the matchmaker

[Talon]

T A L O N

92 Glade 122 AoS
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It had been exactly seven days since Aoren had broken. Seven days since he had felt his husband’s will to resist their torture crumble. He knew because on the morning of the first day following the gaping hole that appeared in his soul and heart, the broadcasts stopped. There had not been a single one since that day. There had also been nothing but stone cold silence from the Bond. It was not gone. He could still feel its presence, but it felt as though there were something cold and hard blocking it.

He was meditating when the door opened. Opening his eyes he watched detachedly at first as he saw the slender figure of the archbishop meander into the chamber. His focus shifted however, when he saw who else had walked in. He recognized the broad sweeping raven wings. The steady gait. Finally, the markings upon his bare arms. His eyes at first lit up at the sight of his bondmate but then he saw the subdued way in which he carried himself. Combined with the black collar with electric blue runes etched into its surface around his neck, he immediately knew what had happened. When their eyes met, he felt bile rise up in the back of his throat. Gone was the passionate fire of the man he loved. Gone was the spark that so clearly shone in Aoren’s eyes.

He was on his feet. Straining against the bindings that held him. Anger rose up in him, a burning fury that nearly blinded him. As soon as it rose up however, he felt it pushed down and quelled with a startling swiftness that had him jerking back in shock. His eyes went wide as he realized the fullness of what had just happened. That was when he felt it. The hard, cold emptiness that had filled him was no longer there. In its place was a nauseating feeling that felt like a flame sputtering in the dark. In his minds eye he thought he could see the fire that had always represented Aoren to him. It was small and dampened by shadows that he could not pierce and a tendril of that inky blackness was coiling itself into his own chest. It felt sick. It felt wrong.

“Aoren?” His voice was hoarse. It came out as a soft, desperate plea. His husband stared back at him, unblinking, unmoved. Tears sprung up into his eyes. He looked to the archbishop then.

“You bastards!” Rage boiled up inside of him once more. “You absolute fucking monsters! GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!”

With an anguished cry, he felt his anger pushed down again. He felt the touch of his bondmate, his core soulmate, wrap around his emotions and brush them aside. He shed his tears of rage, frustration and betrayal freely. He could do nothing else. They had broken his bondmate. His Core Bondmate. They had collared him and shackled him to their will. They could manipulate him through Aoren now and short of death, he was powerless to stop it. He fell to his knees, his gaze falling to the floor.

“Give him back to me…please…” The sound of clacking heels echoed in the chamber.

“Come now, my dear archbishop. This is hardly necessary.” A woman’s voice broke through the haze of despair that felt like it was going to crush him.

“Many things are necessary, my dear. This--” The woman interrupted archbishop Franz Kircher. He did not need to look up to sense the severe displeasure that crossed his face at such an act.

“Is not.” He heard a snap of fingers. As soon as it sounded, he felt as though a lead weight was lifted from his chest. The sound of a gasp drew his attention and had his head snapping up. Aoren stumbled and shook his head as though he were waking up from a dream. He pressed a hand to his brow and he watched as clarity returned to those fire-kissed eyes. Aoren’s hand immediately went to the collar around his neck. His head then shot up and he locked eyes with him.

“Talon?” There was hurt. There was longing. There was rage. There was love. There were so many emotions that flitted across his husband’s face that he could not possibly have named all of them. But it did not matter. He felt warmth fill his chest and in the span of a breath, Aoren was stumbling forward and he felt sturdy arms wrap around him. Desperately, he clung to his bondmate. He buried his face in Aoren’s neck. He squeezed his eyes shut and he reached for him across the Bond. Aoren reached back. The touch of souls was barred however, as between them lingered what felt like a thin pane of glass. Aoren leaned back, cupping his face in his hands.

“I…I thought…when I…” He closed his mouth. His jaw flexing as he struggled to find words. He knew to what his bondmate was referring to. The control was forced upon him. The manipulation of his bondmate’s emotions. It was the height of sacrilege against the Bond. Aoren pressed their brows together and he basked in his husband’s presence. More tears welled up in his eyes. He let them fall, not caring that they would be seen by his captors. Before that moment, he would not have said that he was close to breaking. Now? There in the ring of his husband’s arms, feeling even just a shred of his warmth, feeling his hands upon him, seeing the fire of life in his eyes again after months of nothing but hearing his screams? He realized just how precariously close he had been.

He did not know if he could go back to that.

He heard the archbishop give a sniff of disapproval. It was followed by the woman sighing fondly.

“Ah, you see? Love is such a beautiful thing.” Another snap of fingers. He gasped as he felt Aoren’s warmth evaporate. The vibrancy of the Bond went cold and dark once more. His husband’s arms went stiff and he felt his muscles flex. Meeting Aoren’s gaze, he saw the clear attempt to resist, to fight, to shrug off the control, evident in those fiery eyes.

And then the fire went out.

Aoren’s arms went limp and he was pulling away from him.

“W-wait. Aoren? Wait! Please!” He moved to grab his husband but the chains binding him suddenly yanked him back and away from Aoren. He strained against them, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Aoren stood up and stepped back, assuming a subdued posture. A frustrated cry escaped his lips as his anger rose up once again. The black of the cathedralesque chamber became a stark white. He roared in fury. The chains holding him groaned with the effort to restrain him. Smoke rose up from his body as his inscriptions began to burn away beneath the onslaught of his anger. He felt that nauseating influence coil its way back into his chest, the work of Aoren being forced to control him as he, himself was being controlled. Again, his anger was pushed down. The wrath he would have unleashed was dampened and the effort he put into struggling against his restraints was drained away from him like water through a sieve.

He gasped, his legs shaking as he fell back to his knees and was left panting.

“Exquisite. Truly exquisite, archbishop. Now I see why you have been keeping him here all to yourself. You sultry minx.” The woman let out an amused, playful laugh and he finally looked up at her. She was a woman that was perhaps middling in her years though he could not truly tell. She wore a lavish gown with a shawl draped around her shoulders. Long black hair fell down her bare shoulders in curls. A pair of dark brown eyes stared at him with a sparkling intelligence that held a predatory edge. There was a smile tugging at her lips as she met his gaze.

“And those eyes! Beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Such a magnificent specimen.” He watched her, glaring at her as she began to pace around the circle that caged him. “Remarkable. Silver wings. Stunning physique. The strength of at least a dozen Kathar. My goodness, how many masters had to forge these chains?”

“Too many.” The archbishop’s tone was less clipped than before. For what reason? He did not care to find out. He had a feeling he would know why soon, though.

“And that skin? Those markings? He is a half-elf?” The archbishop nodded. “I read the lineage report but I daresay, they do not do him justice.”

The woman circled back around so that she stood squarely within his field of view.

“Who are you?” His question came out as a growl and she brought a hand up to fan herself.

“My, my, that voice too. Ha!” She adjusted her shawl and gave a soft purr of delight. “I can just imagine…”

“Enough.” The archbishop narrowed his eyes at the woman. She eyed the old man before turning her attention back to him.

“My dear, where are my manners? I do so get carried away sometimes. Allow me to introduce myself, I am the Countess Jacqueline d’Honaire. And I, Your Highness...” She gave an elegant dip with a bow of her head.

“Am the Matchmaker.”

[Talon]

T A L O N

Laughter bubbled up out of him after the woman’s words registered. He had to laugh. It was absurd. It was ludicrous. When finally his hysterical laughter subsided into soft chuckles, he looked at the countess and the archbishop. The archbishop looked as though he had swallowed something sour. Jacqueline however, looked fascinated.

“You cannot be serious. You murder my father, slaughter innocent people, imprison me, torture me, force me to endure…what has it been? Weeks? Months? Months of suffering?” He narrowed his eyes as his vision focused on Aoren. “You shackle the love of my life…and you expect me to play a game of matchmaking?”

“You have a beautiful laugh.” The statement caught him completely off guard. The countess had stepped forward to the edge of his circle. Her shawl had fallen off one shoulder. She was studying him openly and intently. “I suspect it is not something heard often. Though tinged with hysteria and pain, I can hear it. At least, the echo of what it might sound like if filled with joy.”

He stared at her, mouth slightly agape. What was he supposed to say to that?

“Who are you?” He asked the question more earnestly. The smile that touched her face was warm, almost motherly.

“Thank you, my dear archbishop. I think I shall take it from here.” Franz looked as though he were going to say something but seemed to have thought better of it. He sniffed and turned, making his way out of the room. As the archbishop exited, two other people entered. One man and one woman. Both of them wearing well tailored stylish suits in Imperial fashion. They carried three stools and several satchels along with other tools with them. Seeing them, he felt himself stiffen as unease settled in his stomach. His eyes darted to Aoren, who remained a silent statue nearby. He felt an ache in his chest where his husband’s warmth should have been. The two newcomers began assembling what could only be described as a makeshift art studio. An easel, sketchbooks, various other instruments. When everything was in place, the countess remained standing, still studying him. After a stretch of more silence, he spoke.

“Are you not going to sit? Is this not where your torture begins?” He could not help the bitterness that crept into his voice. He was weary. He wanted the collar around Aoren’s neck gone. He wanted freedom after seeing nothing and experiencing nothing but the dark walls of the chapel for what felt like ages.

“It is rude to sit in the presence of royalty uninvited.” Again he had to blink at her statement. She gestured to the stools. “May we, Your Highness?”

He looked at the countess, confused for a moment. Again, she had caught him off guard with the simplest of things. After a moment, nodded his head. Jacqueline took her seat. Her assistants remained standing at the ready. She crossed one leg over the other, extended a hand and was provided a notebook and a pen.

“You need not bother, Countess. I am not interested in any betrothals you and your people might envision for me.” He turned his head in Aoren’s direction. His eyes roamed over his husband’s body. Aoren was wearing humble clothing but he seemed physically uninjured for the moment. His chest rose and fell steadily. The wings rest at his back had the lustrous shine of health and care. It was then that he realized that his partner must have been given a bath and tended to, prior to being brought before him.

“Oh, I am not here to arrange a marriage, Your Highness.” He looked back to her, arching an eyebrow.

“No?” She shook her head. There was no amusement in her expression. Beneath her gaze, he felt as though he was being meticulously studied. Every movement. Every breath. Every word. All of it was under her scrutiny as though she were searching for something.

“Allow me to clarify your assumption of me by providing elaboration as to who I am. To answer your question, I am the Imperium’s foremost necromantic surgeon and alchemist. I have matched many of the bloodlines among the Kathar Legion with some of the most promising and healthy lineages in all the realms. The men guarding over you in this room were all born from my guidance. Including…” She turned her eyes to Aoren. Her statement hung in the air and he realized that this woman was much older and more dangerous than she appeared.

“I am the Imperial Matchmaker in the Royal Court and among high society. But in truth, I am…” With dawning realization, he finished her sentence for her.

“A breeder.” He was leaning back, away from her, with open disbelief on his face. The countess smiled.

“The breeder. Based on your reaction, I gather you know of my profession and its relevance to the empire.” Aoren had only mentioned it sparingly and only when they were initially becoming intimate with one another. He had told him about the Imperial “lineage preservation” programs that some Kathar were hand-picked to be part of. Aoren had been such a man. Chosen for his strength and resiliency, he had divulged to him how he had awoken to his sexuality and had been coerced to explore it in controlled environments. Aoren had told him that he was likely a father to sons or daughters that he would never know.

“You intend to…to…” The obvious revulsion in his voice was not something he tried to hide. Nor could he hide the tremor of very real fear that tinged it as well. The countess was not perturbed though her expression did soften.

“Rape you? No. Not as long as I draw breath. Once, long ago, that might have been the practice of other Imperial Matchmakers. That is not mine. You will have a choice, just as all my matches do. To be intimate or not intimate. But I think you will find it very hard to refuse once you hear what I have to offer.” That snapped him out of his moment of fear and tension. While the archbishop had not been kind, he had never once thought he would be subject to such a thing in his captivity. The countess had shaken that belief but he would listen.

“What are you offering?” She gestured to Aoren and his heart picked up pace.

“His Exalted Majesty has given me leave to act as hostess to the spouse of our royal guest.” She smiled at that. It was a dark smile filled with grim humor but it passed. “In exchange for your cooperation, I am prepared to give you time with him…perhaps more.”

He felt his heart clench in his chest. Time with his bondmate? Time they could spend with one another? Time that his beloved would be free of the black collar’s wretched influence, free to be himself, free to feel his warmth. From the smirk that touched the countess face, he knew that there was longing evident in his gaze as he stared at his partner. How long had they been separated from each other prior to that moment? It could not have been more than a few months. But every day or every other day, for days and weeks and months on end, hearing nothing but Aoren’s screaming, feeling him writhe in pain across the Bond, enduring the archbishop’s callous cruelty…he had not realized how battered he felt until then. Every morning and every night had been nothing but pain. From the moment the scribes cut into his flesh to reapply his markings in the morning to when they returned in the evening to do the same, every moment of every day had been an exhausting battle just to stay sane.

“What would you ask of me?” Slowly, reluctantly, he looked back to the countess. She smiled and leaned into her seat upon the stool.

“For the moment? Only questions.” He considered everything in front of him. There, with the stark contrast of what the day prior had been like compared to what was in front of him, he knew in his heart that he would not have lasted much longer. How could he? It had worn at him every minute of every day. He did not know what he would have done. His rage and anger had only been building. How longer before he lashed out with every ounce of might he could marshal, heedless of the consequences? He had been close. So very close to giving in to that urge and unleashing everything in him, damn the consequences. But this way? This way, Aoren was safe. He did not care what they did to him but he could not take anymore of his partner’s suffering. Now that he could see Aoren, now that he had felt him in his arms, now that he was living and breathing in front of him…he knew he would do anything to spare both himself and Aoren that agony again. Even if it meant giving himself up so that Aoren might be spared worse fates.

He hung his head and let out a breath of weariness that seemed born from his very soul. Perhaps it was.

“Ask your questions, Countess.”

Forgive me...

He did not know from whom he was seeking forgiveness, himself....or everyone else.

[Talon]

R E W A R D S

Name: Talon
XP: 8, not for magic.
Requested Lore: +6 Lores.