Sin and Soil

by Anya Merchant

  “Don’t,” whispered an all too familiar voice.

  He was desperate to see her, to know this side of her, but he hesitated. Letting her keep the mask felt like such a small concession to make in light of the drama and chaos of the rest of his life, let alone the potential pleasure of the moment.

  He let his hand drop, running it along her body instead as a strange alchemy of emotion roiled through his heart and chest. Austine would have loved to hear about him encountering the infamous masked maiden a second time, hanging on every detail he’d willingly disclose.

  Damon closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. He felt the woman pushing a hand against his sternum, gently guiding him to lay flat and pulling the quilt back over them. She ran her fingers over his stomach, hooking her thumbs into his undershorts and gently sliding them downward.

  The mask let him pretend like he didn’t know who it was. The mask made it simple to focus on the pleasure of her touch as she began to move her hand up and down along his hardening length. The mask gave him a pass on so many complicated questions, on guilt and shame and anything outside the purview of venting his frustration on a soft, willing body.

  He ran his hand through the woman’s silky hair, pulling her face near enough to his cock to feel the wonderfully warm exhalations as her hot breath escaped her lips. She rewarded him by sticking out her tongue, prodding and licking with touches meant to explore, rather than give immediate pleasure.

  Damon groaned, tugging greedily on her hair, urging her to do more than just that. She obliged him with a slow, sucking kiss, followed by another lick. She parted her lips, taking the tip of his tool into the throes of her heavenly mouth.

  It felt incredible, but so very unfair. His guilt and shame were one in the same, with the chaos in the arena seeming to meld into what was unfolding within the sheets of his bed.

  Two unrelated crimes, linked together by him and his choices. He felt a sudden anger pulse through him, snaring his attention back to the cat masked woman’s wonderful lips.

  He took a more dominant hold on her head, flexing his hips to sink his cock upward. She let out a tiny, somewhat annoyed squeal and pulled back, coughing and clearing her throat with a familiar noise. Damon felt his jaw tense, so many conflicting emotions hitting him all at once.

  He seized the woman by the shoulders and flipped her underneath him hard enough to elicite a groan from the shifting bed.

  She didn’t protest as he rolled on top, spreading her thighs with his hands and searching for the needed angle to spear into her womanhood. She didn’t protest as he began thrusting at full, punishing speed. She didn’t protest even as he pinned her arms, breathing heavily, angrily.

  She let a tiny moan, half pleasure, half pain, and urged him on with her legs. One of them wrapped around him at a surprisingly flexible angle, the back of her heel gently rubbing against him even as Damon continued pinning her, pumping into her, heedless of his own aggression.

  She felt so good, and part of him hated her for it. Part of him hated himself just as much for how much he loved it. He thrust harder, kicking the quilt out of the way with one leg, thrusting into her for no other reason than to distract himself from his own sins.

  He had one of her arms by the elbow and used it for leverage, putting far more strength into the act of bedding a petite woman in a fanciful cat mask than should have ever been required. He heard her moans rising in pitch, almost matching the noises that he’d been making without realizing it.

  He intensified his onslaught, and it was far too much for her. He felt her body quiver as she came, but even that wasn’t enough to snap him out of his furious lust. He went faster, sinking his cock into her, sinking into the feeling of control, pointless control, he had over her nude, nubile body.

  He gasped as he found his own release, still holding her down as though he’d taken her by force. He blinked, only then realizing that he’d started crying at some point, his eyes moving off script from the rest of his body.

  He slid over, collapsing onto the bed where there was space and ran his hands through his hair. He had a headache, a persistent, pounding one. He felt his lips moving and realized that he was speaking a moment after he’d already begun.

  “I… killed my best friend,” he muttered.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  She pulled him into a gentle embrace, burying his eyes into her nude bosom. Damon felt a shiver run through him and did his best to focus on breathing, on silence, on what little was still within his control.

  CHAPTER 45

  Damon wasn’t surprised when he woke up alone in his bed the next morning. He made his way downstairs and into the common room. It was just him, the innkeeper, and a tired looking mercenary, but there was a pot of porridge which he was encouraged to help himself to.

  He was midway through eating when Vel made her way through the door. She was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before, deep green with gold trim and a broad sash around the waist to add form. She made her way over to his table, smoothing out her skirt as she took a seat.

  “Good morning, Damon,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Well enough. You?”

  Vel shrugged and gave him a small, relaxed smile. “Yeah.”

  She helped herself to a spoonful of his porridge. Damon grinned, well aware how the overcooked flavor and lack of sugar left something to be desired.

  “Does Princess Kastet know you’re here?” he asked.

  “Of course. She’s fine with it, at least for the time being. I hope I can introduce you to her eventually. I think you’d like her.”

  “That would be an interesting meeting,” he said. “I’m not as irreverent as Aust could be at times, but I’ve never been one for flattery and court manners.”

  He winced internally at his own mention of Austine. Vel seemed to notice, reaching across the table to hold his hand.

  “Damon,” she said. “What are you plans?”

  He shrugged. “For today, or for the future in general?”

  “Both.”

  For the second time, he shrugged. “I have money now. I suppose I’ll start by paying off another portion of my debt to Gavel. I’ll keep a fair bit of my earnings for myself, regardless. After that, I guess I’ll look for more work. As a gladiator, as a mercenary…”

  His shoulders went up for a third time. Vel frowned, but it seemed like an expression born more from concern than disapproval.

  “I’m wary of leaving you alone,” she said. “I’ll check in with Kastet and let her know that I’m needed elsewhere for today. I’ll go with you to drop off your debt payment.”

  “No. That’s simply out of the question. It’s safer for me to do this on my own. I won’t be able to protect us both against an attack, let alone an ambush, as easily as I can manage it alone.”

  “These people are dangerous, Damon!”

  “So am I.” He took his hand back and stared at his palm. “But I doubt it’ll come to a fight, especially if I go alone. After last night, I’ll be more in demand than ever as a gladiator. They’ll know they can keep getting money out of me if they’re patient.”

  “Damon…” said Vel.

  “If anything, I have more to worry about from the Godking’s sycophants than I do from Gavel and his motley crew.”

  Vel’s eyes widened and Damon chewed his lip, instantly regretting his choice of words.

  “Do you think Avarice will seek revenge against you?” she whispered.

  “No, I don’t. He gave me a pardon. Anyone who attempted to invalidate his mercy would likely suffer a worse punishment than death.”

  Vel still looked upset. Damon reached out to take both of her hands and gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Look,” he said. “You have to trust that I can take care of myself, Vel. There’s nobody we can appeal to capable of doing it for me.”

  “Aesta might be able to.”

  He glanced away. “It’s not as though I haven’t considered heading bac
k to the farm, but I’m not sure she’d have me. I’m here in Avaricia for the time being, but I’ll manage. You’re here, too. We can make plans to meet up for dinner tonight, and on a regular basis after that.”

  Vel stared down at the rough wood of their table and slowly nodded. “I suppose that’s all I can ask for. Just please, Damon… Be careful?”

  “Always.”

  ***

  At first glance the old shipyard looked deserted, aside from a single beggar sitting outside of a ramshackle hovel. Damon rested his hand on his sword and slowly made his way along the pier to the alleyway running along the side of Gavel’s main hideout, strongly suspecting that the leader of the Dockside Lads would be anticipating his visit.

  He was patient, refusing to be caught by the same trap which he’d fallen victim to last time. After confirming twice over that there were no thugs hiding in wait anywhere outside, he picked up a few pieces of scrap wood and tossed them at the door, venturing no further than the edge of the alley’s mouth.

  “What the shit was that?” The lackey who’d thrown the door open blinked in surprise when he saw Damon. “Ah. The gladiator! About time you paid your dues. Right this way, if you don’t mind…”

  “I do mind,” said Damon. “Gavel can meet me out here.”

  “You got some set of balls on you,” said the man. “Listen, if you think—”

  Damon lifted his sword a few inches clear of its scabbard, still meeting the man’s gaze with an expression empty of anything resembling emotion or hesitation. The man cleared his throat and took a step back into the hideout.

  A minute passed before the sound of multiple sets of footsteps signaled the arrival of the gang leader and his followers. Gavel looked as ugly and imposing as ever, bald and splotchy faced and built like an unfortunately gnarled tree.

  He had eight men with him, and though it was a larger group than Damon had faced during their previous encounter, several of them moved with visibly drunken gaits. It was no real struggle to keep his rather minor sense of intimidation from showing on his face.

  “The mighty Damon Al-Kendras,” said Gavel. “I was getting to wonder if I’d ever be seeing you again, after hearing the mixed word from my newly hired debt collector. Rovahn’s shit, imagine my surprise when one of my boys tells me you’re in the city, and not just that, but back in the arena, to boot!”

  Damon, lacking any interest in engaging with Gavel on the level of small talk, simply pulled his purse out of his pocket. “Here. Another payment on my father’s debt.”

  It was a little more than half of the earnings he’d taken from the blood bout. Part of him was eager to be rid of it, as though a lingering taint existed over the coins, the gleaming, metallic proof of the horrible act he’d committed.

  He didn’t hesitate as he tossed the bag to Gavel, who caught it and immediately undid the draw tie.

  “Impressive, if a little light.” The bald man made as though estimating the weight of the coins on his palm. “I was getting to thinking that the nature of the fight might lead to about twice this or more, what with you not having to split the take with a dead man. He was your friend, aye? Arnold, or Augustil, or—”

  “Austine,” said Damon. “He was my friend. I’m warning you now that there will be consequences if you speak ill of him.”

  It was a challenge to Gavel’s authority, and not one he could apparently shake off under the gazes of his men. He snorted, striding forward until he was right in Damon’s face, mace held loose in one hand, stolen wrathblade hanging from the belt around his waist.

  “Your friend?” Gavel glanced back toward his men. “Sucking each other’s pricks off, were you? I always figured Augustine was more in taste for the cheapest of whores, but I suppose the two ain’t mutual exclusive. Looks as though you’ll have to find a new cock to suck now, aye, Damon? Lads, any of you interested in volunteering for the—”

  Damon was aware of his arm moving to draw his sword, aware enough, at least, that he could have put a stop to it if he’d wanted to. His reflexes were still primed by the previous night’s fight. Austine had brought out the best in him and then some.

  His blade blurred though the air and into the hulking bald man’s gut in the blink of an eye. Gavel’s laugh abruptly cut off into a disbelieving gasp, and his lips moved through the motions of several eerie, soundless syllables.

  Damon seized the hilt of his sword, his true sword, and pulled. The wrathblade came loose from its scabbard around Gavel’s waist as much through the force of the dying man falling back as from being drawn.

  The sole thought in residence within his head, in that moment, was how much easier it was to kill someone he hated as opposed to someone he loved. Time seemed to slow down, not as much because of Damon’s heightened awareness of the situation as because of the second unexpected occurrence held within it.

  Gavel’s blood spurted outward from his abdomen, spraying across Damon’s hand, fingers, and most importantly, the edge of the wrathblade. A line of ice blue runes pulsed with light, running the full length of the sword, from the start of the cross guard to the end of the tip.

  Damon stared with wide eyes, not just at the glowing wrathblade, but at Gavel, who was now falling backward at the speed of lukewarm molasses. The world around him was moving at a magically subdued pace, as though he’d been given two extra seconds for each one afforded to Gavel and his men.

  He remembered then how Shank had inquired about his wrathblade, first and foremost, seeming more interested in the weapon than he ever had been in obtaining his employer’s debt. It was a fleeting thought as Gavel’s men began to react to his impalement, and slow as they were, they still had him completely outnumbered.

  His wrathblade seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat as he surged forward. One of Gavel’s men attacked with his cudgel, the motion almost comical in its ensorcelled lethargy. Damon slashed low, tearing a deep gash into the tender area behind the man’s knee as he spun past him.

  He disabled two more of the Dockside Lads with similar debilitating, though less than fatal, attacks. One of the men behind the first set was fast, to the point where he almost landed a blow despite the speed the wrathblade had imbued Damon with. He cut the man’s hand off at the wrist, his sword moving before he’d even committed to the cut on a mental level.

  The rest of Gavel’s gang fell in a similar faction. The wrathblade’s speed faded as Damon took on his last opponent, but he was still able to find an opening to score a non-fatal, fight ending blow.

  The alleyway in the wake of the strange fight was a chorus of swearing and intensely pained moans. It took Damon several seconds to process what had just happened, but as soon as he did, he made for the purse he’d handed over to Gavel, who was now very much deceased, and started away.

  He paused at the mouth of the alleyway, opting to take the scabbard to his wrathblade. It would have been a shame to leave it behind, really. A sword, in the long term, was only as good as its scabbard.

  He felt close to throwing up as he sprinted out of the old shipyard and attempted to blend into the local crowd.

  CHAPTER 46

  Damon felt the moments blending together as he slowly made his way back to the Window Glow Inn. All the relevant concerns, from the prospect of retaliation from the Dockside Lads, to the potential for Avaricia’s city watch to brand him a murderer, felt far off.

  As though they were mere raindrops viewed from behind a sturdy window, each one spattering and running down the glass.

  His hazy reverie was immediately broken when he entered the inn’s common room. A woman with a long red braid, eternally youthful futures, and a body full of perfect, familiar curves sat at the table facing the door. She stood up when she saw him, her brow furrowing with mildly suppressed worry.

  “Aesta,” muttered Damon. He closed the distance and pulled Malon into a tight hug. “What are you doing here?”

  “Solas.” She pulled back far enough to stroke his cheek, offering him a small, sad smi
le. “I’m bringing you home.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do,” she replied. “I spoke with seta already. She told me about what you were made to do. Before I’d even arrived in Avaricia, I’d begun to doubt my decision to send you away. This… all but confirms it, as much as any sign from the True Divine could.”

  Damon still felt caught by hesitation. He glanced around the mostly empty inn, as though expecting enemies to emerge from the woodwork.

  “I went to pay Gavel, the man who hired Shank,” said Damon. “I… reacted without thinking. Aesta, I…”

  “Not here.” She gently pressed a finger to his mouth. “Come. The horses are outside, along with the wagon. We’ll leave immediately and continue this conversation once we’re somewhere safer.”

  ***

  Their exit from the city passed in much the same manner. Damon struggled to focus for more than a few seconds at a time and eventually even fell asleep. He dreamed of sticking Gavel with his sword again, glancing up once he’d thrust hilt deep only to see Austine’s face, instead.

  “Solas.”

  Malon gently shook his shoulder. Damon blinked his eyes open, realizing that they were outside of Avaricia, stopped just off the road where a small copse of trees hid their presence from the major sightlines of the surrounding area.

  It was twilight, and the ghost moon was already out, seeming to wage a clandestine battle against the setting sun over claim to the sky.

  He began setting up the small leather traveling tent Malon had brought along with them, wondering at how they’d ever be able to both fit comfortably inside.

  Malon made a small fire, so small in fact that she opted to simply warm slices of bread and dried meat over it on a pan rather than attempting serious cooking.

  With the tent erected and the food warmed, they both sat down next to the fire, eating in same silence that had held for what felt like hours. It was Damon who finally broke it, words pouring out of him like overflow from a dam.