FIC: Stained, Sylvia/Fronsac, Brotherhood of the Wolf
Title: Stained
Author: houses
Universe: The Brotherhood of the Wolf
Disc: not mine
Rating: R for sexual situations and bloodletting
Pairing: Fronsac/Sylvia
Timeline: Set mid-movie, before Fronsac’s ‘death’.
Notes: Written for the Unloved Fandom Pairing Challenge
Word Count: 890
Fronsac lay on his stomach, one hand trailing over the edge of the bed. His fingers stroked the fringe on the carpet, but his eyes watched the mirror on the far side of the room. It reflected a world not his own; one of magic, not science.
It was dusky-dark, as always, and the candlelight flickered shadows on the walls like living creatures. Lazy tendrils of smoke rose toward the ceiling, ghosts of their own dead. It he closed his eyes he could hear them screaming.
The woman at the center of this world had her back to him, sitting at her dressing table while flipping through her cards. The soft snap as each hit the lacquer top sounded like the rat-tat of a marching drum, hurrying him to his doom. She did not look up but he knew she watched him, a curious caution that defied his beloved logic. His skin prickled, touched by phantasms he could not name.
Sylvia was a mystery, no more a whore than he was a soldier. With looks like hers she could be courtesan to a king; indeed, she carried herself like royalty. He had no doubt that she enjoyed their time together, but he knew there was something more, something deeper behind those liquid dark eyes.
“Donc,” she said, “It is done.”
Her gaze flicked up at him through two mirrors, a dizzying feeling, and Fronsac rolled over to face her. He could see the curve of her back, the softness of her buttocks, through the thin black gauze she wore over her hair. It floated down nearly to the floor, wrapping her in shadows.
“What is done?” he asked, stretching, his toes curled. “Are you coming back to bed, then?”
“Ah, but why would I do such a thing? You are naught but a corpse come to supper.” Her eyes glittered with suppressed mirth. “And corpses, while stiff, are not to my taste.”
Fronsac grunted and pushed up into a sitting position. “So, what do the cards say today? What doom befalls us now? A nightmare wolf called up from the fantasies of ill-bred peasants to terrorize the countryside? But wait, we’ve already done that one, and it has turned out so very well for us all.”
Sylvia turned her head to glance over her shoulder. “You should not take my advice so lightly. The world is not always as it seems.”
She laughed and hummed a few bars of a song Fronsac did not recognize. “You should know that. Your fur-covered trout made quite an impression.”
Fronsac ran his hands through is blond locks. “Others have mentioned that? It is an effective lesson.”
“Ay. I imagine you were quite the educational experience for some of the locals. Made an impression on at least one sweet young thing.” Her expression was no longer kind. “Be careful to whom you give your affections; every strand of silk in a spider’s web is tangled with another. Thrash around and you never know when you’ll wake the spider up.”
She looked back down at her cards and drew her dagger from its sheath. Frosnac touched the healing scab on his bare chest. He did not fear the pain, but he was wary of the hungry look she gave him.
“What did the cards say, Sylvia?” Fronsac asked, his voice scratchy. The woman left her stool and crawled across the bed. Her naked flesh gleamed like alabaster in the low light as she pushed him flat and straddled his hips.
“What did they say? Now you ask. Tch, ” Sylvia said, drawing the dagger down his chest with a thin line of pain. There was no blood-she was very good at her game-but Fronsac knew it would come. Sylvia has no interest in coin. She required payment from souls with darkness inside, those who had seen the world and truly lived in it, not danced across the simple-man’s fantasy.
He hissed when the dagger point dug slightly into the soft spot above his heart. “They tell you to watch your back for death is coming to take his due. That you will die and rise again, reborn into a new skin. And lastly they say I should make you bleed for choices you have yet to make.”
The silver blade slid through his skin with no effort. He suppressed the urge to grip her arms and throw her off. He knew, like a rabbit hypnotized by a fox, that if he fought he would lose. She bent low, brushing her lips against his. She leaned back to look at him closely; something akin to pity flashed across her face.
“I do not wish you ill. I wish…bah, it is of no importance.” She kissed him again, hard, and pulled the dagger from his skin. She licked the blade clean before dropping it to the floor and leaning against him, naked breasts smearing the blood across his skin.
He hissed, caught between pleasure and pain, and gave himself up to her tender care, a willing sacrifice. As he slipped away into dream-stained oblivion, he heard her say, “To see the face of God is to become his avenging angel, remember that. We are not masters of our own fates. We have our parts to play and, my love, I do not envy you yours.”
~~~The End~~~
Author: houses
Universe: The Brotherhood of the Wolf
Disc: not mine
Rating: R for sexual situations and bloodletting
Pairing: Fronsac/Sylvia
Timeline: Set mid-movie, before Fronsac’s ‘death’.
Notes: Written for the Unloved Fandom Pairing Challenge
Word Count: 890
Fronsac lay on his stomach, one hand trailing over the edge of the bed. His fingers stroked the fringe on the carpet, but his eyes watched the mirror on the far side of the room. It reflected a world not his own; one of magic, not science.
It was dusky-dark, as always, and the candlelight flickered shadows on the walls like living creatures. Lazy tendrils of smoke rose toward the ceiling, ghosts of their own dead. It he closed his eyes he could hear them screaming.
The woman at the center of this world had her back to him, sitting at her dressing table while flipping through her cards. The soft snap as each hit the lacquer top sounded like the rat-tat of a marching drum, hurrying him to his doom. She did not look up but he knew she watched him, a curious caution that defied his beloved logic. His skin prickled, touched by phantasms he could not name.
Sylvia was a mystery, no more a whore than he was a soldier. With looks like hers she could be courtesan to a king; indeed, she carried herself like royalty. He had no doubt that she enjoyed their time together, but he knew there was something more, something deeper behind those liquid dark eyes.
“Donc,” she said, “It is done.”
Her gaze flicked up at him through two mirrors, a dizzying feeling, and Fronsac rolled over to face her. He could see the curve of her back, the softness of her buttocks, through the thin black gauze she wore over her hair. It floated down nearly to the floor, wrapping her in shadows.
“What is done?” he asked, stretching, his toes curled. “Are you coming back to bed, then?”
“Ah, but why would I do such a thing? You are naught but a corpse come to supper.” Her eyes glittered with suppressed mirth. “And corpses, while stiff, are not to my taste.”
Fronsac grunted and pushed up into a sitting position. “So, what do the cards say today? What doom befalls us now? A nightmare wolf called up from the fantasies of ill-bred peasants to terrorize the countryside? But wait, we’ve already done that one, and it has turned out so very well for us all.”
Sylvia turned her head to glance over her shoulder. “You should not take my advice so lightly. The world is not always as it seems.”
She laughed and hummed a few bars of a song Fronsac did not recognize. “You should know that. Your fur-covered trout made quite an impression.”
Fronsac ran his hands through is blond locks. “Others have mentioned that? It is an effective lesson.”
“Ay. I imagine you were quite the educational experience for some of the locals. Made an impression on at least one sweet young thing.” Her expression was no longer kind. “Be careful to whom you give your affections; every strand of silk in a spider’s web is tangled with another. Thrash around and you never know when you’ll wake the spider up.”
She looked back down at her cards and drew her dagger from its sheath. Frosnac touched the healing scab on his bare chest. He did not fear the pain, but he was wary of the hungry look she gave him.
“What did the cards say, Sylvia?” Fronsac asked, his voice scratchy. The woman left her stool and crawled across the bed. Her naked flesh gleamed like alabaster in the low light as she pushed him flat and straddled his hips.
“What did they say? Now you ask. Tch, ” Sylvia said, drawing the dagger down his chest with a thin line of pain. There was no blood-she was very good at her game-but Fronsac knew it would come. Sylvia has no interest in coin. She required payment from souls with darkness inside, those who had seen the world and truly lived in it, not danced across the simple-man’s fantasy.
He hissed when the dagger point dug slightly into the soft spot above his heart. “They tell you to watch your back for death is coming to take his due. That you will die and rise again, reborn into a new skin. And lastly they say I should make you bleed for choices you have yet to make.”
The silver blade slid through his skin with no effort. He suppressed the urge to grip her arms and throw her off. He knew, like a rabbit hypnotized by a fox, that if he fought he would lose. She bent low, brushing her lips against his. She leaned back to look at him closely; something akin to pity flashed across her face.
“I do not wish you ill. I wish…bah, it is of no importance.” She kissed him again, hard, and pulled the dagger from his skin. She licked the blade clean before dropping it to the floor and leaning against him, naked breasts smearing the blood across his skin.
He hissed, caught between pleasure and pain, and gave himself up to her tender care, a willing sacrifice. As he slipped away into dream-stained oblivion, he heard her say, “To see the face of God is to become his avenging angel, remember that. We are not masters of our own fates. We have our parts to play and, my love, I do not envy you yours.”
~~~The End~~~