FIC: True All the Same (Rowena/Salazar, NC17)
Title: True All the Same
Authoress: alyxbradford
Character(s): Rowena, Salazar, Godric, Helga
Pairing: Rowena/Salazar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubcon, mild bondage
Word Count: 5309
Author's Notes: Written for my first 7spells challenge, "if you wanted honesty". The title comes from "Dangerous Game", another song I should not be allowed to listen to repeatedly.
"...and of course I'll spend time in Greece." Godric's typically infectious grin brings smiles to the faces of the other three: Helga, sitting by the fire with her embroidery, Rowena beside her and Salazar by the window, both reading.
"To seek out the eyries of your namesake?" Helga teases, jabbing her needle into the bright yellow fabric of the cloak she's working on.
Godric laughs, tipping his chair back. "Of course. Maybe they'll recognise a kinship and share their treasure hoards with me."
"Bring us back something pretty," Rowena murmurs, not looking up from her illuminated manuscript.
The impish glint enters his eyes, and he leaps to his feet, affecting a dramatic and chivalric pose. "For you, fairest maiden of the glens, I would bring back all the gold of the Egyptian temples, all the silk and spice in China, all the coins of the Arabian sheiks, all the-"
"I think just a necklace or two would do, Godric," Helga laughs, but Rowena's blushing, narrowing her eyes more intently at the curlicued words on the page before her. It's made somewhat harder when Godric, in his usual boyish fashion, slips the book out from under her to force his attention to him.
He ignores the frown pulling at her lips, and says, "I suspect Ro here would like it better if I somehow managed to locate one scroll no one ever knew Homer wrote than if I found all the treasures of all the empires."
"Words are treasures," she says, without pique, and takes her book back. Godric looks as though he wants to kiss her forehead, but thinks better of it, and starts pacing beside her and Helga's chairs.
"I'll try to write," he says offhand.
"No, you won't," Salazar comments from his corner. "You'll forget. When have you ever sent a letter in your life without someone twisting your ear to do it?"
Faint colour coming to his cheeks, Godric laughs. "Yes, well... fair point there, I suppose. I'll try to remember, anyway." His eyes flicker to Rowena, then back to the fire.
"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself," Helga says, voice cheerful but with a touch of wistfulness. "We'll miss you back here in the cold and the rain, while you're sunning yourself on Mediterranean beaches."
"Yes," Salazar drawls, "my heart is swollen with pity for you, all alone in tropical paradises."
"Paradices... paradi... paradien..." Rowena murmurs absently. "Isn't it funny how we don't have a plural for that word? We assume there's only one..." The other three let the comment pass without reply; Rowena's using the dreamy, wispy voice that indicates she doesn't really expect any sort of response, and the conversation goes on as though she hadn't spoken.
"Still, Godric," Helga says, pulling a stitch with her dark thread, "I do hope you won't be terribly lonely."
Throwing himself back into his chair, one leg kicked over the arm, with his hands folded behind his head, Godric replies, a laze in his voice, "Oh, I'm sure I won’t be." Something mischievous sparks in his eyes, but since none of the other three are looking at him, it goes unnoticed. "Particularly since Ro's coming with me."
All three heads, two dark and one fair, snap up in a second. "What?" Helga sputters, dropping her needle into her lap. Rowena blinks several times in rapid succession, as though searching for words. Even impassive Salazar can't keep the shock from registering on his face.
"Rowena's going to come with me," Godric says, quite plainly. "To keep me company and help with the, er, more intellectual aspects of travel." Helga and Salazar turn their eyes to Rowena, who is still staring wide-eyed and occasionally blinking at Godric. "I know she's hoping to find some hints of the lost Library of Alexandria," he continues. "To say nothing of the vast tomes of knowledge collected in the east."
"Rowena," Helga begins, reaching one pink hand out to her friend, "is-? I mean, that is, are you--? Is this--?"
"What she's trying to ask," Salazar interjects, a trace of annoyance in his tone, "is if what Godric says is true."
"Yes. That." Helga's cheeks pink faintly, but her fingers twine with Rowena's. "Ro, darling, are you really going? You hadn't said anything about it."
Rowena seems to snap out of a trance, animation returning to her features. With an air of distraction, she pulls her hand from Helga's and turns a page of the book in her lap. "I'd, ah, talked about the possibility with Godric, yes."
She can feel the eyes of the room on her, and when she glances up at them, isn't sure which barb strikes deepest: Helga, with her sky-blue reproach, Godric and his puppy-dog hopefulness not quite concealing his pleasure at having maneuvered her into such a fantastic corner, or Salazar's steely, emotionless accusation.
"We had only discussed it-" she begins, desperate to wriggle her way back out of this mess.
"But of course you're coming," Godric swiftly interjects, bounding up and taking her hand and kissing the knuckles with his usual heroic flourish. "I couldn't do it without you, Ro, and you know it. It's your responsibility to wizarding knowledge." He pretends not to see the agonised look Rowena now gives him for his underhanded tactics.
"Well, then," Salazar says, his voice a stony barricade, "the best of luck to you both. I'm sure your work abroad will be invaluable to us all." He rises, giving them both a too-respectful bow, and walks from the room with even steps and acid trailing in his wake.
Helga purses her lips, looking between stunned Rowena and enthused Godric. With the familiar grim expression of one far too used to playing mediator, she stands as well, going to grab Godric by the elbow and march him from the room. If it weren't for the severity of the situation, Rowena would laugh, seeing the tall, solid Saxon warrior being forcibly led by a slip of a Welsh girl. Instead, in her usual retreat, she turned her eyes back to her book, forcing her mind to the words before her, hoping that the situation will ameliorate itself without her intervention, that Helga will talk sense into Godric and liberate her from the obligation he thrust upon her.
But time passes without sight or sound of any of the others. One of the servants brings her dinner, and later a long candle, and Rowena continues reading for hours, so absorbed in the text that she doesn't notice another presence in the room until it snuffs out the flame beside her, plunging the room beneath the thick cloak of midnight.
It's a ploy only one of them would use, and as Rowena shifts her focus, she can feel the heat of Salazar's body, just behind her. Swallowing determinedly, she straightens her back and says, "Salazar, I can't see my-"
"Obviously."
Her lips press together in a small frown. This does not bode well. Salazar generally treats her with respect, for all his mockery. He never prevents her from finishing a thought, even when her attention wanders and she rambles at length on indistinct subjects. But the Salazar standing beside her now is not the courtly scholar who has been her friend for so many years; this is his opposite number in Salazar's own soul, the dark sorcerer with plans for conquest, the ruthless wizard whose conscience is untroubled by such petty things as scruples and ethics. Rowena has seen it before, and prayed then that it would never be directed upon her. 'You always knew the gods weren't listening...'
With a shaking breath, Rowena lays aside her book and stands, turning to face him. "I didn't say yes, Salazar," she explains. "He did ask me. I didn't give him an answer."
"You might have said something to me. To Helga."
"It didn't seem necessary at the time. You know how Godric is -- how was I to know the depth of his intent on this matter? And I certainly never thought he would bring it up before I'd had a chance to--"
"How long, Rowena?" Salazar asks, with a menacing step forward. "For how many months have you been prevaricating to him, managing with your simpers to give neither affirmation nor denial?"
Rowena drops her eyes in avoidance, but Salazar moves closer, inside her circle of personal space, and the invasion forces her to look up. "I-I don't know."
"Come now, Rowena," Salazar drawls, "you don't mean to tell me that with that fantastic memory of yours, you've forgotten when Godric first broached the subject to you."
She feels her cheeks redden, shamed. "I didn't want to cause trouble."
"You're so careful, Rowena," he says. "Always so careful not to make anyone angry, not to pick sides." His voice hasn't risen at all; she can't help but think that Godric would be shouting to wake the pigeons in the rafters by now, but Salazar's voice stays as even, as cool as ever, and somehow this frightens her more than Godric's roaring ever has. "At least Helga has the honesty to speak her mind. You?" He steps forward, and she shrinks back, unable to break her eyes from his hawkish gaze. "You're just a coward."
"Salazar, that's not-"
"What?" Still no louder, but the word comes out clipped, bitten viciously off. "Not fair, Rowena? I pray then, please, tell me what about any of this is fair."
Dark lashes fall over her moon-bright eyes; she directs her gaze down at the embroidered hem of her skirt, unable to let her soul be lanced by Salazar's penetrating stare any longer. The fire crackles behind her, and an ashen log breaks and tumbles into the embers. Rowena listens to the pop and hiss for a moment before the weight of expectation becomes too great, and forces her to speak. "I never lied to you, Salazar."
"No," he replies, almost ponderously. "You didn't." Rowena sucks in her breath suddenly as Salazar steps closer, his long fingers clutching at her shoulders. "And you never lied to him, either. You don't lie, Rowena, not you." The heat of his body reaches out for hers, compelling her to relax, to meld to him. But his voice still puts ice and terror in her veins, keeping her stiff, and as distant as he will allow her. "You just omit."
Trying to steady herself, Rowena draws a deep breath, putting all her energy into composing a coherent sentence. "Salazar, you have to understand. What Godric-"
He only shakes her slightly, but it is enough to break her speech. "I do not want to hear his name now."
Rowena sets her delicate jaw, refusing to allow Salazar to so overwhelm her. "He's your best-"
"Do you think I don't know that?" The slightest heat enters his voice at that, a tiny, threatening snarl beneath the words. His hands grip tighter at her, pulling her forward so that her chest is crushed against his, unbalancing her so it is his support and not her own strength keeping her upright. "Do you think I don't remember that every time I look at you? Every time he looks at you?" He's holding her so tightly and so closely now that her toes barely skim the stone floor. "And he was my friend before he was anything to you, Rowena. Before he was your friend or your lover or whatever it is he is to you now."
"He isn't-" But she can't finish that sentence, not truthfully. She raises her eyes slowly, meeting his, the startling pale green behind those almost feminine dark lashes. "I don't know what you want from me, Salazar," she whispers, managing to keep her voice from shaking with great energy. "I don't know what I am to him, and I don't know what I am to you, and I don't know what either of you would have me be."
He regards her for a long moment, and she wonders if he can feel the wild flutter of her heartbeat in his own chest. "What I would have you be," he echoes, his voice as heavy and elusive as a stormcloud. "If that's the answer you want."
Abruptly, he lets her go, and she stumbles, falling to her knees before he seizes her again, this time by the wrists. Rowena sees then the intensity in his eyes, the dread focus she's seen him turn against others. It's the acute ferocity that led to three deaths the night of the Flamborough skirmish, the leashed ardor that makes Godric's constant passions look no more than a child's temper tantrums. It's the shuddering tension that drove him, Rowena knows even if he doesn't admit, to exploration of the Dark.
Salazar lets her shiver in terror for a moment, enjoying too much her supplicant pose. His fingers are clasped tightly enough about her wrists to feel the terrified thrum of the blood pulsing beneath her skin. Rowena who was never flustered, never unsettled by his displays of power, she quavers now. Now she knows, she can't ignore his superiority any longer. And yet...
"No," he breathes, and in a squeak she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Not enough."
Hauling her to her feet, Salazar drags her from the sitting room and down the hall towards his chambers. A single narrowed glance dares her to cry out, to bring Helga running to her rescue, but she is too surprised or too frightened to shout for salvation.
As soon as the door has slammed shut behind them, Salazar forces her against it, bracing his hands at her shoulders. She closes her eyes against his incisive gaze, but his voice cuts straight through any mental barrier she could hope to erect. "Can you guess, Rowena?" His breath raises the hairs on her neck, and she feels tears pearling their way between her tightly squeezed eyelashes. "What would I have you be?" Even as intimidation, his voice is a silken caress, so smooth and entrancing she doesn't feel him unfastening the belt around her waist.
Suddenly, he steps back from her, and she notices how very cold the room is. No fire has been stoked here, and the heavy curtains haven't been drawn over the window, allowing the autumn chill to permeate the room. Only now does she see her belt in his hand, and with it, the sheath holding her wand. While she watches from the door, he walks and places it on the mantle, sparing no thought for the unkindled logs beneath. Rowena thinks it was an unnecessary gesture; she would never have turned her wand on him, not even with this ferocity in him. And she thinks he ought to know her better than that.
He stands before her again, deceptively calm but for the hard set of his jaw, the tension of his fingers, slightly curled and so tight that the bones in the backs of his hands make little ridges in his skin. "Take that off." The only heat in the room is in his eyes, roving over the gentle curves of her azure kirtle. Godric would have been ripping the thing off himself, tearing the laces apart in a frenzy to unclothe her. But Salazar can wait. Salazar seeks to prove a different sort of domination.
Rowena straightens from the door, and for a moment thinks about bolting. 'What would he do if I ran from here and hid in my room? Or better yet, Helga's? Would he follow, and drag me back again? Or would he let me go then? Let me go now, remember, and make me pay doubly for it later?'
Every muscle in his body is poised, tensed, an asp ready to strike. 'No,' she reconsiders. 'I would never reach the door handle.' Shaking fingers reach for the laces at her sides, pulling them loose enough that she can let the heavy garment drop, first from one shoulder, then the other, then sliding over her hips and falling in a brocade puddle on the floor. The shift beneath is flimsy, summerweight not yet retired for the cold season, and Rowena's arms cross over her chest, both to cover herself and try to rub warmth into her veins.
Salazar darts forward again, sweeping her up in his arms, and as terrified as she is of this mood that has overtaken him, she is grateful for his strength, his warmth. It takes him only a few steps to cross the room and toss her on the bed. Before joining her, he divests himself of boots, trousers, and his outer tunic, leaving him clad in an undertunic as thin in fabric as her shift. His wand he takes from an inner pocket and keeps clasped tightly in his hand. Rowena forces herself not to whimper, but the tears that had been blurring her eyes are slipping down her skin now; Salazar, she knows, does not share her compunction regarding the use of magic against friends. She's seen him dispatch Godric with only a few skillful flicks, and wonders what he has in mind for her.
His hand runs over her cheek, tracing just below the tear-line, and Rowena wonders how his touch can be so gentle when his entire body is fairly humming with the force of restraining fury. One by one, he plucks the silver pins from her hair and tosses them aside, letting the ebony spirals unwind and tumble over her shoulders. He won't respond to pleas, never has, and so she doesn't waste her breath on it, though she doesn't understand how he can see her weeping and keep pushing her in this fashion. 'If I knew what to say...'
The tip of the elm wand finds its way to the neckline of her shift, and Rowena wonders again, irrationally, what the core is. 'It would say so much about him...' Salazar seems to spellcast with his eyes, the thin fabric falling apart easily as he draws the wand all the way down to the hem. He lifts her body up slightly, peeling the remnants of the garment from her arms, sliding the fabric from beneath her and tossing it aside. One of his hands trails lightly over her body, tracing the swelling curve from hip to waist, and Rowena squirms uncomfortably. It isn't the first time he's touched her this way, but before it has always been a gift, her choice, her joy to share with him. Now fear taints every brush of his fingers, and she feels another tear roll down her cheek. But there's no sense in protesting, no sense trying to stop him. What Salazar wants, he finds a way to get, and has never been denied.
His hand slides back down, fingers cupping around her thigh, slipping to rest beneath her knee. Rowena thinks he'll move next to untie her garter-strings and slide off the cream-coloured stockings, but he leaves those. Instead, he leans over her, hand roaming first over the narrow bend of her ribcage, skimming only lightly over her breast, then running along her arm. Salazar has always had a way of evoking the sensation from every inch of her skin, and Rowena feels a jolt of fiery warmth follow his thumb from shoulder to elbow, then enveloping warmth when his fingers wrap around her forearm. His wand is still in his other hand, and vaguely she sees something dark and thin spire from the end of it.
It isn't until she feels the velvet ribbon wind around her wrist that she realises what he's doing, and she can't help a small sob escaping her as he directs the ribbon to bind her to the corner post. "Salazar, don’t..." He gives no indication that he hears her, but even as he stretches her other arm up to the opposite wooden post, his head bends to kiss at the tears trailing along her cheekbone. The gesture is far too tender, particularly for the savage asperity in his eyes, and Rowena feels her chest tighten at the clash between the senses. "Salazar..."
His lips graze hers softly, and he whispers, "I should hate to have to gag you, pet..." He presses a kiss to her throat, even as she swallows another sob. "Or to silence that lovely voice."
With Rowena firmly bound, Salazar sets his wand aside, and both hands begin ravenous exploration of her body. His touch is light but insistent, tender but with the command that she yield, a quiet forcefulness demanding that she give in to his ministrations. He trails his fingertips along what he knows to be sensitive stretches, the undersides of her arms, the side of her ribcage curling in to her navel, the curve beneath her small breasts, the crease of skin at the top of her thighs just before the patch of soft black curls begins. All the while, he watches, expressionless but for the world of depth in his eyes, lighting when he sees a pink flush creeps over her skin, narrowing every time she tries to resist the elation she doesn't want to feel.
He approaches sex as he does his work, methodical, calculating, ever observant to changing circumstances, ever sensitive to the slightest fluctuation in the situation. 'Is this just another of his experiments, then?' she wonders. 'Am I just another subject, to be tested on, to be toyed with until he gets the result he seeks?' She doesn't have long to consider this; his thumb presses at the flash of her throat and draws down to her collarbone, and the thought flies from her mind.
Capitulation doesn't take long. Rowena is, as the old soothsayer told her five years ago, strong of mind but shamefully weak of the flesh, and Salazar's hands have lost none of their skill since the last time he played upon her. Despite the tears still sliding down her temples, every stroke provokes waves of pleasure, subtle and small at first, then building to make her purr and gasp and want to beg for satisfaction. It seems to Rowena that his deft fingers cover ever last bit of her, except for those places she most wants him to give attention.
Just when she's ready to plead with him, his lips fall to hers, in a kiss at first feather-light, then growing more devouring, more insistent. One thumb finds her nipple, drawing a lazy circle around the peak, and then his hand slides to cover her entire breast. With a slight moan, she arches into the caress, her legs sliding restlessly against each other. Salazar's mouth traces down, his tongue darting out against her throat and down her chest, until his lips close around the other dusky bud, such a contrast to her moon-white skin. He sucks lightly at it, and Rowena feels a warm surge of emotion gush through her body, heating her limbs, tightening her stomach, and pooling in her loins.
She feels the wetness growing between her legs, and when Salazar draws her nipple upwards with his teeth, she bites her lower lip against the urge to cry out. But when the gesture is repeated on her other breast, she mewls softly and murmurs his name. Jerking at her bonds only heightens her torment, sending a pinch, a thrill scorching at her wrists, making her keenly aware of the furious pace of her pulse.
Without diverting attention from her breasts, Salazar slides a hand between her legs, and Rowena nearly sighs with gratitude. His fingers play their teasing game a moment longer, sliding along the fold of skin at her thighs, before one slides between her lips, coating itself in her warmth and wetness. At the same time, Salazar draws his tongue in a circle around the peak of her breast, then nips at the underside. Rowena writhes, silently urging him on, until he dips one finger inside of her, giving her velvety sheath a languorous stroke. If Salazar were looking for encouragement, he would find it in her moaned "Yes...", in the feverish red blush crawling up her neck and onto her cheeks, and he doesn't hesitate to add a second finger, slowly pumping both in and out of her. Rowena bites her lip again, pulling ineffectually at her bonds. She wants to clutch him closer, to guide him into her, but Salazar isn't letting her decide how this goes tonight. He continues to probe at her with his fingers, sometimes sliding them back and forth, sometimes drawing them in circles, leaving no part of her unstimulated, dragging sometimes over the little ridge that makes her shiver in expectant bliss. All the while, his mouth and other hand work at her breasts, stroking, pinching, sucking, all in tandem, all bringing her to near-frenzy.
Just when she feels on the verge of an explosion, Salazar pulls his hand from her and draws his head up from her breast. Rowena is dizzied with the unreleased tension, and nearly protests his withdrawal, until he slides further down her body, using both hands to push her thighs further apart. As his fingers spread her folds, he lowers his head, and blows a stream of air over the pink nub revealed within. Rowena jerks sharply, giving a half-stifled cry at the sensation. Salazar almost smiles then, or at least Rowena thinks that's what she sees, before his head dips further, his tongue insinuating itself where his fingers had been a moment earlier.
Rowena tosses and thrashes as best she can with her arms tied, drawing ragged breaths and letting them out as impassioned groans and pleasured yelps. His tongue laps deeply, plunging into her core as far as it might, then drags up and draws a circle around her clit, making Rowena buckle and her throat catch sharply. She feels urgency spiraling deep within her, a growing need, coiled in the centre of her being, aching to be let loose. Her gasps come shorter and faster, her breaths shallow and panting, until Salazar's lips close around her clit as they had her nipple and suck it upward in the same fashion, and she forgets to breathe completely. After only a few seconds of such treatment, Rowena feels the burning coil in her suddenly unspring, and her every muscle simultaneously tenses with the force of release. A strangled cry tears from her throat as the ecstasy sweeps over her, shuddering through every nerve, rippling in her blood.
Before she's had a chance to recover, Salazar quickly removes his undertunic and pushes her thighs up, bringing her legs around his waist. One of her garter-laces has come untied, and now her left stocking is bunched at her ankle, while the right still lies smooth against her skin. Positioning the head of his penis just at her opening, he growls softly, "Say his name now, Rowena. If you can." Whimpering, Rowena thrashes her head from side to side, unable to bring any word at all to her lips, much less any name besides that of the man so tormenting her.
This seems to satisfy him, for as he pushes himself within her, he reaches for his wand and lets the ribbons slip from the bedposts, allowing her arms to fall desperately about his shoulders. She tangles her fingers in his smooth black hair, clutching him close to her, drawing his head to hers and fastening their mouths in a kiss.
As her hips rock in time to meet his thrusts, Rowena murmurs faint endearments, promising Salazar her love, her fidelity, her always. She isn't lying; in that instant, she means every word she says, with no concept of after or later. Salazar hardly hears her, anyway, too consumed with the glory of losing himself in her, of the tightness of her sheath around his cock. Rowena has always been so responsive, and when he lifts her legs higher, bringing her ankles over his shoulders so that he can plunge in to the hilt, he is rewarded with an ecstatic shudder and a half-choked cry of delight. She grips his arms, fingernails pressing into him, and when her climax hits, she raises red lines on his skin. Salazar rides her through the orgasm, his eyes alive with the triumph of feeling her clench around him. When he spends himself in her, Rowena is still murmuring, whispering something indistinct. His name, or declarations of her love, but he doesn't hear.
He pulls out of her and rolls to the side before collapsing, but Rowena leans over him, pressing kisses to his sweat-damp brow. "What I am to you..." she whispers thoughtfully, before settling herself more comfortably against the pillows, smiling and gently stroking his hair.
Physically and psychologically exhausted, Rowena is soon asleep, one hand resting on the chest that rises and falls with slow, peaceful breathing. But Salazar remains awake for hours yet; he never needs much sleep, and with pale moonlight streaming in the window, he watches Rowena in her repose. Her skin glows an unnatural silver in the luminous moonbeam, its usual paleness given an ethereal shimmer. But she's likely to take a chill so exposed, and Salazar pulls the blankets up to her neck. She stirs softly, turning slightly towards him. Salazar's fingers touch the soft, loose tendrils of hair framing her face. In this moment, he could almost forgive her anything.
But Salazar's way has never been one of almosts, of half-measures and maybes. Either he will, or he won't. With the slightest of sighs, he pulls his hand away from her, as slowly and carefully as though the raven curls were Medusine vipers, to strike at a sudden move. He falls back against his pillows, staring up at the canopy of emerald velvet without drawing the blankets over himself -- the cold has never bothered him -- and listening to Rowena's soft inhale-exhale ad infinitum.
The curtains were never drawn, and the morning sun slinks in over Rowena's face. Her own room faces east, though, and she has learned not to let it rouse her. Only at a pounding at the door does she begin to stir, with the haze of mind born from consciousness on the edge of dream and waking. Somewhere outside of the cozy warmth of her blankets and quilts, a bright masculine voice is shouting. Before Rowena can remember fully where she is, the door gives a harsh squeal of protest at being thrown abruptly open.
"Salazar, love of heaven, man, it's past Terce, do you mean to sleep all-"
Rowena sits, startling at the intrusion, before recalling whose bed she is in, or her state of undress. Salazar, she finds, is already risen and half-dressed. Godric, in the door, has no doubt been up since daybreak, but the teasing smile falls from his countenance when his eyes meet hers. With a panicked gasp, Rowena clutches at the covers, bringing them to her neck. The black velvet ribbons are still loosely draped about her wrists, curling over the edge of the forest green blankets.
There is more shock than anger in Godric's pale hazel eyes, and far more hurt than either. "Ro..." He blinks a few times, rapidly, as though hoping to clear a spectre from his sight.
"Godric," she begins, "I-"
But three frail syllables are all he allows her. With a defiant set of his shoulders, Godric rounds swiftly and stalks from the room, letting the door crack thunderously behind him. Rowena closes her eyes, fighting off a bout of the nausea that her nerves always seem to bring on. When she opens them again, Salazar, too, is near the door.
A thousand ways of asking how-could-you are in her eyes, but none come to her tongue. Salazar's expression is remorseless, but not victorious, either. He doesn't bother to light a fire for her comfort before leaving.
Note: I don’t know if the equivalent of the word "paradise" in Old English had a plural form or not, and if anyone out there does know, I'll be duly impressed. But I'm going to assume that their language worked conceptually enough like ours that it didn't.
Authoress: alyxbradford
Character(s): Rowena, Salazar, Godric, Helga
Pairing: Rowena/Salazar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubcon, mild bondage
Word Count: 5309
Author's Notes: Written for my first 7spells challenge, "if you wanted honesty". The title comes from "Dangerous Game", another song I should not be allowed to listen to repeatedly.
"...and of course I'll spend time in Greece." Godric's typically infectious grin brings smiles to the faces of the other three: Helga, sitting by the fire with her embroidery, Rowena beside her and Salazar by the window, both reading.
"To seek out the eyries of your namesake?" Helga teases, jabbing her needle into the bright yellow fabric of the cloak she's working on.
Godric laughs, tipping his chair back. "Of course. Maybe they'll recognise a kinship and share their treasure hoards with me."
"Bring us back something pretty," Rowena murmurs, not looking up from her illuminated manuscript.
The impish glint enters his eyes, and he leaps to his feet, affecting a dramatic and chivalric pose. "For you, fairest maiden of the glens, I would bring back all the gold of the Egyptian temples, all the silk and spice in China, all the coins of the Arabian sheiks, all the-"
"I think just a necklace or two would do, Godric," Helga laughs, but Rowena's blushing, narrowing her eyes more intently at the curlicued words on the page before her. It's made somewhat harder when Godric, in his usual boyish fashion, slips the book out from under her to force his attention to him.
He ignores the frown pulling at her lips, and says, "I suspect Ro here would like it better if I somehow managed to locate one scroll no one ever knew Homer wrote than if I found all the treasures of all the empires."
"Words are treasures," she says, without pique, and takes her book back. Godric looks as though he wants to kiss her forehead, but thinks better of it, and starts pacing beside her and Helga's chairs.
"I'll try to write," he says offhand.
"No, you won't," Salazar comments from his corner. "You'll forget. When have you ever sent a letter in your life without someone twisting your ear to do it?"
Faint colour coming to his cheeks, Godric laughs. "Yes, well... fair point there, I suppose. I'll try to remember, anyway." His eyes flicker to Rowena, then back to the fire.
"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself," Helga says, voice cheerful but with a touch of wistfulness. "We'll miss you back here in the cold and the rain, while you're sunning yourself on Mediterranean beaches."
"Yes," Salazar drawls, "my heart is swollen with pity for you, all alone in tropical paradises."
"Paradices... paradi... paradien..." Rowena murmurs absently. "Isn't it funny how we don't have a plural for that word? We assume there's only one..." The other three let the comment pass without reply; Rowena's using the dreamy, wispy voice that indicates she doesn't really expect any sort of response, and the conversation goes on as though she hadn't spoken.
"Still, Godric," Helga says, pulling a stitch with her dark thread, "I do hope you won't be terribly lonely."
Throwing himself back into his chair, one leg kicked over the arm, with his hands folded behind his head, Godric replies, a laze in his voice, "Oh, I'm sure I won’t be." Something mischievous sparks in his eyes, but since none of the other three are looking at him, it goes unnoticed. "Particularly since Ro's coming with me."
All three heads, two dark and one fair, snap up in a second. "What?" Helga sputters, dropping her needle into her lap. Rowena blinks several times in rapid succession, as though searching for words. Even impassive Salazar can't keep the shock from registering on his face.
"Rowena's going to come with me," Godric says, quite plainly. "To keep me company and help with the, er, more intellectual aspects of travel." Helga and Salazar turn their eyes to Rowena, who is still staring wide-eyed and occasionally blinking at Godric. "I know she's hoping to find some hints of the lost Library of Alexandria," he continues. "To say nothing of the vast tomes of knowledge collected in the east."
"Rowena," Helga begins, reaching one pink hand out to her friend, "is-? I mean, that is, are you--? Is this--?"
"What she's trying to ask," Salazar interjects, a trace of annoyance in his tone, "is if what Godric says is true."
"Yes. That." Helga's cheeks pink faintly, but her fingers twine with Rowena's. "Ro, darling, are you really going? You hadn't said anything about it."
Rowena seems to snap out of a trance, animation returning to her features. With an air of distraction, she pulls her hand from Helga's and turns a page of the book in her lap. "I'd, ah, talked about the possibility with Godric, yes."
She can feel the eyes of the room on her, and when she glances up at them, isn't sure which barb strikes deepest: Helga, with her sky-blue reproach, Godric and his puppy-dog hopefulness not quite concealing his pleasure at having maneuvered her into such a fantastic corner, or Salazar's steely, emotionless accusation.
"We had only discussed it-" she begins, desperate to wriggle her way back out of this mess.
"But of course you're coming," Godric swiftly interjects, bounding up and taking her hand and kissing the knuckles with his usual heroic flourish. "I couldn't do it without you, Ro, and you know it. It's your responsibility to wizarding knowledge." He pretends not to see the agonised look Rowena now gives him for his underhanded tactics.
"Well, then," Salazar says, his voice a stony barricade, "the best of luck to you both. I'm sure your work abroad will be invaluable to us all." He rises, giving them both a too-respectful bow, and walks from the room with even steps and acid trailing in his wake.
Helga purses her lips, looking between stunned Rowena and enthused Godric. With the familiar grim expression of one far too used to playing mediator, she stands as well, going to grab Godric by the elbow and march him from the room. If it weren't for the severity of the situation, Rowena would laugh, seeing the tall, solid Saxon warrior being forcibly led by a slip of a Welsh girl. Instead, in her usual retreat, she turned her eyes back to her book, forcing her mind to the words before her, hoping that the situation will ameliorate itself without her intervention, that Helga will talk sense into Godric and liberate her from the obligation he thrust upon her.
But time passes without sight or sound of any of the others. One of the servants brings her dinner, and later a long candle, and Rowena continues reading for hours, so absorbed in the text that she doesn't notice another presence in the room until it snuffs out the flame beside her, plunging the room beneath the thick cloak of midnight.
It's a ploy only one of them would use, and as Rowena shifts her focus, she can feel the heat of Salazar's body, just behind her. Swallowing determinedly, she straightens her back and says, "Salazar, I can't see my-"
"Obviously."
Her lips press together in a small frown. This does not bode well. Salazar generally treats her with respect, for all his mockery. He never prevents her from finishing a thought, even when her attention wanders and she rambles at length on indistinct subjects. But the Salazar standing beside her now is not the courtly scholar who has been her friend for so many years; this is his opposite number in Salazar's own soul, the dark sorcerer with plans for conquest, the ruthless wizard whose conscience is untroubled by such petty things as scruples and ethics. Rowena has seen it before, and prayed then that it would never be directed upon her. 'You always knew the gods weren't listening...'
With a shaking breath, Rowena lays aside her book and stands, turning to face him. "I didn't say yes, Salazar," she explains. "He did ask me. I didn't give him an answer."
"You might have said something to me. To Helga."
"It didn't seem necessary at the time. You know how Godric is -- how was I to know the depth of his intent on this matter? And I certainly never thought he would bring it up before I'd had a chance to--"
"How long, Rowena?" Salazar asks, with a menacing step forward. "For how many months have you been prevaricating to him, managing with your simpers to give neither affirmation nor denial?"
Rowena drops her eyes in avoidance, but Salazar moves closer, inside her circle of personal space, and the invasion forces her to look up. "I-I don't know."
"Come now, Rowena," Salazar drawls, "you don't mean to tell me that with that fantastic memory of yours, you've forgotten when Godric first broached the subject to you."
She feels her cheeks redden, shamed. "I didn't want to cause trouble."
"You're so careful, Rowena," he says. "Always so careful not to make anyone angry, not to pick sides." His voice hasn't risen at all; she can't help but think that Godric would be shouting to wake the pigeons in the rafters by now, but Salazar's voice stays as even, as cool as ever, and somehow this frightens her more than Godric's roaring ever has. "At least Helga has the honesty to speak her mind. You?" He steps forward, and she shrinks back, unable to break her eyes from his hawkish gaze. "You're just a coward."
"Salazar, that's not-"
"What?" Still no louder, but the word comes out clipped, bitten viciously off. "Not fair, Rowena? I pray then, please, tell me what about any of this is fair."
Dark lashes fall over her moon-bright eyes; she directs her gaze down at the embroidered hem of her skirt, unable to let her soul be lanced by Salazar's penetrating stare any longer. The fire crackles behind her, and an ashen log breaks and tumbles into the embers. Rowena listens to the pop and hiss for a moment before the weight of expectation becomes too great, and forces her to speak. "I never lied to you, Salazar."
"No," he replies, almost ponderously. "You didn't." Rowena sucks in her breath suddenly as Salazar steps closer, his long fingers clutching at her shoulders. "And you never lied to him, either. You don't lie, Rowena, not you." The heat of his body reaches out for hers, compelling her to relax, to meld to him. But his voice still puts ice and terror in her veins, keeping her stiff, and as distant as he will allow her. "You just omit."
Trying to steady herself, Rowena draws a deep breath, putting all her energy into composing a coherent sentence. "Salazar, you have to understand. What Godric-"
He only shakes her slightly, but it is enough to break her speech. "I do not want to hear his name now."
Rowena sets her delicate jaw, refusing to allow Salazar to so overwhelm her. "He's your best-"
"Do you think I don't know that?" The slightest heat enters his voice at that, a tiny, threatening snarl beneath the words. His hands grip tighter at her, pulling her forward so that her chest is crushed against his, unbalancing her so it is his support and not her own strength keeping her upright. "Do you think I don't remember that every time I look at you? Every time he looks at you?" He's holding her so tightly and so closely now that her toes barely skim the stone floor. "And he was my friend before he was anything to you, Rowena. Before he was your friend or your lover or whatever it is he is to you now."
"He isn't-" But she can't finish that sentence, not truthfully. She raises her eyes slowly, meeting his, the startling pale green behind those almost feminine dark lashes. "I don't know what you want from me, Salazar," she whispers, managing to keep her voice from shaking with great energy. "I don't know what I am to him, and I don't know what I am to you, and I don't know what either of you would have me be."
He regards her for a long moment, and she wonders if he can feel the wild flutter of her heartbeat in his own chest. "What I would have you be," he echoes, his voice as heavy and elusive as a stormcloud. "If that's the answer you want."
Abruptly, he lets her go, and she stumbles, falling to her knees before he seizes her again, this time by the wrists. Rowena sees then the intensity in his eyes, the dread focus she's seen him turn against others. It's the acute ferocity that led to three deaths the night of the Flamborough skirmish, the leashed ardor that makes Godric's constant passions look no more than a child's temper tantrums. It's the shuddering tension that drove him, Rowena knows even if he doesn't admit, to exploration of the Dark.
Salazar lets her shiver in terror for a moment, enjoying too much her supplicant pose. His fingers are clasped tightly enough about her wrists to feel the terrified thrum of the blood pulsing beneath her skin. Rowena who was never flustered, never unsettled by his displays of power, she quavers now. Now she knows, she can't ignore his superiority any longer. And yet...
"No," he breathes, and in a squeak she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Not enough."
Hauling her to her feet, Salazar drags her from the sitting room and down the hall towards his chambers. A single narrowed glance dares her to cry out, to bring Helga running to her rescue, but she is too surprised or too frightened to shout for salvation.
As soon as the door has slammed shut behind them, Salazar forces her against it, bracing his hands at her shoulders. She closes her eyes against his incisive gaze, but his voice cuts straight through any mental barrier she could hope to erect. "Can you guess, Rowena?" His breath raises the hairs on her neck, and she feels tears pearling their way between her tightly squeezed eyelashes. "What would I have you be?" Even as intimidation, his voice is a silken caress, so smooth and entrancing she doesn't feel him unfastening the belt around her waist.
Suddenly, he steps back from her, and she notices how very cold the room is. No fire has been stoked here, and the heavy curtains haven't been drawn over the window, allowing the autumn chill to permeate the room. Only now does she see her belt in his hand, and with it, the sheath holding her wand. While she watches from the door, he walks and places it on the mantle, sparing no thought for the unkindled logs beneath. Rowena thinks it was an unnecessary gesture; she would never have turned her wand on him, not even with this ferocity in him. And she thinks he ought to know her better than that.
He stands before her again, deceptively calm but for the hard set of his jaw, the tension of his fingers, slightly curled and so tight that the bones in the backs of his hands make little ridges in his skin. "Take that off." The only heat in the room is in his eyes, roving over the gentle curves of her azure kirtle. Godric would have been ripping the thing off himself, tearing the laces apart in a frenzy to unclothe her. But Salazar can wait. Salazar seeks to prove a different sort of domination.
Rowena straightens from the door, and for a moment thinks about bolting. 'What would he do if I ran from here and hid in my room? Or better yet, Helga's? Would he follow, and drag me back again? Or would he let me go then? Let me go now, remember, and make me pay doubly for it later?'
Every muscle in his body is poised, tensed, an asp ready to strike. 'No,' she reconsiders. 'I would never reach the door handle.' Shaking fingers reach for the laces at her sides, pulling them loose enough that she can let the heavy garment drop, first from one shoulder, then the other, then sliding over her hips and falling in a brocade puddle on the floor. The shift beneath is flimsy, summerweight not yet retired for the cold season, and Rowena's arms cross over her chest, both to cover herself and try to rub warmth into her veins.
Salazar darts forward again, sweeping her up in his arms, and as terrified as she is of this mood that has overtaken him, she is grateful for his strength, his warmth. It takes him only a few steps to cross the room and toss her on the bed. Before joining her, he divests himself of boots, trousers, and his outer tunic, leaving him clad in an undertunic as thin in fabric as her shift. His wand he takes from an inner pocket and keeps clasped tightly in his hand. Rowena forces herself not to whimper, but the tears that had been blurring her eyes are slipping down her skin now; Salazar, she knows, does not share her compunction regarding the use of magic against friends. She's seen him dispatch Godric with only a few skillful flicks, and wonders what he has in mind for her.
His hand runs over her cheek, tracing just below the tear-line, and Rowena wonders how his touch can be so gentle when his entire body is fairly humming with the force of restraining fury. One by one, he plucks the silver pins from her hair and tosses them aside, letting the ebony spirals unwind and tumble over her shoulders. He won't respond to pleas, never has, and so she doesn't waste her breath on it, though she doesn't understand how he can see her weeping and keep pushing her in this fashion. 'If I knew what to say...'
The tip of the elm wand finds its way to the neckline of her shift, and Rowena wonders again, irrationally, what the core is. 'It would say so much about him...' Salazar seems to spellcast with his eyes, the thin fabric falling apart easily as he draws the wand all the way down to the hem. He lifts her body up slightly, peeling the remnants of the garment from her arms, sliding the fabric from beneath her and tossing it aside. One of his hands trails lightly over her body, tracing the swelling curve from hip to waist, and Rowena squirms uncomfortably. It isn't the first time he's touched her this way, but before it has always been a gift, her choice, her joy to share with him. Now fear taints every brush of his fingers, and she feels another tear roll down her cheek. But there's no sense in protesting, no sense trying to stop him. What Salazar wants, he finds a way to get, and has never been denied.
His hand slides back down, fingers cupping around her thigh, slipping to rest beneath her knee. Rowena thinks he'll move next to untie her garter-strings and slide off the cream-coloured stockings, but he leaves those. Instead, he leans over her, hand roaming first over the narrow bend of her ribcage, skimming only lightly over her breast, then running along her arm. Salazar has always had a way of evoking the sensation from every inch of her skin, and Rowena feels a jolt of fiery warmth follow his thumb from shoulder to elbow, then enveloping warmth when his fingers wrap around her forearm. His wand is still in his other hand, and vaguely she sees something dark and thin spire from the end of it.
It isn't until she feels the velvet ribbon wind around her wrist that she realises what he's doing, and she can't help a small sob escaping her as he directs the ribbon to bind her to the corner post. "Salazar, don’t..." He gives no indication that he hears her, but even as he stretches her other arm up to the opposite wooden post, his head bends to kiss at the tears trailing along her cheekbone. The gesture is far too tender, particularly for the savage asperity in his eyes, and Rowena feels her chest tighten at the clash between the senses. "Salazar..."
His lips graze hers softly, and he whispers, "I should hate to have to gag you, pet..." He presses a kiss to her throat, even as she swallows another sob. "Or to silence that lovely voice."
With Rowena firmly bound, Salazar sets his wand aside, and both hands begin ravenous exploration of her body. His touch is light but insistent, tender but with the command that she yield, a quiet forcefulness demanding that she give in to his ministrations. He trails his fingertips along what he knows to be sensitive stretches, the undersides of her arms, the side of her ribcage curling in to her navel, the curve beneath her small breasts, the crease of skin at the top of her thighs just before the patch of soft black curls begins. All the while, he watches, expressionless but for the world of depth in his eyes, lighting when he sees a pink flush creeps over her skin, narrowing every time she tries to resist the elation she doesn't want to feel.
He approaches sex as he does his work, methodical, calculating, ever observant to changing circumstances, ever sensitive to the slightest fluctuation in the situation. 'Is this just another of his experiments, then?' she wonders. 'Am I just another subject, to be tested on, to be toyed with until he gets the result he seeks?' She doesn't have long to consider this; his thumb presses at the flash of her throat and draws down to her collarbone, and the thought flies from her mind.
Capitulation doesn't take long. Rowena is, as the old soothsayer told her five years ago, strong of mind but shamefully weak of the flesh, and Salazar's hands have lost none of their skill since the last time he played upon her. Despite the tears still sliding down her temples, every stroke provokes waves of pleasure, subtle and small at first, then building to make her purr and gasp and want to beg for satisfaction. It seems to Rowena that his deft fingers cover ever last bit of her, except for those places she most wants him to give attention.
Just when she's ready to plead with him, his lips fall to hers, in a kiss at first feather-light, then growing more devouring, more insistent. One thumb finds her nipple, drawing a lazy circle around the peak, and then his hand slides to cover her entire breast. With a slight moan, she arches into the caress, her legs sliding restlessly against each other. Salazar's mouth traces down, his tongue darting out against her throat and down her chest, until his lips close around the other dusky bud, such a contrast to her moon-white skin. He sucks lightly at it, and Rowena feels a warm surge of emotion gush through her body, heating her limbs, tightening her stomach, and pooling in her loins.
She feels the wetness growing between her legs, and when Salazar draws her nipple upwards with his teeth, she bites her lower lip against the urge to cry out. But when the gesture is repeated on her other breast, she mewls softly and murmurs his name. Jerking at her bonds only heightens her torment, sending a pinch, a thrill scorching at her wrists, making her keenly aware of the furious pace of her pulse.
Without diverting attention from her breasts, Salazar slides a hand between her legs, and Rowena nearly sighs with gratitude. His fingers play their teasing game a moment longer, sliding along the fold of skin at her thighs, before one slides between her lips, coating itself in her warmth and wetness. At the same time, Salazar draws his tongue in a circle around the peak of her breast, then nips at the underside. Rowena writhes, silently urging him on, until he dips one finger inside of her, giving her velvety sheath a languorous stroke. If Salazar were looking for encouragement, he would find it in her moaned "Yes...", in the feverish red blush crawling up her neck and onto her cheeks, and he doesn't hesitate to add a second finger, slowly pumping both in and out of her. Rowena bites her lip again, pulling ineffectually at her bonds. She wants to clutch him closer, to guide him into her, but Salazar isn't letting her decide how this goes tonight. He continues to probe at her with his fingers, sometimes sliding them back and forth, sometimes drawing them in circles, leaving no part of her unstimulated, dragging sometimes over the little ridge that makes her shiver in expectant bliss. All the while, his mouth and other hand work at her breasts, stroking, pinching, sucking, all in tandem, all bringing her to near-frenzy.
Just when she feels on the verge of an explosion, Salazar pulls his hand from her and draws his head up from her breast. Rowena is dizzied with the unreleased tension, and nearly protests his withdrawal, until he slides further down her body, using both hands to push her thighs further apart. As his fingers spread her folds, he lowers his head, and blows a stream of air over the pink nub revealed within. Rowena jerks sharply, giving a half-stifled cry at the sensation. Salazar almost smiles then, or at least Rowena thinks that's what she sees, before his head dips further, his tongue insinuating itself where his fingers had been a moment earlier.
Rowena tosses and thrashes as best she can with her arms tied, drawing ragged breaths and letting them out as impassioned groans and pleasured yelps. His tongue laps deeply, plunging into her core as far as it might, then drags up and draws a circle around her clit, making Rowena buckle and her throat catch sharply. She feels urgency spiraling deep within her, a growing need, coiled in the centre of her being, aching to be let loose. Her gasps come shorter and faster, her breaths shallow and panting, until Salazar's lips close around her clit as they had her nipple and suck it upward in the same fashion, and she forgets to breathe completely. After only a few seconds of such treatment, Rowena feels the burning coil in her suddenly unspring, and her every muscle simultaneously tenses with the force of release. A strangled cry tears from her throat as the ecstasy sweeps over her, shuddering through every nerve, rippling in her blood.
Before she's had a chance to recover, Salazar quickly removes his undertunic and pushes her thighs up, bringing her legs around his waist. One of her garter-laces has come untied, and now her left stocking is bunched at her ankle, while the right still lies smooth against her skin. Positioning the head of his penis just at her opening, he growls softly, "Say his name now, Rowena. If you can." Whimpering, Rowena thrashes her head from side to side, unable to bring any word at all to her lips, much less any name besides that of the man so tormenting her.
This seems to satisfy him, for as he pushes himself within her, he reaches for his wand and lets the ribbons slip from the bedposts, allowing her arms to fall desperately about his shoulders. She tangles her fingers in his smooth black hair, clutching him close to her, drawing his head to hers and fastening their mouths in a kiss.
As her hips rock in time to meet his thrusts, Rowena murmurs faint endearments, promising Salazar her love, her fidelity, her always. She isn't lying; in that instant, she means every word she says, with no concept of after or later. Salazar hardly hears her, anyway, too consumed with the glory of losing himself in her, of the tightness of her sheath around his cock. Rowena has always been so responsive, and when he lifts her legs higher, bringing her ankles over his shoulders so that he can plunge in to the hilt, he is rewarded with an ecstatic shudder and a half-choked cry of delight. She grips his arms, fingernails pressing into him, and when her climax hits, she raises red lines on his skin. Salazar rides her through the orgasm, his eyes alive with the triumph of feeling her clench around him. When he spends himself in her, Rowena is still murmuring, whispering something indistinct. His name, or declarations of her love, but he doesn't hear.
He pulls out of her and rolls to the side before collapsing, but Rowena leans over him, pressing kisses to his sweat-damp brow. "What I am to you..." she whispers thoughtfully, before settling herself more comfortably against the pillows, smiling and gently stroking his hair.
Physically and psychologically exhausted, Rowena is soon asleep, one hand resting on the chest that rises and falls with slow, peaceful breathing. But Salazar remains awake for hours yet; he never needs much sleep, and with pale moonlight streaming in the window, he watches Rowena in her repose. Her skin glows an unnatural silver in the luminous moonbeam, its usual paleness given an ethereal shimmer. But she's likely to take a chill so exposed, and Salazar pulls the blankets up to her neck. She stirs softly, turning slightly towards him. Salazar's fingers touch the soft, loose tendrils of hair framing her face. In this moment, he could almost forgive her anything.
But Salazar's way has never been one of almosts, of half-measures and maybes. Either he will, or he won't. With the slightest of sighs, he pulls his hand away from her, as slowly and carefully as though the raven curls were Medusine vipers, to strike at a sudden move. He falls back against his pillows, staring up at the canopy of emerald velvet without drawing the blankets over himself -- the cold has never bothered him -- and listening to Rowena's soft inhale-exhale ad infinitum.
The curtains were never drawn, and the morning sun slinks in over Rowena's face. Her own room faces east, though, and she has learned not to let it rouse her. Only at a pounding at the door does she begin to stir, with the haze of mind born from consciousness on the edge of dream and waking. Somewhere outside of the cozy warmth of her blankets and quilts, a bright masculine voice is shouting. Before Rowena can remember fully where she is, the door gives a harsh squeal of protest at being thrown abruptly open.
"Salazar, love of heaven, man, it's past Terce, do you mean to sleep all-"
Rowena sits, startling at the intrusion, before recalling whose bed she is in, or her state of undress. Salazar, she finds, is already risen and half-dressed. Godric, in the door, has no doubt been up since daybreak, but the teasing smile falls from his countenance when his eyes meet hers. With a panicked gasp, Rowena clutches at the covers, bringing them to her neck. The black velvet ribbons are still loosely draped about her wrists, curling over the edge of the forest green blankets.
There is more shock than anger in Godric's pale hazel eyes, and far more hurt than either. "Ro..." He blinks a few times, rapidly, as though hoping to clear a spectre from his sight.
"Godric," she begins, "I-"
But three frail syllables are all he allows her. With a defiant set of his shoulders, Godric rounds swiftly and stalks from the room, letting the door crack thunderously behind him. Rowena closes her eyes, fighting off a bout of the nausea that her nerves always seem to bring on. When she opens them again, Salazar, too, is near the door.
A thousand ways of asking how-could-you are in her eyes, but none come to her tongue. Salazar's expression is remorseless, but not victorious, either. He doesn't bother to light a fire for her comfort before leaving.
Note: I don’t know if the equivalent of the word "paradise" in Old English had a plural form or not, and if anyone out there does know, I'll be duly impressed. But I'm going to assume that their language worked conceptually enough like ours that it didn't.