Doom Upon All The World

Chapter 2: Mythalus

    His breath is heavy in his chest. He hefts with effort as his heart rate comes back down. Blood rushes all through his body, giving him that intense electrified feeling. The feeling of the silken sheets beneath his sweaty back is cool and soothing as he tries to catch up with himself. His head is no more clear than it was before, but he needed a break from his studies. This provided a distraction, as it always has. The feeling of sticky, messy, unleashed sex sticks to his body as he sits up, abandoning the figure beside him.

"Leaving me so soon?" The voice is sultry, seductive, ready for round two. Mythalus grins a sly grin, though he keeps his back to his lover. A tanned, smooth but deft hand strokes longingly, temptingly along his lower back, beckoning him back into the grasp of lust and pleasure.

But Mythalus already has his trousers on. He stands and searches the room for his shirt. But it isn't anywhere to be seen. "Looking for this?" The voice behind him teases with a cheeky, self pleased tone. Mythalus turns around to find his lover having thrown the shirt on, lying back, otherwise bare on the bed.

He stiffens as he observes. In more ways than one. The figure before him, staring at him with those depthless chocolate eyes, is long, lean, muscular in all the right places, just enough to make Mythalus shiver when watching the breath leave their body. He stares, watching those muscles contract and relax as Pierre Montilyet observes him with a close, lust filled eye. As his eyes trail lower, finding the object of his pleasure, Mythalus shakes the thoughts from his head.

"Take it off. Give it back." He demands. Their relationship was never the soft sort. Pierre didn't seem to care. But Mythalus, it was not the relationship he needed, only the brief moments of peace, of release when he could forget everything else. Pierre had no problem giving him that. Though there were times when Mythalus feared the older man would ask for more, for... feelings, for something Mythalus would not give him.

When the time came, he would put him down, and not gently. But until then...Pierre sits up, staring Mythalus down. "Make me." He growls. Mythalus didn't have to think twice. He knew how to get what he wanted. He knew Pierre would bend to his will if he gave him an easy push, a little taste to hold him over until next time.

He lunges gracefully from his spot in the middle of the room, to lean over Pierre, nearly laying on top of him. There is a feral snarl on his face, something animalistic and old. Mythalus holds his gaze for only a few moments before pushing him down onto the bed and moving himself lower. He takes the head of Pierre's cock in his lips and sucks gently, earning a timid, growing moan from the Antivan. Then he takes the rest of him in his mouth, not wasting time with the pleasantries, sucking him off with ease and skill. His tongue swirls over the head of his member, tasting the saltiness of his seed as it begins to leak from him.

Pierre bucks and arks beneath him, his groans filling the room as Mythalus' head bobs over his enlarged manhood. Mythalus tries not to chuckle as he listens to Pierre's noises, the pleasured sound of him losing control. He bares his teeth only slightly and scrapes them down the length of his cock, sending a shuddering through Pierre that undoes him. He climaxes violently as Mythalus holds down his hips and slowly moves his skilled tongue down the curve of his scrotum. The fluid that fills his mouth, coating that playful, wicked tongue, is salty sweet and tangy, a mixture of the naturally musky male scent and the aftertaste of luscious wine. Mythalus staunches his own groan with his full mouth. The tip of Pierre's head presses against the back of his throat and he ruts and bucks against him, willing Mythalus to get every drop out of him, wanting to feel that back breaking release again and again.

Mythalus removes his lips from around Pierre's softening member and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. With Pierre too dazed and out of sorts to argue, Mythalus slips his shirt off the other man's body and lays it over his head and shoulders, pulling it on. He is out the door without so much as a goodbye to Pierre. He hears a faint cry of his name as he slams the door behind him.

As it slams closed he wonders if he shouldn't have been more soft, more considerate. But he reminds himself that what he does with Pierre is for his personal enjoyment. He has little interest in pleasing the other man if only it will keep him from complaining. He supposes their relationship is solely selfish. He can't begin to believe that he knows how Pierre feels but he knows himself, and that he does not want seriousness and love and romance. He gave up that idea as a boy. He'd thought it stupid and needless since he could remember. A result of his parent's death, he supposes.

As they come to his mind, Mythalus wonders what his parents would think of him, how they would feel about his situation with Pierre. But that is struck from his mind swiftly. He walks the battlements back to the tower, to the rotunda, but from the very top, this close to the gate, he can see the statue. The grave, Nicolynn had called it. But it is not a grave; they were never buried. They were defeated and his father used whatever power remained within him to preserve their bodies. Nicolynn could never understand why he did it. But Mythalus did. Nicolynn never had magic, didn't know what it was like to feel that surge, that push for survival. Because it wasn't just his father that wanted to stay alive, his magic wanted it too. It did everything it could to keep it that way.

So it turned them to stone and he and Nicolynn are forced to look out over that battlefield, still stained with death, everyday of their lives. He turns away and makes his way to the rotunda.

He finds it dimly lit and flicks his wrist, sending sparks of magic throughout the room that light the candles instantly. Strolling over to the desk in the middle of the room, he picks up the flagon of wine and drinks some down, throwing it back like water. Wine in hand, he marches up the stairs to the library. Books and shelves meet his eyes. The musty rich scent of worn, old pages greets his nose and the cool draft that floats down from the aerie kisses his pale skin. He sits himself in the chair before the window, folding himself into the little nook of the room.

The leather bound journal on the table beside the chair catches his eye. He tries to ignore it as he takes another swig of the tangy wine, letting its sourness coat his throat. His father was an artist, among many other things. He kept the journal full of secret and stories but most of all, it was full of sketches. Sketches and drawings of his mother. Of his sister. Of Mythalus himself. There were other figures too, other people he did not recognize. A woman with long waves of stark white hair, hard features on a young pale face. Not elven but something more. Startlingly sharp horns protrude from her fair head but she is no Qunari. Then another woman, somewhat resembling his mother but with far darker, blacker hair and fainter skin. She was elven and lovely, slim and clad in black. He had given up on trying to decipher that and many others of his father's drawings. They made him think too much when all he wanted was peace, silence in his own mind.

But there's one image that sticks out to Mythalus above all else. A drawing of his mother, sprawled on the couch in this very rotunda, her sleeping face, warm and peaceful. An infant lies against her chest, also slumbering peacefully. They are stuck on this page, in this forever living sleep. He could never decide if the child was himself, Nicolynn, or one of the infants they took to caring for fifteen years ago.

There are... other drawings. More intimate sketches. Images of what his father saw every time he took her to his bed, the pleasured features of her face, the curve of her body, bare and supple. Mythalus cares not. A body is a body. He came from that body and yet still she retained so much of her youth. It is unfortunate though, that even though he has these drawings, he cannot remember their faces. He would not know that this was his mother had Nicolynn not told him. She doesn't like to look at them. They make her sad. He knows she remembers them, that their faces and smiles, their voices are forever ingrained in her mind. But she doesn't say these things for fear of upsetting him. All his life, he has been tip-toed around because of his power. A power his father warned him of. Something that could destroy him if he let go, if he stopped trying.

But it isn't the teachings of his father he wants to remember. It is his face. So he picks up the journal and flips through the pages of drawings.