Page 55 of Forge the Blade

It was fitting now, this duality. How often the mother goddesses of the world were also goddesses of death. Beginning was one half of a portal that also embraced the ending. If Ellisandre could, they would reap the life of Raska’s son now, and gift to existence the man that Sevastyan was without them in his blood.

But they were not such a goddex. They could not rebirth their lover. They could only lead him through transformation. So lead him they would. It was the sacred trust he had begged of them.

Sevastyan’s eyes were on them. They showed him the knife. He gazed at it and looked back to their face. There was nothing in his eyes or in the way his body lay beneath them that asked them to stop. He was waiting for them.

Ellisandre cut their own left palm.

Sevastyan’s body tensed under theirs. They smiled. He would have been still if they had cut him, but to see them cut themselves, he quailed.

They looked at what they had done. One slender, long shallow line across the breadth of their hand, that was all. The sharpness of the blade was almost painless at first. Vermillion life force rose to the surface, summoned by the parting of flesh. They turned their hand upwards above Sevastyan, letting the blood pool.

They touched Sevastyan’s chest, above his heart with their uncut hand. “You are born of yourself, Vast. If the line from which you come is corrupted, cut it off. If you are still breathing, still living, then the shape of fate may be changed. You have already changed the shape of your fate. To lie here, beneath me, you rewrote the stars. Not every man will do such a thing, but you, Sevastyan, are made of myth and mettle, of art and grace. Your soul is tangled with mine and with Rei. You are touched by heaven and rebirth.”

They dipped into the pool in their palm with two fingers and laid the wet tips against Sevastyan’s breast. They drew marks down his torso, across his cheek, over his thighs, touched each of his fingers, anointing him until the blood ran dry and their palm ached. He lay still, his eyes fixed on them, the air barely entering and leaving his lungs.

Ellisandre pressed their cut palm to their lips long enough to stain them red and closed their wounded hand. They leaned down, their thighs framing Sevastyan’s chest, and set their mouth against his.

He rose from the bed, gripping at them, his mouth hungry. They grasped his braids with their undamaged hand and he wrapped thick arms around their waist, drinking redemption from their tongue.

Revelation flooded Ellisandre’s body. Sevastyan’s arms, strong, grasping, firm in ways they had never been in their youth, gripped them, pressed their belly against their boy’s chest. He was clinging to them in a way that made them heady with power; his strength beneath them was glory and life and devastation.

Two sides of the same coin, like Ishtar, like all the myths, one step away from a tragedy, one step from a redemption; their beautiful, powerful, broken boy, their man drowning in his own pain and breathing life into those around him with the same lungs.

Ellisandre clasped Sevastyan’s head between their hands, kissing until their bodies were both gasping for air. His pale braids were streaked with vermillion, his skin anointed with Ellisandre’s life force.

Between them, his cock was hard and streaked with his own ointment. Ellisandre grasped it in their unwounded hand.

He groaned. “Please.” He let go, trying to turn. This was allowed. He stretched out on the bed, parting his thighs in invitation, showing them the gate into his body they had so recently cleaned.

So much of their boy was large and strong and round with muscle, but here, he was soft and pink. Two pads of their fingers against his hole and he quivered. Want erupted in their belly. They grasped the twin mounds of his buttocks and squeezed, rubbing them and parting them until he was straining to offer his body.

Tools. Tools were needed. Their boy was ready. They were ready.

Ellisandre went to the armoire. Their harness and cocks were laid out neatly in drawers. Blood smeared against the door. Gauze.

They reached for the supplies left on the bed and wrapped their hand, biting down and tying it in place rather than taping it. Sevastyan watched, desperate want and lust on his features.

Back to the armoire.

The harness was right there. They had to take a breath and steady their hands to buckle the harness around their hips. Their boy’s need was inflaming their own. The cock at the front of the harness settled into place. The weight felt good.

Sevastyan’s hands flexed against the bed, muscles rippling down his back as he held himself still. No ropes, no chains, only desire for his goddex kept him flat on the mattress.

Lube. That was what was next. They grabbed it. Control. They needed control more than they needed lube. Without it, they were going to go feral on their boy.

Ellisandre prowled back to the bed. They dropped the lube between his legs and bent down, biting into his ass. His cry satisfied something deep inside them. And the way he moved, his entire form flexing against the sheets. . . beautiful. Masculine perfection. They spread his buttocks and stroked his hole. It flexed, pulsating under their touch. When the cool of the lube dropped down, it almost disappeared, flinching from contact. With their uninjured hand, they coaxed it open and slid a finger inside. He spread his legs further, welcoming them with his whole being.

Moments like this were not meant to be rushed. With one hand, they loosened his hole and with their other, they caressed him. His body undulated under them, seeking their touch, straining to drive himself back on their hand, arching for more. His eyes were closed and his hands were fisted in the sheets. He was completely under, a creature of instinct, need, and submission.

Ellisandre laughed, dropping kisses on his spine. They swung a leg over his thigh, bringing his legs together, and pressed their cock into him.

His arms spread out on the sheets, clenching the edges of the bed. The towels were awry. Light streaks of blood painted a tapestry around them. Ellisandre unfurled their body over his, sinking in deeper as he groaned. He tried to part his legs, but they clamped down, keeping him in place, making him feel every moment of the entrance. Only when they had bottomed out did they let him open his thighs, body shaking. Lips against his shoulder, they praised him silently. He reached back, clutching at their hip, then their hand. Their hand he could have. He brought it to his lips.

They rode him slowly. Sweat broke out across their boy’s back. It rolled down Ellisandre’s neck. He pushed back, bracing his elbows to meet them, roll for roll, moving together.

“More,” he begged.

They nuzzled his ear. “Be exact, beautiful boy.”