing what he wanted, Gareth shifted their positions, sitting in front of him rather than kneeling behind, though still he kept his hands over Mohg’s golden eyes. The Lord of Blood ran his hand down his beloved’s neck and across his broader shoulders, then down his back to his narrower hips. When he stopped there, Gareth took one hand away from Mohg’s eyes. His veil was up, allowing Mohg to see the full effect of his modifications.

When constructing a veil, Morgott preferred to work with what was already present in a person’s anatomy. It tended to create a more realistic looking illusion than a full fabrication. In Gareth’s case the illusion consisted of layers of false muscle connected to the bone as real muscle would be, with skin layered over the top. This made the illusion more malleable if for example the structure of the bones beneath was to change.

“Hello, dearest.” Mohg cupped Gareth’s cheek. He recognized his face instantly. It was the one he had worn when they had first spoken face to face, in that memory of a hill covered in windmills.

“Hi.” He smiled, tears forming at the edges of his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed,” The Frenzied Flame laughed, his tears disappearing the moment they reached the edge of the illusion of his face. “But in a good way.” His other hand slipped from Mohg’s eyes as well. Suddenly, Gareth wrapped his arms around him. “I can hold you now, I can actually hold you!” Mohg had known he was strong, he’d seen him become more and more proficient with the hunk of rock he called a shield over the years, but he was still caught off guard by how easily the feeling of those strong arms around him made him melt. “Thank you!”

“For what? You’re just as bound to our deal with Ranni as I am.”

“For forcing me to recognize that it was worth it. For caring about me enough that it didn’t feel selfish.”

“Of course it wasn’t selfish, you belong to me. Your joy is my joy, your pleasure my pleasure.”

“Some aspects of this were definitely more for your pleasure than others, love.”

“Oh really?” A smile touched Mohg’s eyes.

“It’s not the most impressive and I didn’t ask for any particularly interesting additions, but I do think it suits me.”

“It suits you?” Mohg chuckled.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry, that’s just a very funny way to put it.”

“Well it does!” Gareth pouted.

“May I see it?”

Gareth hesitantly released Mohg, sitting back a little bit before undoing the laces of his pants. Begrudgingly, Mohg could see what he meant. His dick was about proportionally average for his height. Meaning it would have been ludicrously big for someone of ordinary height, but since the two of them were around 13 feet tall, it was about average. Mohg had read all sorts of flowery descriptions of cocks in books and heard them put to song, but this one was unfitting of such characterization. It was bent slightly to the left and, despite its newness, was already surrounded by an unruly grove of dark hair. His dick wasn’t pretty, but it had character to it. It was roughly charming, in the same way his betrothed was.

“So, what do you think?”

“You’re right, it does suit you.” Mohg gently laid a claw on the skin just above Gareth’s cock. “It would please me to put my mark here.” He let the digit linger making sure the implied question was coming across.

His beloved’s dick jumped to life at the suggestion.

“Fuck yes.”

It took Mohg a moment to find a razor and an appropriate needle. He was familiar with the process by now, though usually his mark was left on the subject’s forehead. Nerijus and Eleanora were notable exceptions, Nerijus having insisted upon Mohg’s mark covering most of his face as his earliest servant, and Eleanora having insisted that it was important for her that her face be left unmarked, receiving hers at the back of her neck. Needless to say, Mohg had never left his mark in a place that wasn’t easily seen. However, this felt right. Others would know Gareth was his instantly from the way they acted around each other, making a more private mark upon him would serve only as a reminder to his beloved. A mark for him to look at when he was alone while Mohg was away on business, to remind him who he belonged to every time he took himself in hand.

Gareth sat quietly and watched with rapt attention as Mohg shaved him. He liked watching Mohg work. His love had such intense focus, it was as if everything except the object of his attention completely disappeared. It felt almost like worship to be at the center of it, to know Mohg looked at him and him alone.

The Lord of Blood prepared his needle, burning the tip until it glowed to sterilize it. Then once it had cooled, he dipped the tip in red ink. Gareth’s skin fluttered beneath his hands as Mohg lined up the needle on his skin.

“Ready?” He looked into the ghosts of his love’s eyes.

“Ready.”

Mohg poked the needle just beneath Gareth’s skin. It spasmed a little involuntarily, but The Frenzied Flame didn’t make a sound as his beloved worked. For Mohg the process was similar to the embroidery he had just put down, a meditative up and down of a needle, carefully in and out of the skin. The process came so naturally to him at this point that it seemed like mere moments before it was done. He took care to wipe the blood away, before casting a light healing incantation on the finished tattoo. Gareth unclenched his fists. He’d taken off his veil while Mohg was at work, the flame of his head seeming even more like a sun so close to Mohg’s face.

“Mohg, can I…” he trailed off, clearly unsure.

Without hesitation, Mohg handed him the needle and ink.

“As long as it’s discrete.” He began undoing the buttons and ties of his lavish robes.

“Are you sure?”

“I belong to you, my body and blood is yours, my heart is in your hands. Your mark has already been engraved upon my heart, I am not afraid to wear it on my body.”

“A scar may show better on your skin.” Gareth placed his hand on the skin just above Mohg’s left breast. “Would you be alright with that?”

“Do what you need to.”

Gareth picked up the set aside razor and pressed it to his skin. He paused, waiting to see if Mohg would back out.

“Don’t spare any detail. You know I prefer ornate raiments.”

Gareth squeezed his shoulder once in confirmation before beginning to strip away skin.

It felt like it took a millennia for him to be finished. The stripping and healing and stripping repeated again and again until Mohg became entirely numb to it, and yet it still continued. He knew it had to continue, a wound of that size would’ve taken days to heal, much longer if he had to pick at it often enough to properly ensure a scar. Partially healing the wound with magic, and then tearing off the scabs again and again significantly sped up the process. However, the speed made it intense, painful, and exhausting. Once it was finished though, the sight of it made his breath hitch. The shiny gray scar tissue formed the shape of a wild flame extending upward and outward from a single eye.

“Do you like it?” Gareth burned the blood off of the razor.

“I love it.” Mohg replied weakly. He felt as if he might faint.

“I’ll get you some water.” The Frenzied Flame’s legs shook as he tried to stand. “We probably shouldn’t have done this at the same time,” He admitted as he shakily attempted to put his pants back on.

“You are probably right.” Mohg reached for his spear, currently leaning against the wall, so that he could use it to prop himself up. “But I am glad we did. We should always be equal in all things.” Mohg felt an alarm go off in the back of his head. Not as in he had a bad feeling, but as in he had set up several magical alarms around the palace grounds to alert him in case of any new arrivals and one had just gone off.

“Is Morgott around?” Gareth asked, struggling with the laces of his pants and wincing as the rough fabric touched raw skin.

“I believe so. You can speak to him from here?”

“I can speak to him no matter where he is, whether he can actually get to the door is the problem.”

A powerful shock ran through Morgott’s body as he felt something touch the edge of his mind. He tried to put up a wall as his future brother in law had taught him only for it to be torn away in mere moments in a burst of flame. He barely had the time to be afraid before he heard the god’s voice in his mind.

“Morgott, someone is here.”

The words sent a chill down his spine. If he was being told there was someone here and not that Mohg and Gareth were handling it, that meant he was expected to handle it. He hoped it was an invader. That would be far easier than trying to play host. He was getting better at being personable, but it was still difficult for him to come off as anything other than standoffish in front of strangers. Friends he could manage but strangers? He would rather they tried to put him to the sword.

Very carefully, he made his way over to the area where guests materialized after being teleported in. Even if whoever it was had managed to enter through the hidden teleporter in the consecrated snowfields, they would have to come this way eventually. Morgott began to prepare himself for a variety of situations, ranging from a lost albinauric patrol (annoying but manageable), to a group of Haligtree knights (easy enough), to Malenia herself (bad situation, but not necessarily insurmountable), and even as far as a contingent of adoring groupies (worst possible scenario may as well lay down and die on the spot). What he was greeted by instead however, was the very loud sound of someone retching.

Morgott quickly hid, disguising himself as a large bush. The thick foliage in this area of the grounds made it a little less conspicuous to move around as long as he did so slowly.

The person currently attempting to avoid spilling his guts onto the ancient cobblestone, was a handsome young man with long, soft looking blond hair. There was a second person with him however, a dark haired woman old enough to be his mother, outfitted in dark silver armor covered with a shimmering dark gray veil, which appeared to wink out of sight as the fabric shifted.

“Pull yourself together!” Morgott could hear her loudly whispering to the young man, in a way that made him understand that if they were not in unfamiliar territory she would be shouting. “They undoubtedly know we’re here. You cannot allow yourself to be seen in such a state.”

“The blood.” He protested between heaves.

“Overcome it! Your brother calls himself the Lord of Blood does he not? If you are to have dealings with him, the scent of it cannot reduce you to this.”

Morgott crouched in the bushes, allowing his veil to lift before cycling through his portfolio of disguises and eventually settling on one that merely manipulated the features of his face slightly and hid his tail. Morgott the Omen Prince was too recognizable, he bore too strong a resemblance to his father. Once he had finished weaving his veil, he intentionally knocked his tail into the brush so that the leaves would rustle. Though he was somewhat loath to admit it, he had learned a great deal from Patches about managing expectations in his favor. What he wanted right now was for the two beyond the bushes to think he was an amateur, or at least was far less skilled than he actually was.

Predictably the older woman lowered herself and drew her knife, drawing the shifting cloak around her body.

“Show yourself.”

“Alecto,” the young man protested, his face still green.

“Show yourself!”

“Thou ought to listen to thine ward, Lady Black Knife.” Morgott desperately tried to channel his brother’s effortless confidence. “Thou hast strayed far from thy rightful path The domain thou hast arrived in is not one in which thy authority is recognized. I ask that thou sheath thy dagger whilst thou art upon these grounds. I will not tolerate violence.”

“Alecto, please.” The young man was beginning to straighten himself.

“Whose authority am I being expected to answer to.”

Morgott stepped from the undergrowth and he heard a sharp intake of breath from the older woman. He was… used to it now. He no longer felt the claws of shame pierce his stomach but he did not feel anger dig its fingers into his eyes as it would have Mohg’s. He wasn’t ambivalent per se, more resigned. While he understood that others may react uncharitably when first presented with him, he could not muster the effort to be upset with himself or anyone else over the fact.

“Thou art asked to answer to the authority of Sir Margit the Fell, knight in service to his Majesty Prince Morgott.” He bowed his head slightly. This was one of his go to false identities, it was a good test after all. He was a knight, so someone worthy of respect, but at the same time, not one of particular import. It would not be expected that he had the king’s ear. That is to say, although “Margit” should not be disrespected, it was relatively safe to do so and Morgott had found that those that were willing to disrespect his servants, were more than willing to disrespect him as well once his back was turned.

“Knight?” The assassin asked, her eyes squinting at the sheathed sword in his hands. As it was, it looked like a mere cudgel.

“Perhaps it may be too lofty a descriptor for one such as I, but I was born to warriors and this is the title my prince has bestowed upon me as well. I assure thee, my authority here is as respected as thine would be in the world above. Kindly, lower thy weapon, before I am forced to lower it on thy behalf.”

The assassin clicked her teeth but lowered her blade. Good, he did not enjoy having to be rough with his elders.

“Now what business doth one with a Lady of the Black Knife at his beck and call have in this place.”

He let his cane drag on the ground, hoping to intimidate the young man into leaving. His sort occasionally wandered down here. Young men from the capital, sometimes even relatives of his brother who had somehow managed to acquire one of his Mohg’s medals. Very few were actually serious about joining their cause. They were boys, children who did not understand that revolution is not bloodless, like this one who had become so nauseous at the very scent of it. They were not soldiers and it was better to drive them away sooner rather than later.

“I am here to speak with Lord Mohg.” The young man choked. “He invited me.”

“Invited you?”

“He offered me a riddle and I solved it.” He extended one of Mohg’s medals, a smear of what looked like his own blood upon its face. A riddle. Mohg had presented Godwyn with…

Morgott took a better look at the young man. There was something oddly familiar in his face, parts of him that he recognized in his brother and parts of him that he recognized in a mirror.

“You are his brother then.” Morgott tried to keep himself from appearing rattled.

“I have no right to call myself his brother, but yes.”

Morgott was unsure how to take that.

“The pervasiveness of the scent of blood in my lord’s domain is not to everyone’s taste, I do not believe he will be offended that it made you ill.”

Godwyn did not say anything in response, he just nervously opened and closed his fists. It was strange, tales of his exploits during the war with the dragons and the war with the giants had reached Morgott and Mohg’s ears, and yet the man who was a match for the dragon Fortissax seemed so nervous in his presence.

“Do you need directions?” Morgott asked, hoping to excuse himself from this uncomfortable situation as quickly as possible.

“What- what is Prince Morgott like?” Godwyn suddenly blurted out. “You serve as his knight, could you tell your impression of him?”

Morgott blinked. He had not expected that.

“He is unsociable and often taken with fits of melancholy.” Agh that was far too negative! Margit, the character he had constructed, would not say that about his liege lord. “But he is also the first to put himself on the line when engaging in battle.” Of course he was, he was far more durable than most of the men under his command, and they certainly couldn’t coat their blades in blood flame as he could. “And he is diligent in his duties as a leader.” It was difficult for him to think of good things other people might have to say about him.

The assassin squinted at the slight shimmer of the enchantment that hid his tail.

“Lord Mohg intends to be wed tonight, if you wish to speak with him you ought to hurry before he becomes indisposed.”

Immediately Godwyn snapped out of his slump.

“He is getting married and he didn’t tell me?!”

Alecto pinched the bridge of her nose in a way that suggested this sort of reaction was not unexpected.

“It was only decided a few days ago…”

“I don’t even have a gift!” It seemed like he was no longer listening to him.

The assassin sidled up next to Morgott as Godwyn scrambled to determine something he could offer as a gift.

“It would be best if you could just take us to Lord Mohg, he will not cease in his prattling until he collapses.”

“You are quite familiar with your lord.”

“I have known him since he was a child. He is more my nephew than he is my lord. You must be familiar with yours given how you described him.”

“Yes, we’re quite close,” Morgott answered lamely. Clearly he’d already shat the bed.

Alecto leaned towards him.

“It is good to see our ways preserved. Your sisters never showed any aptitude or interest in the arts of assassins.”

“It is less that I have any interest and more that such arts were necessary for me to survive.”

“Such is the way most of us in this profession must learn.”

“What exactly are you doing here? The court of Queen Marika must be a very comfortable place for an assassin.”

“I’ve grown soft in my old age.” The old assassin's face tightened. “I was once very close with Queen Marika, though, in these recent decades, she has become a stranger to me. I am accustomed to uncomfortable deeds but I’ve found I’ve come to resent performing them when I believe them needless. Is that sufficient explanation for you?”

It would have to be. Mohg had invited Godwyn here. That was incredibly rare. Morgott had long given up on connecting with any of their family members, but if Mohg had initiated, Mohg, who was always the most pessimistic when it came to their siblings, maybe something could actually come of this.