Rune and Ruin

5 - Plots and Duties

391 B.C. - Temple Mount, City of Caere, Coast of the Tasurian Peninsula, Spring, Month of Maius

Thania

He had never flown with me before. Every memory I have of the Flight is a complete, unadulterated nightmare that my mind dreams even when my eyes are open.

They are not open at the moment. My eyes, I mean. They are tightly shut and my entire face is buried in warm, muscled demon-flesh.

Sometimes the Warlord wouldn't be able to rein in his scales. They would scrap my skin. His heat would be near unbearable. Later, when he was calm and sated, he enjoyed slathering all manner of oils and lotions on my skin. It often led to yet another round of-

He dips through the air to my accompanying shriek. This stunt... flying... is not only foolhardy, but terrifying, and I will tell him that, damn his eyes. Most likely. Not.

Alright. Not.

We land on the Temple Mount to the startled shrieks of others. I stop screaming when I realize that the Warlord is laughing and enjoying himself. An angry man won't drop me from this height, surely?

I'm still catching my breath as he folds his large, ink-dark wings against his back and asks, "did you have the ritual bath this morning, love? Breakfast?" He frowns at me as if I'm starving. I wonder if he realizes that the last couple of weeks have indeed been lean in Caere? After all, having the Fyrrin Warlord on our doorstep didn't encourage farmers and fishermen to deliver their stocks to our markets, but did encourage theft and hoarding of food.

My first words after our harrowing flight are as weak as he always accused Acera of being. "I'm fine," I whisper lamely.

"You didn't," he accuses me. Swooping in, he palms my cheek and kisses me firmly before pulling away and giving me a hard stare. "Marcus!" he bellows.

I nearly leap out of my skin. Marcus. His bodyslave. An Acera who always, without fail, sniffed disapprovingly at me while on the war march. Marcus, who despite our shared heritage, never, not once, showed me a smidge of concern beyond how well I pleased his master.

I stiffen my spine as I hear the low, humble voice from behind me. "Master Fyrrin?"

"Help my priestess prepare for me," Falx grins at me arrogantly. "I will be back tonight, to eat cena with you, Flammatia." Leaning down again, he kisses me, thoroughly, passionately, until the flap of demon wings behind us makes me flinch away from him.

"Need you to look over the laws before we post them, Warlord," Quintus says.

"Laws?" I ask, but they are already gone, dark shadows in the air like hulking predatory birds.

"Come, then," Marcus sniffs at me.

"I am busy, Marcus," I sniff back at him. I will not be cowed by this man. Not here, on the Temple Mount that is my home. In front of my people. Not when Falx Fyrrin mentions laws and then disappears.

Not when Leda is waiting to see her mother.

"The Master-"

"-is my sworn..." I choke a bit, "...blessed husband. Not my master." I turn to look at the Acera man. His eyebrows have grown bushier but his gaze is still sharp.

Blessed

The gods' chortling is not soothing.

"There is little difference," Marcus snaps, "between then and now. Your sworn duty is to please him."

Yes. It certainly is, but Marcus couldn't be more wrong. This morning, when I woke up sore and bruised in a way I hadn't felt in three years, I took a moment to soak in my new reality.