story bit

[maderr]

Start of story somewhat inspired by Beauty and the Beast. Now that I’m actually writing, it’s turning out quite different than I had initially thought (par for the course) but I am so far still pleased with it. Not certain what I’ll do with it yet, but it’s going to be finished for a bit anyway (though, I want it to be a long short story, nothing more).

Am still working on title. As in, do not yet have one. Guess I’ll have to write more before it comes to me.



Alcor loved the smells of a party, even if they would set his head to throbbing in a few more hours. Even when they did, he would enjoy them until exhaustion finally snatched them all away and ended the revelry by force.

For now, he reveled in the sweet-sour smoke of the dragonweed someone had brought, the way it made everything too sharp, too bright. Dragonweed brought faerie sight, the saying went, for it was the reclusive faerie who knew the meaning of true decadence.

Mingled with the dragonweed was the scent of wine and ale and stronger spirits, the smell of rich food—and the smell of some of it burning, as the laughing group by the fire tossed some random bit into the flames to watch them burn.

He could also smell lust, musky and salty and sharper than even the dragonweed. He could smell it on the half-naked men collapsed on the long sofa with him, smell it on himself, smell it on the pretty little thing whose lips were wrapped around his cock.

Somewhere in the mess he could hear his father singing in his sloppy, drunken way, strong voice for once unsteady, the verses breaking off at random so he could recount the tale of his grand victory for the millionth time. The pungent scent of his black violet cologne was mingled into the mess of scents, as well.

Alcor's own cologne was sweeter, softer, and by now mostly lost to the other scents in which he had drowned himself. He smiled in drugged contentment as a bit of dragonweed, crudely wrapped in cheap paper, was put to his lips. Pulling it in, unbothered by the bitter flavor of the smoke, he let it out again slowly.

Then he knocked away the hand of the giver, yet another pretty boy brought in to entertain and pleasure, and pulled him into a slow, thorough kiss even as he thrust lazily into the mouth of the one between his legs.

He came with a shudder, and pushed both the boys away with a sigh. Shoving off one of the drunken fools beside him, he took over most of the sofa and stretched out languorously, lacing up his pants again only as an afterthought.

The haze of smoke and myriad other scents made him sleepy, but the dragonweed kept him from falling asleep just yet.

That, and even drugged, he could feel eyes upon him.

Two sets of eyes, and it had not taken him long to find either watched.

He did not know either, and did not care if they wanted to watch him—or join him, which would be amusing for at least a little while longer. The first one he had picked out of the crowd still sat where Alcord had first seen him, in a dark chair in the farthest corner of the room. He did not move overmuch, merely sat and sipped at some dark wine. He had long black hair, neatly tied, and his clothes were elegant and rich without being showy. Where everyone and everything else in the room seemed to move, he was still. Where all else was bright and gaudy, he was dull and somber. Handsome, but in the way a statue of a man might be handsome.

The other man was stranger still—pale gold hair, long and loose. He was slender and delicate looking, and dressed in clothes that while respectable, were old-fashioned and close to being described as tattered. Noble, from his bearing, but one long fallen on hard times. He was quiet, but not in the same way as the first one. More…where the revelers were noisy and busy, the first man was a statue…this man…Alcord could not put his finger upon it. He seemed calm, perhaps.

He was drawn from his ponderings and as something warm and soft and pliant crawled atop him. Laughing, Alcor permitted a kiss, then pushed the eager thing away, laughing harder as the man he had shoved off the sofa took immediate advantage of his sudden lapful of pretty.

Alcor returned his gaze to the table where the pale-haired man was sitting—and saw he was now walking toward the corner where Alcor lazed.

Up close, he was far more than pretty—Alcor might actually describe him as breathtaking, even if the hair was untidy, and the clothes quite tattered indeed, and he obviously was awkward and shy and uncertain. An admirer, most likely.

He sat up and invited the pale stranger to sit, but the man only shook his head. Around them, many of the others had noticed the odd man and were watching—some overtly, some blatantly—to see what Master Alcor would do with such an out of place stranger daring enough to approach uninvited.

"My lord," the stranger greeted, voice quiet but still somehow heard over the din. "I came to wish you a happy birthday."

Alcor laughed. "Indeed, why else would you come? Are you making of yourself a present, pretty? That is a gift I would accept and enjoy, unless you are as tattered as those sad clothes you wear."

"No, my lord," the man said quietly. "I have brought gifts, however, if you will but accept them."

Alcor lifted one delicate brow, the pleasant buzz of the dragonweed fading beneath the peculiarities of the stranger. "The only gifts I care for are great treasure, or warm, eager flesh riding me hard. But, let us see your gifts, then."

The man licked his lips, and held out a small wooden box that Alcord had not noticed until that moment. It was made of some dark, reddish wood, carved all over with figures and shapes that he could not quite distinguish in the smoke-hazed light.

Wondering if perhaps there was some great joke at the end of all this, he took the box with an amused grin. He fumble briefly with the catch, the gold gleaming brightly and somehow hard to grasp—or perhaps that was the dragonweed.

At least he managed a victory, however, and flipped it open. He had half-expected to find some perverse toy, something he could make full use of after stripping the stranger bare and spreading the man over his lap, something to tease and torment before finally giving the stranger his cock.

What he saw, however, he could make no sense of.

Three objects, each more amusing than the last.

The first was a dagger made of silver, with a hilt of gold and sapphires. It almost seemed to glow, and he thought he saw markings in the blade itself, but when he looked again he saw only silver.

"Loyalty," the stranger said quietly.

Alcor laughed and cast the dagger aside, then picked up the next object—a small crystal bottle with a delicate stopper, filled with some clear liquid. He could not tell if it was the content or the crystal which sparkled.

"Protection," the stranger said.

"Oh, yes," Alcor said with another laugh. "Perfume to protect me. These are not treasures."

He threw the crystal bottle over his shoulder, uncaring as to where it landed, and picked up the last object in the box.

A single rose, of a deep, rich red. The color was beautiful, to be sure, but a rose was a rose. Alcor yawned.

"Love," the man said. "I would give you all three, if you but accept them, instead of…" He motioned to the room, the occupants, the gaudy displays of wealth and decadence.

Alcor let the rose fall to the floor. "I can find trinkets anywhere, pretty, but thank you anyway."

The man frowned. "I know they seem but humble trifles, and my timing is poor…but they are more than they seem, and they are offered out of love."

Alcor laughed again, and reached out to snag the man, draw him down and close. He smelled like honeysuckled, though Alcor was surprised he could smell it at all. "Love, pretty? Love is for fools and fairytales. Do I look a simpleton to you? If you are not going to offer me pleasure, then I have no need of you. Take yourself off, and give your love to someone foolish enough to take that bait. You are pretty, but not that pretty."

Then he let the man go, roughly enough the man stumbled and fell down awkwardly on his ass. Around Alcor everyone roared with laughter, calling out their own jibes and taunts before slowly returning to the smoking and drinking and fucking.

When Alcor looked up again, the pale-haired stranger was gone.

The wooden box still lay on his lap, and Alcor tossed it aside in favor of drawing up the eager little thing he had rejected before, shoving the boys face to his crotch, making it clear what he was meant to do with that delicate, pink mouth.

Before anything could come of it, however, the boy was shoved aside and Alcor was yanked roughly to his feet. He bellowed in outrage—but stopped short as he met cold, violet eyes. The dark-haired man. "W-who are you?"

The dark-haired man said nothing, merely tightened his grip on Alcor's hair and dragged him away from the sofa, across the room to where Alcor's father had bent a dark-haired boy over a table and was fucking him enthusiastically.

His father stopped when he saw Alcor and the dark-haired man. Alcor tried to speak, but the man twisted his fist, pulling hard at Alcor's hair, making him scry out—and the he felt the cold, sharp point of a dagger at his throat.

Alcor's father pulled out of the boy and cast him roughly aside. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A life for a life," the dark-haired man said, and drew the dagger lightly across Alcor's throat, drawing a thin thread of blood. It trickled hot and sticky down Alcor's throat, though he felt completely cold and entirely too sober. "You took my family and my friends—now I will take yours."

"You—" His father made a choked, garbled sound, his lung across the table turning into a clumsy, awkward slump. "Who—"

Alcor could practically feel the dark-haired man grin, and swore as the knife at his throat cut a little deeper. "Next time, make certain we all are dead."

"Filthy dark fae," his father gasped out, but the anger in it sounded somehow weak and pathetic, as if his strength was being leached away.

"Indeed," the dark-haired man said coolly. "You were warned not to mess with us, but you did it anyway. Your wife and daughter have already suffered. They died slowly, and their screams…" The smile was back in his voice. "Sweet."

"Bastard!" his father gasped out, obviously struggling to move against some force keeping him in place.

"No," the dark-haired faerie said. "I am, or was, a true prince. Now I will make all of you pay for your selfish, greedy ways. Did you enjoy the castle you stole from me? I hope you did, because that will it make all the sweeter when you burn with it."

Only then did Alcor realize the smoke he was smelling was entirely too strong a smell. Only then did he realized the haze of smoke in the room was not right for dragonweed.

He could see in his father's face that he had only just then realized it too.

And only at that moment did the screaming begin.

Then the world turned into a hideous nightmare, as smoke turned into flame and the smell of burning food and dragonweed became the scent of burning flesh. Screaming and shouting and sobbing filled the air as people began to realize what was wrong, as they tried to escape and found they could not. One by one they fell victim to the fire that quickly consumed the whole room. Alcor tried to close his eyes, but could not—he could do nothing but stand there and watch everyone in the room burn alive.

When he started screaming, he did not know, but he screamed until when his voice no longer worked, when smoke and ash seared it, ruined it. Smoke burned his eyes, and he could feel the fire—and yet not feel it, not quite.

Eventually, it seemed only they three were still alive.

Then his father started burning, and Alcor found he could still scream.

When nothing remained of his father, Alcor felt cold steel at his throat—and then he mercifully felt nothing more.