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She mistook the look in the approaching knight's eyes for want, and began to pour a goblet of wine for him right away, lest he start yelling.
The dregs of the Golden Lineage infesting Stormveil Castle were known to carouse to their hearts’ content; and since most of these nobles were grafted to the hilt, with more hearts than one man required, it was no wonder every celebration lasted from twilight until dawn, and any excuse to derive pleasure from a servant’s misery was seized upon with glee; more than once she and her companions had been whipped to within an inch of their lives over some minor infraction, all for a laugh.
Naturally she sought to mitigate her chances of bodily harm through flawless service. But on this night, as this knight drew near, she saw it wasn't unfulfilled want in his gaze, or even need, but a grim resignation—the lines worn around his eyes said so.
“Come with me," he said, voice clipped, as he reached for her elbow.
She drew back at his tone. "Wherefore?"
"Your lord demands it.”
"Surely not I."
The knight’s brows furrowed. “Come—no time for dithering.”
“You might tell me what’s going on—what I am being requested for?” She never would have spoken back so, but worry—and the late hour—made her bold.
The knight shook his head. "'Tis not my place to say. Neither is it your place to ask questions. Now come.”
A glance about the room confirmed her fear: another servant had heard the knight’s missive, repeated it to another servant in passing, who delivered it unto the next servant, and so on. Worse yet, the noble she had been serving had also heard the mysterious summons, and with a theatrically loud whisper characteristic of the very very drunk, repeated it to his companion and anyone else within earshot. The weight of their eyes upon her felt like an accusation.
She lowered the metal serving vessel, but too slowly—the knight, impatient, did grab her elbow after all, jerking her in the direction of their liege’s chambers, and the vessel jumped from her hand to the floor with a clang, dark wine escaping to soak the carpet and floorboards. A cheer went up from the drunken nobility, but this time there were no calls for her immediate punishment—they were too far into their cups to truly care.
The knight steered her through the cold, cramped servants’ corridors, out into the courtyard, to a small splintered door. Through the resulting hallway they traveled until they came upon a newer part of the castle, whose gleaming stone walls were decorated with red-and-green tapestries typical of the Golden heraldry. She had seen the like throughout the castle, but nothing so grand as the pieces on display here. Even so, for all their grandiosity, their surfaces were still pocked by moth-bites here and there, and the edges were frayed.
The knight didn’t waste any more of his breath speaking to her, though once or twice he did shoot her furtive glances. What was she to be, then? A sacrifice? Just another one of the stinking bodies in the courtyard, leaking blood and viscera into the dirt? The pity in his eyes suggested as much.
They halted at the base of a door. The knight pushed it open by his shoulder, the great carved reliefs jutting from the wood pressing their heads against him. He took a knee as soon as they passed the threshold.
The vast chamber was over-decorated with golden scroll-work and jewel-toned curtains of rich silk shot with gold thread. Mismatched stonework on the ceiling and two of the walls suggested the room had been hastily enlarged. And soon she saw why. In a great hearth roared a great fire; in front of that fire sat a vast table decorated with maps, pieces, like chess pieces, that she didn’t recognize, place settings; and at that table, limned by the crackling red flames, swathed in great bolts of fine red-and-green cloth, sat the enormous lord of the castle, Godrick.
Following the knight’s example, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head in a show of deference, glad to do it if only to remove her gaze from her lord. But a force she did not understand compelled her to raise her head infinitesimally, to examine him. Her heartbeat became a knife-point in her chest.
Then the knight left—the heavy thud of the closing door was his parting message. But it hardly registered.
In all her time at the castle she had never been this close to Godrick, had only glimpsed his hulking shamble from afar, heard the labored creak and snap of borrowed bones over stolen sinew from a distance. Now the noise of him seemed to thunder in her ears; she fancied she could hear the great gusts of breath expanding his lungs. He creaked like an old ship well past seaworthiness. He was a child’s idea of a hero, over-large, the sheer size of him demanding attention and consideration. And indeed now that she had fixed her eyes upon him she found could not look away, much as she wanted to.
Arms sprouted from his broad back, reminding her of a creature she had espied by the sea long ago, a strange beast that had been indeed alive, but not in a way that had made sense to her. She couldn’t recall its name now, only the obtuseness of its shape, and the way its spines had looked poised to prick her at a moment’s notice.
His face carried the suggestion of handsomeness; she could see centuries of careful breeding in the line of his cheekbones and in the distinctive golden color of his eyes, though their effect was diminished somewhat by the pair of aged, drooping lids in which they were framed. One iris was scummed over with a milky film. And his hair, rumored to be a striking silver, was in reality a dreary grey. Its lank snarls had been combed out and braided afresh. The crown of gold encircling his head did him no favors; it made her think not of true royalty but of a child playing pretend.
Belatedly she noticed someone else at the table. One of Godrick’s councilors, by the look of him—she spared him only a glance. Next to Godrick he seemed to matter not at all.
The councilor offered similar judgment, frowning as he gave her a once-over. His apparent annoyance brought her back to herself. Of course—she was brought here only to serve them. To blend into the background and keep the refreshments flowing. This realization settled her somewhat. She’d likely be back in the servants’ quarters in no more than a few hours.
She rose to her feet, keeping her head bowed and her eyes downcast, and set to work. The table was laid for her already; she need only move drinks and refreshments as needed, and stay out of the way. But her hands, usually steady, trembled each time she neared Godrick, and her skin tingled with a peculiar frisson; more than once she had thought she felt the weight of his gaze on the sliver of nape visible where her hair had been pinned up.
“What is the cause of thine tremble?” His voice, too close, startled her. She had not expected to be acknowledged, and came to a halt with a vessel of wine in her hands.
His hand, enormous, decorated with pock marks and small knurls, engulfed hers, and most of the jug handle besides. Though his skin emitted the cold clamminess of the dying or recently dead, his touched seemed to sear her; she barely restrained herself from crying out in fear. With the barest application of his strength he stopped her tremble, guided her in pouring. He didn’t let go until she placed the vessel on the table; and even then he held her wrist, vise-like, until she couldn’t help but let out a mewl of pain.
The councilor laughed. “Your servants are not made of sterner stuff?” he said. “Surely they know the reality of who they serve.”
“She has not been long in mine employ,” Godrick replied, and she looked up at him with a start. Why did he know that? She had presumed herself to be one of the many faceless drones crawling the castle, not worth his notice. “She will learn how best to serve her liege, as do most. Won’t thou?” This he addressed to her, but her throat, stoppered with fear, could make no reply.
She felt smothered by the weight of his attention—and by her own naïveté. All bodies who entered Stormveil were regarded with a jeweler's eye, judged for their fineness of limb, weren’t they? Why should she escape that scrutiny? Godrick’s grip pinned her to the spot as if in a vitrine. Was her judgment taking place this very moment? Surely he wouldn’t take my arms now, she thought, as I’m serving him. But certainty was not on her side. She had no clue as to when he grafted.
“Now, to my side,” Godrick said to the councilor— a strange command, as the had no reason to assume such a position. But Godrick spoke not to the councilor; he spoke to her. Both men’s eyes were on her, and her cheeks burned. Her movement to his side was delayed by shame and fear.
“Badly trained indeed,” murmured the councilor.
“Not so bad as others,” Godrick replied lightly. He seemed to consider her no worse than a misbehaving hound.
He pulled her by the wrist to his side, where she stood unthinkingly; she did not know what to do with her hands, nor where to rest her eyes. She felt as tightly strung as a bow. Mercifully, he released his hold on her. So close to him was she that she felt the warmth radiating from his massive body. Without moving her head she examined the patterns on his clothing, noted the bulging, pink flesh of his stolen joins. A tassel from the grimy cloak about his shoulders touched her cheek, and she stiffened.
Behind her, an arm slithered out from beneath his cloak, pulling her closer to his body. That arm stayed to attend to her, setting its fingers against the base of her neck, squeezing—and then caressing it lightly, as in a massage. The sensation was truly odd; not once in her life had anyone attended to her with such a disturbingly tender touch. This felt like a simple act of kindness, though it was surely not meant as such, and she could have cried for the relief it brought her weary muscles.
The councilor had manners enough not to acknowledge what his lord was doing, even as a pair of Godrick's stolen hands came to life to let her hair down. And the hands took their time, separating each lock with startling reverence, one hand spreading five—or did she feel six?—fingers across her crown to shake free any pins and let loose the torrent of her hair.
It had been so long since she had felt the touch of another that though his fingers were knobby and numbered too many she groaned with pleasure. Only by the grace of Marika did she resist her urge to lean back into him, to seek bodily warmth during this pantomime of intimacy. The councilor’s severe eye on her brought a flush of shame to her face. Godrick made no external reaction, though his hand did deepen its caress, slowing to a delicious crawl across her touch-starved scalp.
The heat in her face spread to that delicate spot between her legs; she pressed them together as if to halt its advance. How could this be my reaction? she thought, heart picking up pace. Her head ached to turn toward Godrick and search his face for some measure of humanity, though she knew she’d find none.
Suddenly, the councilor stood.
"The hour grows late, my lord, and I should be off. Enjoy your evening," he said, emphasizing evening with a certain disgust. He flicked his disdainful eyes in her direction, then left.
When the heavy door closed, they were finally alone. The fire crackled in the hearth for a moment, then two—panic nursed on this tiny stretch of silence. When it reached its full strength, she spoke.
"I as well should take my leave, my lord, if it please you; the festivities below—”
He stopped her movement by digging his fingers into her arm.
"’Twould not please me. There is no festivity worth more than service to me, direct."
Her body shook in anticipation of the sudden, inevitable removal of her arm, or leg, or head; she could see no other reason as to why he would detain her.
"Thou’rt afraid?" His voice a low, amused growl.
"Only eager to get back to my duties," she said, surprised by how calm her voice sounded.
"Afraid, then. And a poor liar.” Godrick nudged her forward, back to her feet, and rose to his full height before crouching down with some difficulty to bring his eye level to hers. "I have seen thy beseeching looks; all night thou hast gazed upon thine lord—with what? Desire? Hunger?”
He had knelt down on all fours, like an animal, just to look her eye to eye. Now that he had released her and the danger of immediate execution seemed to have passed, she felt empowered to look back at him. Again her heart’s first instinct was to appreciate the lines of his face, to feel humbled and awed by her proximity to his godliness, however diluted. Were those her feelings true? That he was … handsome? Impressive to her? But his body was… no, even his piecemeal appearance thrilled her. Knelt down as he was, his many arms unfurled across his back with a queer elegance; they moved idly as if brushed by the waters of a gentle tide. She covered her mouth to stifle a surprised cry at her realization.
“I see I do not misspeak,” he said, smug. His gaze, traveling over her, was hungry, and felt as heavy as a finger. She looked away, and took a step back from him, embarrassed. The distance between them was still negligible; one of his hands listed to her head again, gripping lightly a fistful of hair.
“Thy hair is quite fine,” he said, pulling it. The motion tilted her head up. She looked upon his face in full, into his lust-glazed eyes. He swallowed, a movement that convulsed the thin skin of his throat. It was too human a motion, and she felt sorry for him. He could never find a lover in the usual way; of course he had no choice but to resort to this odd courting ritual.
That generous feeling passed when he grabbed her belt, making to untie it.
"No," she said quietly. “Please.” Despite her confusing feelings of attraction, she couldn’t countenance the idea of…—whatever he wanted with her. Her mind had trouble comprehending it.
He paused. A scowl darkened his face. One of his hands came to her neck, calloused thumb scraping against the soft skin of her throat. He squeezed.
“Hear this,” he said, lowly. "Tonight, thy will is not thine own. 'Tis mine. When thine lord demands thee undress, thou whilst undress with alacrity. When thine lord demands certain services rendered, thine services shall be rendered. Dost thou understand?”
The threat in his voice raced down her spine with all the heat of the snap of a whip. Then he bore down on her, pushing her down onto the flagstones, and as she flung her arms backward to catch herself she knew her hands would come away scraped raw. She felt the sting of her flesh tearing. His mighty hands, not at all clumsy despite their odd number of fingers, worked quickly. He clutched the fabric of her dress and tore it like a veil.
He looked over her like one would look over a cut of meat, a thin line of drool forming at the side of his mouth. His slavering disgusted her certainly; but a darker impulse speared her, an impulse that made her raise her head toward his, position her mouth beseechingly.
He leaned down and pressed his spit-slick lips upon hers, pushing his tongue flat into her mouth, almost down into her throat. The choking pressure had her pulling back, but his arms stayed wrapped about her waist, urging her forward again.
It seemed that he expected nothing from her in terms of reaction; his hands roved according to his own desires, and he checked not her face for any changes in feeling or mood; so she thought she should simply lie there, silent, until it was over. But her traitorous body reacted to his multiple hands, and more strongly than she might have done had she been courted by a more conventional lover. He took notice after she made one noise in particular: a humiliated whine of pleasure.
Her reaction could not be mistaken for anything other than lust—she had had a few dalliances before, and so knew the feeling well. Of *course* she was afraid, but that fear thrilled her, warmed her skin like a fever.
With little effort at all he tore away her underthings, too, and spread her legs apart with two strong hands. She shook her head, pleading wordlessly for him to stop, though she knew she did want him after all, and knew that he would do what he wished regardless. And he knew her feelings too; the recognition in his eyes startled her. He licked his lips, trailing his six fingered hand down her body, callouses whispering against her tender skin.
After he had examined her, he made to remove his cloak. It fell to the floor with a soft sigh, as if relieved to be away from the skin it had covered.
The marbled skin of his torso was largely a sick, bruised purple, stitched together from flesh that waited too long in death before it was grafted. The pale skin of his throat transitioned messily into the stolen torso of a much larger beast. Sweat trickled down the crags and runnels hewn into his body by grafting. By all accounts, he was horrific; perhaps more horrific than the stories had given her reason to believe.
But when she looked at him, really looked at him, her sense of earlier awe returned; she noted the gnarls and lumps; admired the way one mutilated piece of flesh transitioned into the next; how his veins crisscrossed blue under his pale skin like a network of rivers on a map. On impulse, she reached out to touch him, running her fingers over his patchwork topography. No part of him was completely smooth. He shuddered, disparate muscles moving and twitching as one body.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a tarnished gold plate embedded in his skin, barely recognizing the wild thing looking back at her. And she could hardly believe, either, how quickly she put that image out of her mind, tilting her head up again to seek Godrick’s mouth. Perhaps she had gone mad after all. He moaned into her mouth, reaching to cradle her head.
A hand caressed down to that spot between her thighs, pressed its fingers against her mound. Her legs opened, almost of their own accord—no, she opened them herself, and knew what she was doing and what it meant to invite him.
His finger entered her with some difficulty; she felt each knurl on each joint. That single beastly finger was the size of a normal man’s cock, she thought, and a wild cry rose up within her. It felt like glee. She covered her mouth to stifle whatever sounds tried to jostle their way out, still embarrassed by her realization that she was so attracted to him, of all people. But he noticed the strength of her reaction. A crooked smile stole across his face. He buried the finger almost to the knuckle, stretching her out, and her cry broke free. His touch was inexpert; he pistoned in and out of her with little delicacy.
But it did the trick. She raised her hips, angling them so that each thrust touched the part deep inside her that brought her closer and closer to the brink. He removed his finger just as she felt she would reach her end, and she whined for the loss of friction, but he had other plans.
The stiff, drooling head of his cock found her cunt. He grabbed her ankle, pulled her leg at an angle most befitting him; and then he plunged into her with a single, powerful thrust. White-hot pressure filled her until she was sure her body would be riven as easily has her clothing had been. He rutted her artlessly, like a wild dog. A sheen of sweat pasted his damp hair to his forehead; his face was mottled with exertion. A few drops fell to her face, horribly, as he twisted and writhed above her.
The pain rose to a crescendo. She felt every inch of his overly large cock within her, felt the stretch and sting of its girth. She felt each thrust as if it were the point of a poker freshly taken from the fire; he hit upon the deepest part of her, over and over, until she thought she might scream. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes; for lack of anything else to grab she held on to one of his twisted arms.
“Say I am impressive,” he said, grunting. He had dropped his lordly thees and thous; the voice he used now was high and reedy, desperate for approval.
“You are impressive, my lord.” Her voice strained around her mingling pleasure and pain.
He continued, “Say I am fearsome.”
“The most fearsome thing I have seen, my lord.”
He dropped his head closer to her body, gripping her waist hard enough to squeeze the air from her. “Say you love me.”
“I— what?” she wheezed.
“Say it!”
“My love for you is most fervent, my lord.”
“Beyond all else!” His impatient cry rang in her ears. She said, quickly, “My love for you is all-encompassing-“
When he came it was with an ugly grunt; she felt every pulse of his member inside of her, knew as he withdrew that his seed would drip out of her as soon as she stood up. She met her own peak as soon as he did. The smell of sweat and come commingled.
He withdrew, and moved away from her. She kept her eyes screwed shut. The throbbing pain of her cunt distracted her so much that she did not immediately move to clothe herself again. Besides, he had torn most of them. What was left? She didn’t know what to say, either—did she address him at all? As she came down from her high she recalled how unique a situation this was.
“Remove her,” he rumbled. She opened her eyes at this, wondering who he spoke to; a pair of servants had moved into the room, silent as shadows. They eyed her lying there on the floor, naked and bruised, with some amount of pity; most of what their eyes held was disgust. They bent down to grab her arms, her legs. She had no energy with which to fight back, and so she left her exhausted head tip backwards, and her eyes close, and darkness overtake her.
—
She awoke in her drab little room in the servants quarters, atop her own straw-filed mattress, covered by her own scratchy linen blanket. Her whole body hurt; when she shifted, a sharp pain shot through her groin and all the way up to her head. But she was whole. She had not been taken to graft after all, after she and her lord had… coupled. Her hands had been cleaned, she saw, but not bandaged yet; blood leaked afresh as she flexed them, testing the sting.
“Careful, now.” The castle’s chatelaine bustled into the room, carrying a basket full of flannel scraps.
“They were taking bets on as to whether you’d come out of there alive. or even whole. And some bet on whether…” The chatelaine nodded to the space between her legs. “I’m not a betting woman, but if I were, I’d have me a fine prize indeed right now.”
“How did you know?” She needn’t have asked. Her nethers were sore enough that she needn’t even move to feel them cry out in protest.
”You were bleeding out something fierce. White as a sheet, too. And inside you was quite a bit of, well—”
“I understand.”
The chatelaine pressed her lips into a thin line as she observed her charge. She shook her head. “Rest up while you can. Our liege is in a mighty spirited mood. He’ll want another celebration sooner than late.”