Heirot

He opened his mouth, but then closed it again. She wouldn't treat him as a Yurivis would. Of course she wouldn't. "It's not about violence, although it can be. It's about subjugation."
He stopped trying to explain, wondering if she was put off. Those needs would be impossible to explain to someone from this world. "You don't need to worry. It will not happen anytime soon." He indulged in the theory they were both pretending was true: that he'd still be with her when his lease on freedom ran out.

She nodded. “Tomorrow, even if my aunt somehow manages to separate me from the sword… I won’t abandon you. I’ll still keep it, and keep you safe from people who might want to use you.” She smiled, a little sleepy now that the night was wearing on, yawning and wiggling a little deeper into the sheets. “My family will get used to you. I’m not going to give them much of a choice.” After a few minutes more, Tenara closed her eyes. “Goodnight Havitharon.”

He looked back at the sleeping woman. His heartrate felt too fast, his thoughts racing. He'd just asked a female to tame him, and she'd seemed spooked, maybe even unwilling. What an ironic reversal. This truly was an alternate reality.

But, she wanted to keep him with her. No one had ever promised him something like that before. What's more, he wanted it to be true. He wanted her to keep him. He wanted to be kept. Being in this universe must be toying with his sanity. He clenched his eyes, eager for the mindlessness of sleep.

Mercifully, his body cooperated. No more visions jerked him awake. He slept like the dead. And yet, as the dawn hours rolled in, his body began to heat up. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow, and his brows knotted in discomfort. At the very base of his horns, tiny bands of gold light showed faintly through the hair covering them.

The door cracked open and one of the guards poked his head in.

“Is she dead?” Someone asked from behind him. “If she’s dead we’re fucked.”

“She’s not dead. They’re sleeping together.”

“Sleeping together or sleeping together?”

A few more heads popped over his shoulder.

“I told you we should have reported her last night.”

“Too late now.”

“We’re getting port duty for this.”

“Just leave it.”

“Should we wake her? Get her back to her place before—.”

Tenara rolled in her sleep, shifting closer to Havitharon and draping her arm across his chest.

The guards fled out of the room and shut the door behind them.

Havi shivered at the small weight of her arm on his chest. It felt too light, like a feather's brush. It wasn't enough. He opened his eyes in confusion, and his body threw sensations at him like an angry spouse who had kept a list of grievances while he'd been away. He was too hot and too cold. The manacles felt like heated rocks against his skin. His skin hurt as if every hair on his body was pricking at him. Most of all, his horns throbbed angrily, a sensation he could barely even recognize feeling before. He twisted onto his side, dislodging Tenara's arm, and pulled thoughtlessly at his manacles. His brain was still only half alert. His thoughts felt as sluggish as his body. "The hell..." he muttered.

Tenara's arm flopped onto the bed, and the sharp drop roused her. She groaned softly, wallowing into the bed before rolling onto her belly and stretching.

"The hell..." he muttered.

She blinked an eye open, slowly pushing up onto her side and adjusting the strap of her gown that had slipped off her shoulder in the night. Morning light glittered on the sweat beading across Havitharon's neck and face, and she saw a curious gold glow around his horns. Tenara crawled up to his back and leaned over him, bracing herself against the bed and peeking down at his face. "Are you sick?" She pressed her hand to his forehead. "You're burning up!"

Havitharon's eyes rolled to meet Tenara's. An overpowering feeling of need kicked through him at the sight of her, but he'd woken up like that before. "Sick?" he repeated, still confused by his condition. He felt awful. "Did you...use your magic?" He pressed a hand to his head, but touching anywhere near his horns made it feel like they were being ground apart. He jerked his hand away with a rattle of chains. That drew his attention down to the manacles. "What are these... designed to do?" he asked, straining to keep a level voice.

Tenara shook her head. "I didn't use any magic," she said. She gently pulled him until he laid on his back and touched the chains on his wrists. "I'm not sure what these are. He said it was to give you mortal strength, so it must dispel magic or limit any enhanced strengths? Is it making you ill?"

The pain made him want to writhe back onto his side, but her small hand pulling him flat felt like a lifeline, and he accepted it. "I don't know what else it could be," he ground out, his horns throbbing like fingers that had been slammed in a door. "Tenara, something is wrong."

"Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice level. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the heat burning through his clothes. "Okay, I'll see if I can get a key. I'll be right back." She gave his chest a gentle pat and began to scramble to the bed's edge. "Hold on."

He winced as she moved away from him. The need to reach out and stop her from leaving was so strong that his vision swam for a moment. Why? Every instinct he'd ever honed said it was safest to be alone if he was unwell. And she was trying to get him help. "Okay," he answered hoarsely.

Tenara fled the room in such a panic that the guards jumped to attention and watched, bewildered, as she ran barefoot down the hall towards the king's room. When she reached her parent's room, Tenara banged on the door. She had learned, by mistake, to not barge in. But this was urgent, and she could deal with the emotional scars of catching her parents in the heat of their never-dampening passion. Her mother though, was already at the door. She was dressed, probably waiting for Aunt Lelana's arrival.

"The key."

"What?"

"I need the key to the cuffs. They're hurting Havitharon." Tenara brushed passed her mother and went to her father. "Please. Give me the key. He's sick. They're making him sick."

Vlad was half-dressed at his desk, still organizing some papers he'd taken on from Atul that were due for the morning conference with their advisors. He turned and took in his daughter's state of dress and the rapid heartbeat. "They're just cuffs, Tenara. They block magic. They shouldn't make him sick. Are you certain he's not manipulating your into removing them?" He asked the question, but still procured the key from his drawer. If she wanted to remove them, with that look on her face, he wasn't going to overrule her.

Tenara growled at her father, a flare of his temper showing in her eyes. "You have so little faith in me," she said, snatching the key out of his hand. "They block magic. He's not from this world. How do you know it isn't hurting him?" Tenara fled the room before she could get her father's reply. She was running back down the hall, sliding to a stop outside Havitharon's door.

"Princess—" Tenara didn't listen to the guards. She shoved into the room and slammed the door behind her.

"I got it," she said, running and leaping up onto the bed. She fell down on her knees next to him, hurriedly searching for the lock.

Havi had made it upright and was sitting in the bed with both hands clenched against his chest when Tenara barreled back in. "That was fast," he said, overwhelmed at the sight of her. He managed to drag his wrists away from his chest and show them to her to unlock. Her hands around his wrist, even just to position the lock, made his flesh jump. She smelled amazing. Within moments, Tenara had them both off him, and they clanked harmlessly to the sheets. He looked at his freed wrists, expecting them to be badly charred, but they looked perfectly normal. He also didn't feel any better.

He stared at them, his frazzled brain trying to logic through the situation. "They cut off magic..." he muttered to himself. A thought crossed his mind, an impossible theory. His balance swayed dangerously as he lurched up from the bed and staggered to the bathroom, to the mirror. He grabbed his collar and tugged at it, his claws shredding the fabric like wrapping ribbon. Leaning in, he glared at his bare chest. His vision swam. It was impossible. It was impossible. It was impossible.

He breathing grew labored as he stared at himself, at his dilated pupils, his glowing horns, his unmarked chest. He grasped the countertop so hard that it splintered, and began to shake.