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Her past is a bottomless pit in a lonely clearing. Eventually, something will spring to the surface.
She remembers a man with dark hair and darker eyes, wearing metal gloves. An old man with a hole in his chest, sitting on a throne of miasma and bones. And, finally, a long-haired woman wielding a crimson dagger, her skin white as a canvas.
Not everything is clear. She remembers a painful betrayal. Fighting the long-haired woman in an arena of gore. Father being displeased with her. Then a feeling of emptiness she can’t quite put her finger on. All pointless now.
The rosewood partition filters the candlelight, sending small glowing dots dancing across the ceiling. Eirin counts them all, one by one. At the edge of her vision, a blur of white curls and the occasional pale shoulder.
Her elf friend moves in and out inside her body, his brow furrowed as if in pain. She doesn’t understand why he is in pain. She is at her happiest when they are connected like this, at the hips, with his fist full of her hair and his teeth on her neck.
Slowly—hesitantly—she reaches out, and brushes his sweat-slicked locks from his temples, traces his wrinkled forehead with her fingertip. This seems to take him by surprise, and he freezes, concerned eyes darting to hers.
A moment passes. He says a few words, murmurs something that sounds a lot like her name, then fastens his lips to hers, moving inside her with renewed fervor.
Eirin lets out a sigh of relief. This language she can understand.
Sharp teeth sinks into her bottom lip, blood sliding down her throat, and she welcomes it, drinking deep. One hand finds her nipple and pinches, the other pulling her to him— up and then up —almost as if he wanted to marry his pelvis to hers.
She tries her best to keep up.
The bed frame slams against the wall in time with his movements. She rakes her nails down his back (he seems to like it when she does this) and he retaliates by pulling on her hair until her back arches for him.
He is whispering again. Pretty, sweet nothings. She only understands half of it.
Taking me so well I miss you love come with me please I—
So close. She’s so close.
Just a little more.
Relief comes in the form of his skilled fingers on her clit and she’s unraveling.
Spurred by her pleasure, he pulls out of her, drawing a whimper from her lips. A moment to adjust is all she is granted before she feels the splash of his release against her skin, painting her from navel to collarbone. She scoops up his essence, places it into her mouth, then looks back at him to gauge his reaction.
Her pale friend seems content. At peace, even. A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his lips in a rare departure from his usual aloof self.
Then it is gone as soon as it appears, replaced by a look of anguish.
Eirin doesn’t like when he has that look on his face, as if she had poked under his nails with a needle. She likes him best when he smiles mischievously at her as he moves down her body to lick a long stripe across her cunt.
She tries not to complain. He brought her nice gifts—a petite woman with horns and a tail, a man with stubs for arms and a smaller, screeching human—for her to sink her claws into. And sink her claws she did, until the voices quieted down to a lulling whisper. If she were especially well-behaved, he would even join her.
He lays down on the mattress next to her, chest moving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. Her heart fills with hope. Would he spend the night with her this time? She’s almost ashamed to admit that she sleeps better when he is around, her dreams less populated by shadows.
She isn’t so lucky.
Most days come and go in a blur.
There are days when her pale friend comes to visit her with a sad look in his eyes that makes her wonder if she would ever see him again. He tells her he needs to go on a long journey, that this is the last time. She will be in good hands, he says, all her needs seem to. He always comes back.
Most of the time, he just watches her.
Watches her as she eats and sleeps and wills away the hours until she can do everything all over again. Always with that inquisitive look on his face, as if she is on the verge of doing something unexpected. Even if the prize for his troubles is always more disappointment. Why he bothers, she doesn’t know.
He is there on the days when her hunger is too great and all she can think about is maiming and tearing and cutting and slicing… Those are the worst of days.
The few times she is allowed outside—at night, always at night—he dresses her in pretty clothes, all flowing skirts and elaborate headpieces, like the gallant ladies from the stories. She wears one of them right now, a purple hat with a plume on top. The feeling of the fabric against her skin is unpleasant and she wants nothing more than to tear it apart, but does her best to put up with it. Her worries are forgotten as soon as she sees the sky on the horizon, stepping over her skirts in her rush to get a better view. She leans over the palisade and throws a glance over her shoulder, but her pale friend seems to have his attention elsewhere.
He is beautiful like this, when the light hits his face just right, ruby red eyes gleaming like jewels, hair swaying in the gentle breeze. To look at him was painful sometimes, like staring at the sun for too long. He is facing the other way, busying himself with an object she doesn’t recognize.
“Do you remember this, darling? You kept it with you at all times,” he says, extending his hand towards her. “A favored gift, so to speak.”
He is using that cautious tone again, the one that usually precedes a long period of absence, so she indulges him.
The trinket in her hands is tiny and connected to a short silver chain. She doesn’t pretend to get the appeal of it. Not full of blood, not made to eat… Shiny and round, like a girl’s earring. At the center, a circle of numbers and a few black dots.
“This is…” she whispers.
There are letters engraved on the bottom. She recognizes a few of them: A E T E R N–
This is… wrong. Wrong.
Something nags at her brain, begging for her to remember. But remember what?
she…
she hurts
one thousand splinters worm their way into her heart. a feeling like nothing she had felt before. she tugs at her clothes, nails digging into her skin, the cloth suddenly too hot, too stifling.
Strong hands bend her arms behind her back and pull her against a wall. She doesn’t make it easy for him, fighting with all her strength, teeth and nails. In a matter of seconds, blood—not her own—begins to soak the front of her dress.
Never did she consider shredding her friend into pretty ribbons, like she did with the others. It was the only rule she abided by, the only line she wouldn’t cross. The idea alone made her gut clench and her eyes wet. But at that moment, that is the furthest thing from her mind. Her heart is about to burst out of her chest. Can’t he see? Why wouldn’t he just help her?
He presses a piece of cloth to her nose. She is too slow to push his hand away. Big inky blots appear at the corner of her vision, anger and confusion quickly blending into a peaceful numbness.
A day or a week could have passed. There's no way to know for sure. Her dreams are a confusing mush of vivid memories and blood-curdling nightmares. Even awake, she has trouble distinguishing real from imaginary.
Her room is exactly as she remembers, that much she can tell, with the familiar metal bars that divide her bed from the rest of the room. Her clothes were changed, though, and her hair hangs loose behind her back, recently washed. A distinct floral scent wafts through the air. There's something else too, a touch of… bergamot? Whatever that is. Her nose itches. She tries to lift her arm, but her hands are tied to the bedpost above her head. Strange, but not unusual.
Her elf friend’s state, however, is a much bigger enigma. He sits on the edge of her bed, naked from the waist up. At the sign of her stirring, he turns to look at her, and that’s when she notices. There are scratches and bite marks all over his arms and chest, some reaching as far as his neck. They are fading now. Angry red giving way to pale pink.
"How are you feeling, darling?" His voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming all day.
How is she feeling? That’s a curious question. He is the one covered in nicks and bruises. Nothing happened to her, as far as she remembers. She tries to tell him as much.
His eyes lose that wary edge and he moves closer to her, cradling her face with both hands. “I adore you, you know that, right? That will never change.”
She wishes she could answer in kind, but her head is still giving little somersaults. The best she can manage is to nod in agreement.
He sighs and moves his hands to wrap around the column of her neck. She gives him a tentative smile. His eyes harden.
The sudden constriction of her airways doesn’t give her immediate cause for concern. All she does is raise an eyebrow in silent question.
Seconds turn into minutes and she grows impatient, nudging him with the heel of her foot and then once again, more insistently. Speaking is out of the question, she quickly notices. Nothing comes out of her throat. His hands press harder.
Feeling she’s nearing her limit, she tries to meet his gaze, tries to tell him, but he is far, far away. Instinct kicks in. She pulls on the ropes, thrashing against him, using her unbound legs as leverage. But she is weakened, her body is weakened and she is fading…
He releases her all at once, sending her into a coughing fit.
When her ears stop buzzing and she can make out his body in the shadows, Eirin takes a brief look at him. His face is wet and so is hers. If anything, he looks even worse than her. He pulls her into a hug. She lets him.
Her friend rests his head in the crook where her head meets her shoulder, shaking from head to toe, and she places a comforting hand in the mess of his hair, even though her actions are a mystery to her. In between sobs, she hears him ask for her forgiveness, over and over again.
“I don’t like this play,” she confides to him, voice rough like beach sand.
He lets out a sound halfway between a strangled laugh and a hiccup.
“Neither do I, sweetheart. Neither do I…”