It was his bridal night, and Bastien Brume lay awake in the yellow room, alone and sick with jealousy. He kept telling himself that he should be glad to rest, that he'd been given a blessed reprieve. But whenever he closed his eyes, he could see those cold, heavy hands groping all over Thistle's skin, those brutal fingers tangling in his spidersilk hair.
The dark god was his lawful husband and master: his owner, according to the terms of the Bargain. But Bastien's mind had become a meadow and every plant was a thistlevine full of thorns. Over and over again, he heard that low, fascinating voice twining around his own, crying in protest against his pain. Don't, Thistle had said. It was the first time anyone had ever spoken up for him, even if it wasn't for his own sake.
Midnight came and passed and he was still in the grip of this exquisite agony. He was beyond exhaustion when he heard the door creak open and felt a cold, fragrant draft blow into his room. Metal clinked against metal.
He reached for a dagger that was no longer under his pillow, and clenched his fists. The Bastien of the world-above was gone; he was only the sacrifice-bride now, with no weapons save for his wits. He raised his head to call out a challenge, but before he could speak, the intruder came close enough to see in the low, yellow light.
"Don't say a word!" Thistle leapt onto the bed with the careless grace of a cat.
Bastien could only nod. Even if he'd wanted to speak, he couldn't. Not with his heart beating in his throat.
"I don't know whether you are a spy or not, and I don't care." Thistle loomed over Bastien, predator-still. If he'd had a tail, the tip of it would have been twitching. "None of your above-world magics and tricks will avail you much here. You'll find them weakened and warped, almost useless. Don't try to escape. Whether They have sent you or not, your duty is to the Lord Beneath now."
He then went on to describe this duty in minute detail. Bastien listened, but he was more fascinated by the rhythm and cadence of Thistle's speech than the actual subject. Someone else might have found it odd, even ridiculous--that such a low and resonant voice came from such a sliver of a youth. Bastien only found it beautiful.
He found it beautiful even when that voice droned on about how to make love to a god who never removed his armor. Even when it stuttered over the uses of oils and wax. Even when it defiantly delved into the subject of unlacing modesty flaps and codpieces.
At length, Thistle paused and asked him if he understood.
Again, Bastien nodded.
Scorn bristled in Thistle's voice. "Don't you have anything to say? Any questions? Even last year's milksop girl managed to say a single word."
Bastien wondered if this were some sort of test. He distinctly remembered Thistle commanding him not to speak. He knew he was hopeless when it came to social signs and cues, so he defaulted to simple obedience. He shook his head and tried his best to look agreeable.
“And why are you smiling at me in that silly way?” exclaimed Thistle. Abruptly, his face softened into confusion and pity. “Are you… are you just not very bright?” Bastien's dumbfounded look seemed to confirm this hypothesis for him. A sad smile flickered on his face, as if he'd just realized that what he’d mistaken for a wolf was a lost, frightened pup. He reached out to pat Bastien's fluffy, brown hair. "There now. It won't be so bad. We'll feed you and protect you, for as long as you're with us. And the end will be quick."
Bastien couldn’t take it anymore. The laughter spilled out of him, all the stronger because it sprang from pure delight. “So you do have other expressions!” he said. When Thistle jerked his hand back and glared at him indignantly, he clarified: “Don’t get me wrong, I like it when you smile. But I’d love looking at you even if you scowled at me for the rest of our lives.”
A new, unreadable expression started playing over Thistle's features.
Silence stretched.
Then Thistle made a small, aggravated sound, and vanished as swiftly and felinely as he'd arrived.
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