Dynasty of Blood and Flame

Chapter 8

There was one thing that Mohg wanted that he had always been afraid to ask of his husband. Not because he would say no, but because Mohg knew he would say yes. It was his own hesitancy that stayed his hand. He still remembered the utter terror he felt when he’d been bound with a fragment of his old shackles, even though this time it had been Gareth, someone he loved and trusted. What he wanted now had the potential to awaken the same utter panic within him, though the memories that had the capacity to awaken that fear were far hazier. However, the truly frightening part was that this was an act he had once enjoyed immensely. He didn’t want to know if this was a form of pleasure that had been forever taken from him.

His husband was in the library today, flame flickering over a scroll of death sorceries. The lady Ranni sat with him, attempting to explain to him the difference in practice between channeling flame by faith alone and channeling flame through sorcery.

Gareth had sought out her counsel when Gwyneth had discovered her connection to the ghost flame. Neither of them fully trusted each other, their ideas on theology and politics being too disparate and their ambitions too strong for either of them to ever give in to the other but, Ranni was the foremost authority on sorcery in the Lands Between. Gareth was willing to risk a knife in his back if Ranni could help him support his daughter. It was fairly slow going. Gareth was never formally educated, and sorcery did not come to him like incantations did, but he was learning. What the witch gained from this arrangement was far more difficult for Mohg to glean.

Ranni noticed Mohg come in before his husband did. He never really knew what to make of the princess. She didn’t go out of her way to attempt to aid him and Morgott during their confinement, but she also did not hypocritically attempt to court them as allies once it ended. That could have indicated she shared their parent’s distaste for him and his brother, but she never actively opposed Mohg either. Her belief that the influence of gods should be removed from the Lands Between had put her in conflict with Morgott, but she had left him alone entirely. Her glass doll’s eye looked at him with curiosity more than anything else as she raised her head, a wry smile on her ceramic face.

“Brother.” She inclined her head as acknowledged him though she did not address him by his proper title. He did not take offense at this, she refused the use of titles for everyone, referring to Gareth either by his name or “Tarnished”. However she did not do this out of disrespect or arrogance, she refused to be addressed as princess herself, preferring to be referred to as a mere witch if as anything. Her refusal was born out of conviction that authority was not a thing to be respected, not out of personal disregard. She turned towards Gareth, who had flared up brightly upon realizing who had entered. “I believe I ought to conclude thy lesson for today. Thine attention has drifted from thy scrolls, Tarnished.” She eyed Mohg again, seeming to search for something in them both.

He could imagine what it might be she was looking for. Both of their parents had eventually separated, whether it was due entirely to political machinations, or one side or the other had fallen out of love, it was impossible to say. But that had not happened to him and Gareth. Their affection for each other had not cooled or ended in a fiery explosion. If anything they had grown closer. When Ranni stole glances at them both under the brim of her wide hat, Mohg was sure she was trying to determine what was so different about his and Gareth’s relationship when compared to her mother and parent’s.

In his opinion it was likely because the ways they expressed their love to each other were so complementary, and that they communicated their likes and dislikes to each other honestly, as well as what they found had become stale. However if that was the answer she sought she would’ve found it with Rykard and Tanith. She must have been searching for something more, something that he could not name himself. Something he still shied away from every time he felt it at the edge of his consciousness. Lust he understood, mutual benefit he understood, but the thing that lurked just at the edges of his mind was frightening and exhilarating in equal parts. That unknown thing was what had finally given him the strength to ask what he was about to, but still it frightened him to death.

Ranni left silently, leaving a trail of cold in her wake, and shut the door behind her, clearly understanding Mohg wished for privacy in this matter. He clenched his hands, digging his claws into his palms to steady himself. “There is something I wish to do with you.” He tried to sound as if it were not an effort to ask.

“Anything.” His husband stood. Mohg knew Gareth would slit his own wrists if he asked him to. He had slit his wrists because he asked him to. “All you need to do is ask.” He held Mohg’s hand.

“You are aware I can transform my body into living blood correct?”

“Yes, I’ve known since the second time we battled each other.” Mohg knew he avoided saying, “when you came out of Miquella’s body.”

“I wish to become your blood. Just for a short time!” He added quickly.

“How long is just a short time?”

“Perhaps a day or two, though I reserve the right to back out early if I require it.”

“I admit that I will miss your presence for that day or two.” Gareth said quietly. Mohg was a little surprised at the admission. He would’ve thought Gareth would have gone for the idea right away given his obsession with closeness. For some reason, he didn’t mind the hesitancy. He liked knowing he would be missed.

“I would still be present. My consciousness and capacity for speech would remain.” Gareth lifted his head in renewed interest.

“So you want to be so close to me as to live under my skin?” By his tone of voice Mohg knew he’d gotten him going. “That sounds intimate beyond anything you’re usually comfortable with.”

“I know.” Mohg still had his moments of discomfort, even now, with intimacy outside sex. This wouldn’t be sex exactly, but a different kind of intense physical closeness. He’d done it only two times in his memory, and had enjoyed it immensely both. However there was a third half foggy memory of him living within Miquella that turned his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he could still find any enjoyment in it with that eating away at his mind. But yet, he still wanted to try. “It is still something I wish to do regardless.”

“Is there anything you need me to do in advance? Drain my blood or anything like that?”

“No,” he rested the long claw of his middle finger against Garreth’s wrist. “Merely, please allow me to do it before I lose my nerve.” He cupped Mohg’s cheek, gently running his thumb over his horns. Then Gareth gently knocked the exposed teeth of his skull against Mohg’s, his version of a reassuring kiss. He pressed the point Mohg’s claw into his wrist drawing a small bead of blood.

“Please.” Gareth leaned his forehead against Mohg’s. The Elden Lord drew his claw the rest of the way across his king’s wrist. He didn’t flinch, but Mohg could feel his eyeless gaze upon his finger as he opened the wound. For a long time Mohg didn’t move, he just stared as blood began to wind around Gareth’s wrist and drip to the floor. The wound glistened in the afternoon light, open, waiting for Mohg to enter. He briefly pressed his teeth to the wound, drawing a quiet hiss from Gareth. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself and leaned his trident against the table before melting to the floor.

Existing as a boneless liquid was actually somewhat relaxing for Mohg. He was habitually tense. Even now living in a comfortable home with a loving family he had to remind himself to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw. Rendering himself blood relieved some of that tension. It is difficult to carry stress in muscles that do not exist. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t move of course. He’d learned to crawl in liquid form years ago. Mohg never discovered how Morgott had slipped his shackles, but this was how he had escaped, seeping through the cracks between the stones beneath his seal and clawing through grout until he reached ground water. With that skill he began to crawl his way up Gareth’s leg.

Mohg allowed himself to spread over him as he traveled upwards, the warm sticky wetness of blood serving as his embrace. The god of the frenzied flame gripped the edge of the table as Mohg flowed around his thighs, however he intentionally avoided moving over Garreth’s cock. He couldn’t make it sexual. Turning it into something sexual would make it too easy for him. It would let him turn away from that feeling that hid just at the edge of his mind. Mohg was not one to fear things unknown to him, even if they made him uncomfortable. Fearing that which he did not understand was a filthy habit, and not one he intended to start now.

Mohg streamed upwards, flowing over Gareth’s chest and onto his wounded arm, stopping just before he entered his husband’s slashed wrist. Gareth had given up standing now. He sat in the chair he’d been in when Mohg entered, gripping the arms tightly. Mohg let the edges of himself slip into the open wound, mixing with the blood already leaking from the severed veins. Then he allowed himself to slowly flow inside.

Gods, Mohg had forgotten how good this felt. He was surrounded on all sides, but it wasn’t claustrophobic as he feared it might be. It was comforting to be in the warm darkness of another body, to be held tightly in the walls of his veins, to hold every inch of his lover in turn through the complex network of arteries, veins and capillaries, to feel his heart beating and know that he was inside it, to feel the ghost of movement, arms coming up to wrap around his body.

“Are you alright?” Mohg whispered against the edge of Gareth’s mind that always curled around his own. He couldn’t respond. Mohg could feel him struggling to order his thoughts enough to offer a coherent answer. He’d overwhelmed him. Whatever this thing was that he felt at the edges of his mind, it was too much. “Do I need to leave?”

“No!” Gareth managed to get out. “No. I- words- not enough. Can I?” Mohg felt him touch the edge of his mind. He knew what he was asking. Garreth wanted to show him what he was feeling rather than try to put it into words. He did that sometimes, the part of him that remembered being human didn’t know words powerful enough to convey the magnitude of his emotions and the part of him that remembered being the flame knew there was a simpler, if more invasive, solution. He always asked beforehand, never forcing an emotion into Mohg without his knowledge of consent. He didn’t want Mohg to have to question what were his own thoughts and what were Gareth’s. Mohg opened his mind wide for him, throwing open the barriers he’d carefully constructed to shield his mind from the formless god he communed with. Although it was only temporary, they were of one body, one flesh and one blood, they ought to be one mind as well.

Gareth sent the emotion through the connection between them. It was so strong and so bright Mohg felt the urge to turn his mind’s eye away from it. But he refused. It was something he recognized. The same thing he was so afraid of when he encountered it within himself. Though Gareth’s felt different, more intense and tinged faintly with obsession. Mohg almost hesitantly sent his own experience of it between them. The tinge of his was less sharp, but had a depth of complexity developed over years of growth. No obsession colored it, but still it was a constant presence within the landscape of his mind. Gareth accepted it curiously. Then a spark of excited recognition flew across their connection and Gareth sent the same feeling across to him again, this time with a confused jumble of words, repeating as if he was attempting to shout over himself.
“Lovesmelovesmelovesmelovesmelovesmeloveslovesmelovesme!” That’s what it was wasn’t it. He’d never had time for romance before he’d met Gareth. There was confinement, and then war, and then enchantment with basically no rest in between. What he felt for Miquella under the enchantment wasn’t like this either. It didn’t have the same depth of what he felt now, it was flat, close to obsession but defanged, made saccharine, the kind of love he imagined a dog felt for its master. This was different, a love complex and subtle. Something that had wrapped around his heart slowly, so slowly he did not realize it was there until it had completely enveloped him.

He was in love. It hadn’t taken him hard and fast as books had led him to believe it would. It hadn’t come in flowers or poetry written in a trembling hand. He hadn’t expected it to come at all. His ambition required a political marriage, the most he had hoped for was compatible sexual desires. However, love had come for him. It came in blood and violence, in sheer stupid devotion, long nights spent talking, in pieces of each other torn away and consumed, in raising children and avoiding the mistakes of their parents, and in flame that burned and cleansed in equal measure. He had been in love for years, but had been too afraid to stare down its blade and acknowledge it for what it was.

“I suppose I do.” It was still difficult to admit it out loud. Instead Mohg sent what he felt across their mental connection and felt as Garreth’s mind curled around his own.

He never delved too deep into Mohg’s head, both out of respect and caution. The Frenzied Flame was a mad god. Gareth was a mad god. Communing with outer gods that were sane broke people’s minds. The flame bleached the skulls of supplicants and poured raw madness from their eyes. It was madness to even think of asking permission to enter the mind of something like that. But was it not madness to let his words pass between their minds and not through the air. Was it not madness to look into the flame as he did every morning? Mohg was drunk on love, drunk on intimacy, and he wanted them to be closer, not just one in body but in mind as well, insanity be damned. He pressed against the edges of Gareth’s consciousness, scratching at his walls like a cat begging to be let in. Gareth was worried, Mohg could feel it, but he insisted, digging even harder into the barrier between them. Then Gareth let the barrier down.

Mohg felt his mind scorch as they crashed together. The flame of madness that engulfed his mind was utterly agonizing, but he endured the pain. He had felt it before, when Gareth had burned Miquella’s enchantment from his mind. Despite the white-hot agony, a corner of him knew this was a pain that loved him, a pain that didn’t want to hurt him. So he endured, until the sensation of it began to deaden. It wasn’t that the pain of it had lessened, it was still just as intense as it had been, Mohg was merely getting used to it.

They staggered to their feet. Was it always like this? It was always like this, worse before they merged. He had to expel some of it through his eyes every once in a while to alleviate the pain. Wait, who did? Gareth did. They gripped the table for support and the edge broke off. Damn it. His accursed strength was yet another memento from his father. Remember boy, temperance must be chief among thy virtues. For thou art cursed, thy existence is a wound upon the order. Thou shalt not tear it wider with thy lack of discipline. Did he say that to him? No, his parents did not deign to visit him. Those words fell from the lips of a perfumer tasked with his care. One of the few who knew he was a prince, but one of the many who still treated him like an animal. He wasn’t an animal, he was loved and he would tear apart anyone who said anything different. He knew that now, he knew that.

Shit! They still had things they were supposed to do today! They were supposed to hold audience in an hour! How on earth were they supposed to manage that? Then, they spotted Mohg’s trident out of the corner of their eye. They took the weapon in their hands, the weight equally familiar and unfair in their grip. They would manage like they always had, even if their advisors would wonder why today the king eternal carried two spears.

For three days, the two of them shared the same skin, the same flesh and bones, the same mind. Neither wanted to leave the comfort of the other's presence, but there was only so long they could explain Mohg’s conspicuous absence and Gareth’s sudden shift in personality. So, at the end of that third day, they retired to their quarters to separate once again.

Mohg decoupled himself from Gareth’s mind before they began, carefully sifting through the roaring flame to pull out his own thoughts and memories. When he finally managed to pull himself free he was immediately overtaken with two equally intense and conflicting emotions. The first was relief. Over those three days he had become used to the excruciating pain of the frenzied flame scorching his mind. However, the second he was free of it, he felt relief wash over him, his mind suddenly remembering what not being in agony felt like. At the same time, he also felt suddenly and profoundly empty. Leaving their shared existence felt as if he was tearing away a part of his soul. As he raked the last bit of himself out of the flames he felt Gareth slit himself open again and Mohg gushed from his body. Despite his reluctance to leave the comfort of another’s body, Mohg ensured he made a swift exit. It wouldn’t do if Gareth lost too much blood. Mohg understood now, even death at the hands of a lover was on some level unpleasant to experience, he wouldn’t cause his love undue suffering.

As he reconstituted himself he saw that Gareth was shaking. Blood still gushed from his wrist and he made no attempt to heal the wound. Mohg quickly applied one of the meager healing incantations he knew, attempting to staunch the bleeding. Then, Gareth’s other hand shot out, quickly grabbing hold of Mohg’s robes. He desperately held on as if he were a man drowning, digging his face into Mohg’s chest, not caring that he singed his lover’s clothes. His jaw moved, forming words unspoken, words that could no longer be spoken, that his mind was too overwhelmed to relay. It was only then that Mohg realized Gareth was sobbing. He pulled Gareth closer to him, one hand still over his injured wrist.

“I’m here dearest. I’m still here.” Mohg slid his hand up and down Gareth’s back.

“Loves me?” He finally managed, his voice small and plaintive inside Mohg’s head.

“I love you.” He let his fangs brush the crown of Gareth’s skull. The king still held Mohg’s robes tightly in his fist but his body no longer shook with unvoiced sobs.

“I was afraid I would be lonely when I took you into myself,” he laughed quietly. “You must think I’m a fool to feel so alone now that we are together again.”

“You are not a fool. After becoming one with another so fully, it is only natural to feel alone in the aftermath.” He had felt so alone every time he left Miquella. No one was there to hold him, to comfort him, it was just battle after battle to protect a god that didn’t love him. A grim echo of his brother. Mohg still kept eyes on Miquella, trusting his spies more than word of mouth when it came to such a man. The worst thing was, he wasn’t doing anything. Well not nothing, he had began a ministry to the sick in his Haligtree far to the north, the path to it now open to those that would seek his help. However he was not building an army, he was not attempting to garner power, nor mistreating his patients as far as Mohg could tell. Miquella was acting as a kind and noble demigod prince. And yet a voice screamed out in his head “Where was that consideration for me?! Where was that kindness when you stole me from myself?”

“I would still gladly do this with you again.” Gareth’s hand loosened in Mohg’s robes and he began to tend to his own wound. Mohg was not lonely now. He did not need to fear the coming of dreams, for there was someone he could share his very soul with.

“And I with you.”