Marquis

  The drow’s blood-soaked hair and swollen flesh of his body already attempting to abandon its will to live are expected. I have seen and carried centuries of it before anyway. Desperate to forget what I can of their faces in a feeble attempt at kindness for myself, I have even burned those poor souls.

  But this…

  This I do not expect.

  I was not told I would find beauty twisted up on the ground outside of House Baenre. The drow is unconscious and properly bruised, no doubt. But even beaten and in such a discarded state, he is remarkable.

  Dangerously so.

  Alexios, she reveals to me.

  Her new… armament.

  There is elegance to the drow, even in absolute ruin. His silver-white hair is tangled to no end, but still luminous under the violet lights of Menzoberranzan. His mouth, lip split and bloodied, is still soft.

  Retrieve him, Marquis.

  Carefully, he is lifted into my arms, head lolling against my shoulder.

  It is time to bring Alexios home.

  --

  I clean Alexios ever so thoroughly, but still… he does not stir. He rests on silken sheets just as she commands. The ruined finery of his clothes, if they can even be called that, have been carefully stripped away to fully assess the damage.

  Bruises burst across his ribs as do boot prints along his back and shoulders. Welts shaped suspiciously like fingers wrap around his throat.

  Pressing a cloth to his forehead, I attempt to coax the swelling down, well aware that comfort is rather useless to the drow in his unconscious state.

  To my surprise, his mind is open to me. I press in and what I find first…

  Obedience.

  Decades of smoke-filled chambers and perfumed darkness unfold before me.

  Hands that do not bother to ask. They simply… take.

  The man before me has been trained to please and smile, even while being hollowed out piece by brutal piece. He kneels often and is rewarded finely for not resisting. Now his beauty makes perfect sense.

  Alexios has been… molded into this. Cruelly ripped apart and put back together to serve House Baenre.

  My hands curl into enraged fists at my sides. He cannot simply escape from this.

  Then…

  The memories shift into something far too recent. Rough hands pin Alexios’s arms and legs down, held back not just symbolically, but physically as well.

  He screams out a name.

  Nykky.

  A wood elf, propped up by masked men in a vulgar display of power as daggers rise.

  Once. Twice. Again.

  Then again.

  And… again.

  Fifty-seven times.

  Alexios does not lose count. He is forced to watch every one of them, head held stagnant by a boot. Gore pours from the boy while someone takes it upon themselves to throw Alexios toward him to make certain he sees what remains.

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  Then the beatings begin.

  I tear myself free from his mind, staggering back with one hand braced against the bedpost. This is grief. This is mourning so fresh that even Alexios does not know it simmers inside of him, eager to erupt.

  At least, looking down at the drow, I understand why our queen claimed him. Hollowed out no longer serves as the best example to explain him, no. He has been entirely scooped out by not only loss, but violence that has completely erased a future he thought he had secured.

  Alexios’s rage will come soon enough, that is certain. But for now, we must swim through the sorrow that has been layered upon love that has been brutally ripped away right in front of his very eyes.

  Reluctantly, I return to his side to smooth the hair from his face. He still does not wake, but a soft sigh is heard, not unlike a child trying his best not to weep.

  I am to be the drow’s guardian, but not in the same way I am to the Mother. He will be mentored and if the queen intends to make a consort of Alexios, I do not believe he will ever truly belong to her alone.

  “You brought him in,” a voice speaks from the doorway.

  My beautiful Phaedra, with her sharp intellect and dark hair falling loosely past her shoulders, is far too curious and unafraid to stay away from this. The door opens further in a whisper, but I do not look up at her at first.

  I stay seated beside the bed, replacing a cooling cloth at Alexios’s temple and watching the uneven rise of his chest. In all my honesty, I am no longer certain I want him to wake.

  “Yes,” I answer. “Just as I was commanded.”

  She comes closer to assess, more than aware she is taking in his attraction as well. Phaedra has always had an eye for beauty.

  “This is the one the queen wanted,” she whispers. “He has been kept… as a mortal?”

  I nod, unaware of the reasoning myself.

  “You sound displeased with that,” Phaedra mentions. “That is rather surprising.”

  “It should not be,” I reply simply.

  Phaedra stops at the foot of the bed, tilting her head.

  “Is he… even still alive?” she asks at last.

  “Barely,” I say. “I fear this one will be our most stubborn by far.”

  “She seems rather confident.”

  I exhale sharply.

  “I have seen too much of him far too soon,” I admit quietly.

  Phaedra folds her arms.

  “You looked inside his mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “She did not ask that of you, Marquis.”

  “No,” I agree. “But you and I both know I would have done it anyway.”

  That familiar fusion of irritation and interest fills her expression. I pause.

  “And?”

  “He… was owned,” I say harshly, aware that I should choose my next words carefully. “Used ruthlessly. The man he loved most in this world was butchered like swine in front of him.”

  Phaedra gasps.

  “How… how recently?” she asks.

  “His mind has not decided whether it is real yet.”

  She shakes her head and lets her hand rest on my shoulder, thumb gently caressing the fabric of my red cloak.

  “That explains her eagerness then.”

  “It explains the vulnerability and exploitation,” I correct.

  “Careful, Marquis.”

  “I am always careful,” I respond. “At least I try to be which is precisely why I am concerned for him.”

  She turns her attention back to Alexios.

  “You are attached already.”

  “I am aware, my dear Phaedra.”

  “Is that not worse then?”

  Then she exhales sharply as I look away from the drow resting before me.

  “You always do this,” Phaedra says, exhausted.

  I scoff.

  “Elaborate.”

  “You cannot help aspiring to save broken things.”

  “I am not trying to save him,” I answer sternly. “I am attempting to make sure Alexios will survive her and what ever kind of weapon she plans to make of him.”

  “What happens if he does not wish to, in all his grief?”

  I do not answer. I simply cannot.

  Phaedra watches Alexios for a moment longer before finally stepping away.

  “Will you find me when he wakes?” she asks. “It is a must that I meet the man that our queen seems so… smitten with.”

  I nod gently before her soft lips leave trails of kisses from my jaw up into my golden hair. When she leaves, I take Alexios’s hand before I can stop myself.

  “Rest,” I whisper as I lean in closer to him. “You will not be alone. I will make sure of it.”

  Drawing my magic through myself slowly, I press my palm to his sternum. This magic has been earned through centuries I do not dare allow myself to think about in this moment.

  Alexios’s bruises begin to pale, turning from angry purples and blacks to rather ill-looking yellows. Bones are eased back into alignment while torn muscle is tempted into remembering its shape.

  Opening my wrist, I watch as the blood wells up before letting it spill onto his broken skin. Where his flesh is split, the blood helps it knit together again as if the wounds had never happened at all.

  “No…” he gasps out.

  My hand stills.

  “You are not alone,” I whisper before I can truly stop the words from falling from my lips. The words feel absolutely absurd, yet my hand remains on his taut chest.

  My fingertips move along his ribs, locating further pain areas. His body tenses repeatedly before slowly easing back to a calmer state as half sobs, half pleas fill the space.

  “Nykky…”

  His face twists in pain, chest rising and falling rapidly as tears spill from his closed eyes. Yet he still cannot wake.

  “I am… sorry,” I say.

  What more can I say to him in this moment? What difference will my “comfort” make in his storm of grief?

  Alexios cries louder this time, hands curling into the sheets as if he is still trying to stop what can never be undone. I cannot help but move closer instinctually, letting the spell wrap him in warmth although it will never be enough to tame his grief and soon-to-be rage.

  “Rest. Just rest.”

  A broken gasp rattles his chest.

  “Please… let me… let me die.”

  Clenching my eyes shut, my head drops in anguish at his plea that is being offered to no one at all. I cup his face without thinking as another spell connects with him. His sobs become quiet, sorrowful breaths that never cease entirely.

  I remain at his side long after the bruises have faded and when I finally withdraw my hand, it is trembling.

  What will Alexios truly become?