Xu Wenxie

plot: y/m was chosen as the sacrifice to Heil, obviously they are unhappy about being promised to an immortal god.

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THE RUNES UPON THE FLOOR GLOWED with the promise of a bride to soon be delivered, yet Heil looked at it with an unreadable expression. It has been years since he brought hellfire to the human world and clearly they still feel the fear that came with his presence, the sacrifice of individuals as a show of good faith that they respect the immortal. Heil honestly did not care if they believed he would harm them again, their fear was all that was needed to keep these mortals in line. He could already picture the ceremony on the end of the mortals, someone begging or demanding to be let go as they were sacrificed at some type of alter. Heil's summoning circle was within his own home in the spirit realm with only a few advisors there to bare witness. Purely it was all ceremonial and quite honestly Heil did not care for the song and dance of it all.

The whole thing had been humiliating, exhausting, and more like an extended farce than anything else. He could only assume his mother had been paid a handsome fee to sell her eldest to the temple - somehow, he had not expected her to. Somehow, her terrorizing had always felt personal, like he might be a defect stallion, but at least he was still hers.

How pitiful a notion.

Wenxie's breath came out in a rush when his gag was loosened. His eyes plainly failed to find the source of the voice that spoke, their unseeing black settling somewhere to the man's left shoulder.

The further the palace fell away behind them, and the last rays of evening sunlight began to filter down through the leaves of the trees lining the track, the more at ease the king appeared. By the time they reached their destination, the lake at the western most part of the palace grounds, he had all but forgotten his previous bad-temper.

Wenxie bowed his head in agreement, as they came to a stop. The scent of freshwater, the somehow more open breeze, told him they were close to water; if possible, his shoulders loosened even further.

Accepting the help down, he landed gracefully on the moss-covered, springy ground. Subtly correcting his long sleeves as he did.

”It is well. Your mount is well trained - my Linlin would be dancing with annoyance at taking two riders.”

Gripping the reins in his hands, he clucked his tongue and urged their mount out of the stables, through the stable yard, and out onto the forested track beyond.

He felt the gentle shift of his sleeve's fabric, and extended his hand - dancer like in his grace - in the same breath. A lily hand, kept carefully smooth and pale, with pink nails of a glossy shine. A peace offering, as it were.

Instead, he hummed his approval and took his hand, gently tugging him closer to the impatient horse. "I am going to lift you into the saddle now," he warned, and his large, calloused hands moved to rest on either side of Wenxie's waist. Lingering there for a fraction too long, his eyes flickered briefly up and down admiringly before he lifted him into place.

”It is well. Your mount is well trained - my Linlin would be dancing with annoyance at taking two riders.”

He smiled.

He felt the gentle shift of his sleeve's fabric, and extended his hand - dancer like in his grace - in the same breath. A lily hand, kept carefully smooth and pale, with pink nails of a glossy shine. A peace offering, as it were.

A tumble of emotions, as he tried to find his footing and his thundering heart while marching down the corridor. When he got halfway, he stopped, and leaned against the wall. His legs were trembling.

He laughed, hollowly. He was such a poor manipulator, was he not? A proper king's concubine would've cried, begged for help, gotten himself a better ruler.

But Wenxie was cursed with honesty; no, not honesty - rather, a lack of subterfuge. He was so poor at this game that instead of appeasing his mother's insane standards, he constantly rubbed up against them, and got the whip as a result.

The room hushed when he stood, and his footsteps echoed across the marble floor as he took his leave without bidding any of his guests good night. Even before he had left the banquet hall, he overheard some of the gossip swirling around him, trying to pinpoint the cause of his evident bad temper, and he rolled his eyes and picked up his pace.

The voice that rang out from the grand doors leading into the white-chalked stables had a deceptively sonorous, melodic chime.

Wenxie had attended the very same feast, and he had been nothing but polite. Attentive. Sweet, even; even if he'd kept to the table assigned to foreign visitors, and hadn't shared in any of the ordinary familiar banter he and the king usually engaged in.

When his mother muttered to his uncle about the king leaving, he'd felt a flare of temper - and perhaps, a sting of worry. He needed to get this situation under control. Men like Cenred, in a bad mood, had a tendency to start wars and backhand ambassadors.

Wenxie, looking resplendent in jade green, came strolling along the stable stalls. Fingers dragging along, occasionally nuzzled by a warm, soft horse muzzle. He paused before a white stallion who seemed particularly friendly.

"There you are, darling," he murmured, in a shockingly tender voice (which was resevered exclusively for his animals), as he petted her muzzle. Only once the crunching stopped did he turn his attention to his human company, faintly irritated at the way Wenxie looked oh so delectable in jade green.

A humourless laugh escaped him at the question - he still bore the scar on his stomach from his previous lover's spat - and he let out a non-comittal hum.

He smiled.

A tumble of emotions, as he tried to find his footing and his thundering heart while marching down the corridor. When he got halfway, he stopped, and leaned against the wall. His legs were trembling.

He laughed, hollowly. He was such a poor manipulator, was he not? A proper king's concubine would've cried, begged for help, gotten himself a better ruler.

But Wenxie was cursed with honesty; no, not honesty - rather, a lack of subterfuge. He was so poor at this game that instead of appeasing his mother's insane standards, he constantly rubbed up against them, and got the whip as a result.

The room hushed when he stood, and his footsteps echoed across the marble floor as he took his leave without bidding any of his guests good night. Even before he had left the banquet hall, he overheard some of the gossip swirling around him, trying to pinpoint the cause of his evident bad temper, and he rolled his eyes and picked up his pace.

The voice that rang out from the grand doors leading into the white-chalked stables had a deceptively sonorous, melodic chime.

Wenxie had attended the very same feast, and he had been nothing but polite. Attentive. Sweet, even; even if he'd kept to the table assigned to foreign visitors, and hadn't shared in any of the ordinary familiar banter he and the king usually engaged in.

When his mother muttered to his uncle about the king leaving, he'd felt a flare of temper - and perhaps, a sting of worry. He needed to get this situation under control. Men like Cenred, in a bad mood, had a tendency to start wars and backhand ambassadors.

Wenxie, looking resplendent in jade green, came strolling along the stable stalls. Fingers dragging along, occasionally nuzzled by a warm, soft horse muzzle. He paused before a white stallion who seemed particularly friendly.

As Wenxie felt fingers on his shoulders, he fumbled for them, and eventually got a hold of the man's arm. Dizzy, he struggled as he tried to do as his benefactor asked of him; eventually getting up upright on legs as shaky as a newborn calf's.

"N-never," he whispered, and made a foolish attempt at fastening some strands behind an ear, as if that would make his appearance any better. "Would I have guessed, that my downfall- my downfall would be some ill-spirited jewelry."

The pain had come and gone in an abrupt shock. Wenxie felt unsteady, the way you do after you've been in the throes of a week long sickness, but the dull throbbing was easier to withstand than metaphorical the spear lancing him through his abdomen. His head a little clearer, he whispered:

”What is it- What are you- What do you want from me, hm? You wish me to confess to weakness? My pathetic- I know of it. You know of it. And now I know of your lack of manners in return. Congratulations, for all the gifts your childish impatience has granted us, your grace.”

I want to keep you safe. The truth did not quite tumble free with the rest of his words, and he did nothing to stop Wenxie from leaving his chambers.

A tumble of emotions, as he tried to find his footing and his thundering heart while marching down the corridor. When he got halfway, he stopped, and leaned against the wall. His legs were trembling.

He laughed, hollowly. He was such a poor manipulator, was he not? A proper king's concubine would've cried, begged for help, gotten himself a better ruler.

But Wenxie was cursed with honesty; no, not honesty - rather, a lack of subterfuge. He was so poor at this game that instead of appeasing his mother's insane standards, he constantly rubbed up against them, and got the whip as a result.

His mother was particularly cruel - but it was also true that many knew what she did, and since it was her right, no one interfered. If anything, it reflected poorly on Wenxie, who should have been the head of his household by now, not pressed his mother’s authority.

But none of this was something he wanted to discuss - not with a foreigner calling his people barbaric.

A humourless snort escaped him at the question - his father was his absolute least favourite topic of discussion - but he knew he owed Wenxie some vulnerability of his own.

”What is it- What are you- What do you want from me, hm? You wish me to confess to weakness? My pathetic- I know of it. You know of it. And now I know of your lack of manners in return. Congratulations, for all the gifts your childish impatience has granted us, your grace.”

Had he been a stronger man, he would have. He could taste the consequences of his actions in the wind, could sense the man’s darker undercurrent.

- And this awful thing rose in his throat. This bile of rebellious, petty vengeance mixed with the pale hope that maybe - just maybe - Cenred’s power was enough to grant him protection.

Cenred played his cards well; being thought of as a subject was easier for Wenxie to believe than any soft-hearted murmur would have been.

He was silent for a moment, careful to push back the fury and outrage that urged him to storm out of the room and seek Wenxie's mother immediately, before he spoke again.

His mother was particularly cruel - but it was also true that many knew what she did, and since it was her right, no one interfered. If anything, it reflected poorly on Wenxie, who should have been the head of his household by now, not pressed his mother’s authority.

But none of this was something he wanted to discuss - not with a foreigner calling his people barbaric.