#evil magic

The king himself, though, he patted John’s arm. “You have a good eye, General Egan,” he said, in a light tone that made John want to punch him a little. “Most men would be too caught up with the pedestrian charm of the concubines, but there’s something substantial. Should I have him sent to your room tonight?”

And the miserable dead eyed look made sense.  John smiled, mouth gone narrow. “He doesn’t seem interested.”

The smirk was broad, it crinkled the man’s eyes. “That’s part of the fun with that one. He won’t fight you though. He can’t, but you can see it in his eyes how much he wants to.” Before John had a chance to respond he snapped his fingers and nodded at someone.

John could have objected, but shrugged instead, and helped himself to a cup of unwatered wine and then another after it. It was good, better than the lukewarm food, dry and crisp. He knew what the king meant by that, it was a dark rumor, tinged in horror, and one John had already known was true.

The wine let him pretend to be drunker than he should be on unfriendly ground, walking with a careful approximation of faux steadiness. That guardsman was there as promised, in the too big room John'd been assigned, looking even more deadeyed and bitter faced closer up and still beautiful, pink full mouth, pretty eyes the blue of a winter morning, bones carved like a statue. He wasn't wearing a sword any longer, or even boots. Just a thin blue shirt that hugged his chest and loose trousers, easy to slip off.

He hadn’t said a word, just looked at John with winter and death in those eyes, enough to destroy the will of a man who had any heart or conscience left. 

John grinned at him, showing his own teeth. “Hello,” he said. He got no answer, just the clench of a jaw, the grind of teeth, the raw force of hatred with nowhere to go. “I'm gonna need you to strip for me, sweetheart.”

Another glare, a half shrug, but he did it. No artifice, just stiff, efficient movement, and the man wasn't wearing much of anything anyway under the thin layer of cloth. He was slim, too slim for his frame. Golden skin, light golden body hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips. Soft, generous cock. Scars, some from fighting, some probably not. Bruises, finger shaped and boot shaped. Clear eyed misery on a beautiful face. He still didn't speak, maybe he couldn’t.

“It's alright,” John said, gentle, almost under his breath. “Turn around for me now.” He knew what he was looking for and didn't see it yet. There was an old tattoo on the back of the man's shoulder, probably a clan mark. Two eagles. Not that. His spine was clear down the long length of his back, marks for sure, but not the kind of mark that John was looking for. 

He could hear the sharp intake of breath. The slow hiss of it letting out. Wondered if the man under his hands had caught on, thought, maybe. Leaned in close, so that he was almost pressed against the bare back. “We being watched, sweetheart?” He murmured into the delicate shell of an ear. It wouldn't surprise him, plenty of room for peepholes, prying eyes and ears. 

There was an almost imperceptible nod. The stillness of the body against his. A breath in, breath out. John hummed to himself.  Yeah, they were being watched, had to keep going carefully then. “On the bed with you,” he said, louder. “Come on, now.”

The golden skin of his chest was clear, marked by teeth and fingers but not the right kind of mark. He ran his eyes over ribs and concave belly that made him itch to put some food into it. An utter lack of care was so obvious and he couldn’t stand it, but they had this next part to suffer through.

“Spread your knees,” John said, out loud, while his eyebrows went up, asking without asking, just show me? He wasn’t sure if the man could or the mark would prevent it the way it would prevent its victim from doing anything to free himself, didn’t know what it would be like to be on the wrong end of one. 

He frowned at the man now spread open on his borrowed bed. Blue eyes, clear, considering instead of blank, slightly parted lips. He still hadn’t said a word, maybe he couldn’t, maybe he didn’t want to. The mark could be on his tongue, that would be a nightmare all its own.

It wasn’t. 

There, in the joint of his legs, between groin and thigh. It was an evil looking thing, black and tangled, threads of red and grey mixed in. Pure malice had gone into weaving it, lust and hatred, the desire to ruin and mar. The pain of the marking must have been blistering, it must still be now. Every moment, fire and misery, the level of stoic control it took not to show it was terrifying to consider. Getting rid of it could be worse.

“This is going to hurt badly,” he said, steady as he could. He should try to make it lascivious, a threat, for their likely audience, but he aimed for calm instead. “You just breathe now, alright?” We’ll get through this, please believe that, he tried to say with his eyes and his gentle fingers. Didn’t know where the eyes watching them were, tried to block off as much as he could with the breadth of his back. 

Fished a knife out of his holster, pure silver, not as much edge as you’d want for this but it was the metal that was important, the purity of it, the well wish to counter malice. It sang under his fingertips.

Leaned in, gave him something like a kiss, really just a press of his mouth against dry, pliant lips. “Hey, hey, stay with me now. You’re doing great.”

Undoing a binding like this wasn’t high art, didn’t take the poisonous mix of magic and malice that building it had. John tried not to think about what it must have involved to draw it to begin with, the pain and humiliation, the time it had taken.  The sheer horror of a body no longer fully under your own control. Breaking it was different, just his will and silver, physical strength and the desperation of the bound guardsman to be free.

It was plenty bloody, silver knife parting golden skin. Hissing, shaking breaths, agony John could taste and smell even though he couldn’t hear it. There was no screaming, which surprised him, but he could feel the shaking, as he carved through the thin layer of skin and the flesh underneath. The lines had to be broken, one by one, no skipping or the curse would reassert itself. And where it was located, the work had to be perfect, one wrong draw and he’d nick and artery, giving death instead of freedom.

The guardsman didn’t fight him at least, not through the pain or the sheer sickening stink of it. The stoic, gasping stillness of him, the way muscle gave and stiffened and flinched made that its own horror. John could guess what it cost, could see enough of what they’d done to him. 

“I know, I know, I know,” John mouthed. Time stretched as he did the work, will and silver, blood and muscle, now so slippery it was hard to keep his own grip. He’d feel it when the spellwork shattered, had to keep going until it did or all the suffering he’d already inflicted would be worthless. 

A quick glance up, teeth gnawing at a bloody mouth, arched back, a perfect show for the watchers, a facsimile of the rape they’d been ready to see, sickness and ruin.

It felt like forever when he drew his knife through the last line. They could both feel it, the shattering static of broken magic, the joy in suffering that had gone into building it, the desire for pain. The suffering that had reinforced it.

It was mostly a relief to look up and see that the guardsman had finally passed out, eyes looking bruised, mouth still tight, bloody lower lip. He looked painfully young like that, barely a man at all, thin golden stubble and a bruised throat. Someone who’d deserved protection and gotten torture.

John could work fast now, cleaning the wound. The heat of the magic and the purity of the silver meant infection wasn’t likely, but he had clean thread and boiled water with him. The bed would be a mess, maybe enough to cover what had happened here with the suggestion of a violent rape, maybe not. 

It didn’t matter, they weren’t going to be here long enough to figure it out. The guardsman was already blinking back to alertness, those remarkable eyes fixed back on John, wide, wet lashes. Confusion, wonder, pain. 

“You,” the man said, finally.  “How– what did you– why did you?” His voice was low, barely a whisper itself and cracked and rough, honey and gravel. Pretty as he was. He looked as startled to hear it as John was, long fingers going up to his own mouth, coming away red. 

John grinned at him, wild relief in the stretch of his mouth. “S’my pleasure, sweetheart.” He probably should have stripped himself before working the unwinding, his clothes looked like he’d been through a battle and his hands were sticky and tacky, but it hardly mattered.

“Gale,” his fair haired, bloody mouthed beauty said, and that was what mattered. “Is my name.” 

“Gale,” John murmured agreeably. He leaned forward, tongue almost touching skin so he could whisper, the words too caught on skin to be heard or lipread. “Nice to meet you. You look like a man who might wanna help me kill a king.”