You Were My First

2: Serenade

He was at it again.

Making eyes at me over the shifting light of the fire as his fingers teased hauntingly beautiful melodies from his lyre strings. And gods what eyes they were; large and silver and fractal-bright, like stars the moment before they died.

He was singing, too. Some idealistic, love-struck ballad that I was absolutely not listening to the words of with wrapt attention. Though, I suspected that flowery lyric about pale skin in the moonlight to be specifically pointed in my direction. And perhaps also the one that spoke of sinful lips and sordid smiles, though I may have been flattering myself there.

It wasn't written about me or even for me-that would have been too much, really-but this was Acrimony-a bard of some little renown, as well as a professional heartbreaker, I would guess. Every word had meaning when they slipped from his mouth like ambrosial delights.

I knew what he was doing-or rather trying to do. Hells, I'd done what he was attempting time and time again, probably since before he was born. I knew the words and looks and touches like the set of tools they had become, and I refused to let them be turned on me just because the man was gorgeous.

I refused to be seduced.

And so it was with a distracted sense of professional pride that I studied my nails while he crooned, determined to deny him the satisfaction of seeing me listening. Or looking. Or... wanting.

For that, at least, I couldn't be blamed. Acrimony had been as delectable as I knew he would be when I took him to bed. I'd suspected that he would be an impressive lover, but what had caught me off guard was his generosity. I didn't think I had ever known a man to hone his focus down to that particular task so sharply before. At least not on my account.

Then again, I hadn't exactly given many men the opportunity to take such an active role in bedroom play in at least two centuries.

But he had.

He'd kissed me and held me and brought me to the shuddering, ecstatic peak of pleasure twice before I had the wherewithal to push the focus onto him, where-might I add-it had been meant to be all along.

And it had felt like he had done all of that just for me.

But this was not a love story. This was not something that would end in primrose paths and happy endings. I was using him to my own ends, as a bit of security against a betrayal I could not afford, and he would find that out eventually.

I told myself it was inevitable and exactly as it should be even as I dreaded the day I would have to face the hurt on his features when he saw me for the wretched, wheedling charlatan I truly was.

So no, I would not let him seduce me.

It would only make an awful mess of things for us both, and I had done quite enough of ruining beautiful things for one lifetime.

But then I thought of the way that he had defended me when that gods forsaken Gur monster hunter had come sniffing about. How he'd helped me kill the man with little more than a barely disguised plea for support on my part.

How he'd gone on to save a stupid cow of a young woman who had promised her first born child to a hag, then decimated a goblin camp for the sake of people he only shared the barest idea of heritage with.

Well, all except one. The tiefling bard had... died rather bloodily just outside of Karlach's tent. I thought of how distressed that had made him. How utterly lost he had seemed when he had admitted to me in a hushed and panicked tone that he thought he must have done it, though he had no memory of doing so. It had hit him hard.