(Fictional a/b/o Elizabethan era-ish au)
Being an omega and the fifth in line for the title, the young lord of Chambriath was forced to believe that being wedded to the man of his father's choice and bearing his children was the only purpose of Har...
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Trepidation thrumming through the veins in him, Louis' heart only sinks further upon blinking open his eyes, his naked skin covered in a glaze of sweat, yet shivering as he orients himself, the chambers' glum in its dimness and frigid despite of the roaring hearth. Being by himself is the first thing he notices, Harry nowhere near him, even his scent absent in their chambers, and then, with a churn of his stomach, he smells it — blood.
Rushing to grasp the candle in front of Harry's mirror, he brings it towards the bed linen, gasping in undeniable fright when his eyes land on the deep stain of dried blood, a stark contrast to the white of the sheet. It does not take an intellect to realise what has happened. It was his fault, Louis knows that, if only he had a better clutch over his urges, if only he could've refused Harry — resisted him — he would not have hurt the only person he loves more than anything in the entirety of the vast world.
He does not realise for how long he stays frozen, the wax dripping onto his arms and the light slowly dying as the air wraps around him, cold and cruel, his skin stinging with the bitterness of it. It isn't until the dimming flame of the candle burns his skin, that Louis finds himself thrust back into the reality of the situation. The reflection of the man that he sees in the mirror is not him, he refuses to believe it's him. His hair is in disarray his skin is scratched all over, bitten in places and his lips still carry traces of blood, which might have been from when he bonded with Harry again.
He finds himself in the privy after a fleeting moment, washing away the traces of his rut ruthlessly, mind void of anything but the clawing feeling that Harry's safety is at stake. He senses it through their bond, the faint ache, the longing for his mate. He decides that he does not worry about his appearance, all he needs is his mate, the knowledge of his safety, of their pup's safety.
Putting on a tunic and his breeches in haste, Louis walks out of the privy, the sound of his steps following him. It is like the night of a new moon, silence laying steady, except, Louis can't even hear the creaks of the insects that crack through the silence on those nights. Their chambers are robbed of any light, even the handful of candles Louis had left burning before walking into the privy now gone, the hearth baren.
"You seem to have misjudged the time you had left with your Princess, your Royal Highness." The crude lilt echoes throughout the caged air inside the walls, a kiss of frost almost.
He knows who the voice belongs to.
"Why don't you show yourself, coward? You presume it is of great humour that you play your games?" Louis roars, fury burning within him. The undead bring no good. And the increasing throb in his bond only enhances his suspicions. He needs to be near Harry.
"Apologies, my future king, apologies. I wasn't aware I had maddened you. I apologise from the bottom of my heart." The cold trace of her finger ghosts over the vein of Louis' neck, her movements swift as a cat's but not soundless. Louis grabs her by the arm, her skin a corpse's. "Do not be harsh, all you had to do was ask if you desired to touch me. I will be more than delighted to warm your bed after the Princess's death. Although, I might fail to warm it in a literal sense."
