the devil's own

No matter how I bathed, how I lathered in oils and scrubbed until the deep cerulean of my skin turned purple and red, angry, inflamed, rubbed raw from the harsh, rough exfoliating cloths. No matter how many perfumes I doused myself with, I could always, always, always smell that lingering, clinging scent of death.

Of Nitokh.

The ophilum only helped as long as it was in my system, and only enough that it made me not care what was happening to me. Pain meant nothing — smells, sights, sounds — nothing, when I was so high that I could only barely remember my own name. I could follow orders without flinching as long as the high lasted, but the moment it dropped — usually in the aftermath, when she had tired of me and sent me away — I was left disgusted, filled with loathing unlike anything I have ever known.

He was… the exact opposite, in a beautiful, terrible way.

I do not know how many times I ended up at his door after Nitokh sent me away. Many of them I was still filled with liquor and drugs, swaying on my feet, bleeding, bruised, half-clothed. I only remember snippets of how he touched me, those nights — distant memories of warm, damp cloths and deliciously clean ointments that smelled of herbs and medicine. I remember his fingers, pleasantly cool as they worked to clean the wounds on my body.

They were superficial — Nitokh had no plans to ever, ever let me die like that — and I know he knew that they would not kill me. Still, he tended to me, letting me bleed over his silken robes that must have been a luxury to him as an Archimedean, seemingly unfazed as the blood soaked ever deeper into his clothes, his rugs, even his bedding.

I remember being enamoured with his hair as he worked. His eyes — such a lovely shade of lavender, little flecks of pink, like the prettiest spring flower — focused on his hands as he worked, left me plenty of room to openly admire his features. His hair caught the moonlight from the skylight above his bed, woven starlight that fell gracefully around his shoulders. I think I even remember twisting his braid round and round my fingers while he tended to me, drifting in and out of awareness.

He was so gentle. So kind.

I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything, in those moments. I wanted to be his. I wanted him to be mine.

I think I must have confessed this to him while high, once or twice. He asked me more than once if I remembered the night before, when I would find him in his laboratories or the Collegium libraries. He asked if I remembered that he had asked me to ask again when I was sober.

The fact that it mattered to him that I was sober confused me, but I never remembered the conversation explicitly.

What I remembered — what I remember — were his fingers, combing through my hair. I remember the rumble of his chest as he hummed a song I had never heard under his breath. I remember that he smelled very unlike the Executor, so much so that I wanted to wrap myself in his essence and never leave.

Pears. Honeysuckle. Citrus. Amber, freesia, hyacinth. Lavender. Always something new, but fresh and sweet. Clean.

He smelled of summer breezes and freedom I had never known. His bedding smelled of the soaps and oils he used on his hair, the lotion he used on his skin. When he kissed me — when he kissed me — his breath smelled of cool mint, and sometimes the warm, delicious hint of his favourite coffee brew. Even when we smelled of sex and he should have tasted of nothing but salt, there was something sweet that lingered. And when he laughed — when he smiled into my mouth, when he made me smile, chasing pleasure in each other's arms, ever so intent on making certain that I followed him into ecstasy…

I know that he never told me everything about himself. He had more secrets than I think I could even begin to guess. A true name unknown to the Empire, and scars that looked quite unlike any battle scars I had ever seen. He had a deep, hollow sadness in his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking — and I wanted so desperately to chase it away, though I knew nothing I could ever do would suffice.

I may have had everything — military power, titles, prestige — I knew, deep down, whether I acknowledged it or not, that he offered me far more than I could offer in return. His kindness, given freely and willingly, no matter how I did not deserve it, did more for me than I could have ever, ever done for him.

He did not love me the way I loved him. He couldn't have.

But… I did love him.