#draighean

It was the whispering that lured her.

Lilé found herself wandering down stairs she had never seen before, ancient and earthen. Everything was soil and roots - and she could feel Blackthorn everywhere. The roots were old, and powerful. Buy more than that: she could smell blood.

And so she walked, barefoot, the scent strengthening until she came to a room that had her stare in surprise.

Tables, benches, cages. Chains. She gazed at it all in wonder. Lilé was not naive enough to be unaware of the purpose; she knew full well that Blackthorn had a sadistic streak, that his lands often needed to be fed with blood. But to see it so close…

Fingers ran along a pristine table, and she imagined it. Thorn running a blade along her soft skin, his roots curling around her legs, thorns wounding her flesh. His smile, his kisses along the injuries, tasting her life as it bled for him.

Gods, she was endlessly curious. Would Thorn want to experiment with her? Feed her blood to the earth?

Draighean was a loyal member of the vigil + a pact foot soldier up until she was killed in the maguuma jungle. Her corpse was taken to a blighting tree and she became a member of the mordrem guard... or rather, she would have, if her pod hadnt burst open 10 minutes before mordremoth died. Now a Mordremized sylvari with no memory of her previous life, she has the blighting tree’s marching orders but no whisper in her head giving her constant targets. No direction. What’s a soldier to do when they enter a war the moment its over?

“I have loved him in many ways for years. But I did not realise the depth of my feelings until he and I spent time in our secret spring.

“It was a simple thing. I wanted to tie my hair up to keep it dry, but I had no ribbon. He did not hesitate, and used a length of his own roots, solely for my comfort. For him to offer such a gift, with no prevarication or catch… it was the first time I truly understood how precious he was to me, and what I might mean to him.”

“There are those who fear the Blackthorn Man, who call him cruel - and they are right to do so. Violence is a language he speaks as fluently as a mother tongue. Yet he is also unspeakably kind to those he cherishes. For those who slip into his heart, whether lover, kin, or friend, there is nothing he will not do. He has saved my life several times, and asked for not a thing in return. The devotion of a being such as Thorn can be slow to burn, but when it finally catches, it is fierce. In a Court of sycophants and terrors, he has never once sought favour with its King. He has never sought to wield me as a weapon. Blackthorn simply is.

“How could I not love him? How could I not fall for a man who looks at me as though I carry starlight within me, as though nothing matters in his world save myself?”

“Not at all,” Lilé remarked sleepily, smiling in contentment. “I like them. They’re you, after all.”

And though she had the ability to lie - strangely - she did no such thing. With Thorn, she was always honest. She had seen what distrust and suspicion had done to her parents, and wanted no part of that.

Her expression was peaceful as his slender fingers traced along her back, patterns she could only guess at. Lilé loved the early mornings with Thorn; there were no interruptions, no Court demands, no concerns. Only her beloved and herself.

“You and your roots are always welcome here,” she said softly, her voice hinting at a purr as her leg shifted to lie over his. Her shadows slowly spilled from the bedcovers to playfully greet the roots tangling around Lilé’s ankles, before moving to caress Thorn’s cheek. “However and whenever you - or they - please. Especially when it means I’m your poor, helpless captive.”

Lilé inhaled as Blackthorn reached around her body, so tantalisingly close. She could almost feel him.

And of course he’d play on the guilt. It was a beautiful piece of clothing. It was wonderful, and she wanted to wear it. But it was a gift from him. And gifts would come with strings attached.

As his fingers ghosted over her hip, Lilé fought not to tremble, to show no sign that he had affected her. Could he hear her heart skittering?

She swallowed as he continued to speak, that voice always so dangerously soft, so full of menace. Somehow, becoming his idea of a pet seemed almost worse than a simple, beautiful doll. What did he mean by it? Did he intend for her to kneel by his feet, her face adoring?