Chapter Text
Golden blood. That's how it all began.
He curses the almost negligible scar on the tip of his left pointer finger, the subtle remnant of a purposeful prick given to him the second he was cradled outside his mother's womb. A final confirmation of the inevitable; a responsibility foisted upon him in lieu of an actual childhood, fraught with nothing but prayer and faith.
A thin veil of prayer and faith. As he grew older and began to think for himself above the teachings of his elders, Anaxa was quick to deduce that the hollow moon in the sky was actually false. The Frostmoon Scions were more often than not kind to him—though most of that kindness was chalked up to blind fealty, not a genuine like for his person—so despite his obvious disdain for spouting rhetoric for something he knew did not exist, he held his tongue and reluctantly played the pious role expected of him.
But, that didn't mean he was comfortable enduring every aspect that entailed. In fact, under his tenure as Moonchanter, he's chided and reprimanded for his "blasphemy" almost every other week.
He laughs at the thought, the tepid water of his bath starting to prune his pale fingers. It's only a matter of time before his peace is interrupted, so he closes his eyes, relishing in the moment, until—
"My Lady, your ceremonial robes are ready," he hears behind the curtain of his bathchamber, and he sends the woman away with a wave of his hand, furrowing his brow. He gave up on correcting them many moons ago, deciding it a lost cause for the older generation more set in tradition—but he had hope for some of the children, giving them warm smiles and extra attention when they referred to him as "sir," or even better, used his full name.
Rising out of the bath, his heart sends a phantom ache shooting through his veins when a sliver of moonlight falls over his exposed chest. It's a common enough occurrence that he ignores it after the slight loss of breath, both the water and air quickly cooling in the night—and after parting the curtain and toweling himself dry, he sighs when he sees the clothes laid out for him to wear.
In all honesty, he'd hardly consider them clothes. Sheer, pitiful scraps, more apt to be called glorified lingerie; they were pretty, certainly, but not practical in the slightest. Dyed hues of deep blue and sea green, clasped together by tight straps and golden jewelry—he sighs again when he finally makes sense of it all, smoothing the thin fabric over his hips, then looking in the mirror and scowling at the reflection.
This is traditional garb worn by generations of Moonchanters, his memory reminds him, as he adjusts the heavy, metallic piece along his collarbone. The cut of the front accentuates his chest—not that he really had a chest to begin with—and another memory instead makes him chuckle: the incredulous look an elder of the Scions had given him when it was confirmed thrice over he had reached the peak of his growth.
We'll just have to make some adjustments, was the consensus, leaving him in the sad state he is now—despite his insistent protests to make a newer, more appropriate outfit entirely. It's hardly his problem that previous Moonchanters had been so well endowed.
But he was ignored, as was tradition, so he decides to grin and bear it for the benefit of his people, then continue to lie for the benefit of his people. As he steps out of his private quarters and into the false moonlight illuminating the Scions' village, he wonders how long he can truly keep up this charade—before either his conscience or annoyance convinces him to spill out the truth.
For now, he tamps down the thought. It's a conversation for another time, when things aren't so hectic with both the Fatui's occupation and the everpresent threat of the Wild Hunt—which also seems to be growing more and more fervent with every passing day. He makes his way to the small plaza, moonlit charms swaying from his antlers in the night breeze, and narrows his eyes at the people present, a slightly lesser amount than what he was expecting.
And his expression must be noticeable, as one of the more attentive Scions grabs his attention before he addresses the crowd.
"Young Polyxia is not well today, Lady Moonchanter," she whispers, her face nervous and grim. "Young Castorice and Miss Hyacine are tending to her, but her condition has been worsening as of late."
"And no one thought to inform me of this?" he questions, almost biting—but the Scion slinking back from his tone gives him a pang of regret, another pulsing ache in his heart.
"I-I was to tell you after today's ceremony," the young woman squeaks, head bowing down. "Those twins are loathe to trouble you, my Lady, they—"
"That's enough," Anaxa sighs, putting a hand to his temple. He was already planning on making the night's formalities quick—and now he had an actual excuse to speed things along. "Go tell them I will be there shortly. Don't dawdle."
She nods, turning and rushing away to a small home near the edge of the village. Anaxa clicks his tongue, clenching his teeth in habit before letting out an exceptionally deep breath—then steps into the center of the plaza, his antlers beginning to glow in the direct moonlight.
"This will be brief," he begins, voice sharp. It's ironic, he thinks, how there's still a certain thrill to having the rapt attention of so many people eager to listen; perhaps, in another life, he would have enjoyed being a teacher. "The Scions will continue their outreach to those in need outside Hiisi Island. For those who travel, as always, avoid interaction with the Fatui, and under no circumstances engage the Wild Hunt. If you find yourself in danger, find the nearest Lightkeeper or seek refuge in Nasha Town—"
His speech drones on, as it always does, much of what he says no different than things he's addressed in the past. While he finds it rather tedious, it's customary for the acting Moonchanter to address the Scions on the night of each month's full moon—and he's never had the heart to try and end the practice, seeing as how it's an occasion many within the village look forward to.
"That will be all," he finishes with a soft breath, clasping his hands together—which the crowd mimics in unison, bowing their heads. "Please go and get some rest, everyone."
As disdainful as he is of the role forced upon him, Anaxa does care for the Scions. They are kind people, humble and selfless, who with enough direction and encouragement can be led to do incredible things—but he finds it a shame, how many of them remain stuck in their ways, both unable to move forward or reflect on the past.
But that's also a conversation for another time. With his duties upheld, he quickly makes his way to the home at the edge of the village, frustrated enough having to take so long in the first place. As his arm raises to rap at the door and announce his arrival, the woman from earlier swings it open, frantic—almost slamming into him entirely while he blinks at her in surprise.
"Oh, Lady Moonchanter—!" she shouts, eyes red and wet with yet to be shed tears. "P-please, you have to—Polyxia is—!"
She's distraught; completely beside herself in panic, and Anaxa has little time to attempt to calm her before a cry from within steals his attention instead. Ushering the woman aside—who in turn covers her mouth and collapses to her knees in prayer—Anaxa rushes to the room's lone bedside, where Castorice sits hunched over with Hyacine steadying her from behind.
It's not hard to imagine what's happened, realization dawning on him as he notices their shaking shoulders. He also realizes the sudden cry came from Castorice herself, her small frame racked with violent, trembling sobs; hands balling into fists against thin sheets that cover a still body, quickly growing cold.
"What—?" Anaxa whispers, face going pale. Hyacine turns to look at him, tears falling silently down her flushed cheeks as she weeps, and she slowly shakes her head.
"She had an infection, I think," she explains, voice cracking. Anaxa recognizes her tone as one she only gets when she blames herself. "It may have been sepsis, I don't know, but—she didn't say anything, she couldn't say anything. We didn't know. I didn't know."
Hyacine lets out a choked sob, turning again to pull Castorice into a tight embrace. Anaxa's gaze moves from them, then to Polyxia, then to the Scion still at the door, knelt in prayer to a false moon, a false goddess—and the facade of his patience cracks, crumbling into nothing as he storms towards the room's humble furnishings, rifling through half-empty drawers and cupboards.
"Lord Moonchanter?" Hyacine hiccups in confusion, and Anaxa grits his teeth, unanswering. He finds what he's looking for soon enough, an old kitchen knife—and while it's crude and a little dull, it will get the job done all the same.
"You," he snaps at the doorway, the knelt Scion jumping in response. "Leave."
She blinks at him, then at the knife held in his hand. Her mouth gapes—almost as if to protest—before she hesitantly nods, making a swift exit.
"Hyacine," he continues, voice immeasurably softer, but still firm. "I need you both to back away for a moment. Please."
And Hyacine also blinks up at him, then to the knife, unsure. She means to ask what he plans to do, but instead presses her mouth closed into a thin, pursed line—before gently pulling Castorice off Polyxia's body and cradling her in her arms.
"Anaxa," she whispers, voice hoarse. "Please don't do something you'll regret."
It's rare for Hyacine to use his name, ever respectful and in line with the rest of the Scions despite them being so similar in age. Castorice trembles in her arms, face pressed into her chest as she weeps, inconsolable—and Anaxa kneels at the edge of the bed, peeling away the sheets to reveal more of Polyxia's still form.
Her face is pallid, and he swallows at the sight. He doubts this will work in the way that he wants. The knife stings as he slices it along his inner forearm, needing more pressure than he would have liked to break the skin; then he positions himself over Polyxia's body and grasps her chin, allowing his golden blood to drip into her mouth.
In his mind, he recites a prayer. One he'd learned from ancient Hyperborean texts long buried, blasphemous and forgotten, but still useful in times like these, when he needs a little bit more than faith. He closes his eyes, and waits. Behind him Hyacine stares, mortified, shielding Castorice's eyes from the horror before her with the utmost care.
And, for a few moments, there's nothing. He wonders if he's done something wrong, adjusting his stance to make another cut to his arm, the previous wound already beginning to knit itself back together—
When there's a sudden flash of light, almost as bright as the moon—and when the three still living are able to open their eyes again, Polyxia's phantom stands on the opposite side of the bed, eyes solemn as they look down at her corpse.
"S-sister!" Castorice cries, easily wrenching herself away from Hyacine's stunned grip. She rushes to Polyxia's side, then attempts to pull her into her arms—but when she tries to grab at the other girl's wrist, it phases through it as if she isn't even there.
"Oh, Cas," the phantom sighs, mouth upturning into a sad smile. "I'm so sorry, Cas. I love you so much."
"No," Castorice whines, trying and failing over and over to grasp at her sister's ghostly form. "Why? Why?"
Yes, why? Anaxa wonders as he stares, knife still positioned over his arm. He's a little dizzy from both the exertion and the blood loss, but still coherent enough to think clearly.
"Polyxia," he asks bluntly, both twins' gazes turning to him. "Can your soul not return this way?"
Behind him, Hyacine gasps. He's already dreading the explanation he'll have to give to her later.
"N-no. I don't think so," the phantom responds after a moment of hesitation, voice somber. "Even if I tried, that body would just reject me again. In all honesty, I'm surprised it lasted this long in the first place."
At that admission, Castorice lets out another quiet wail, falling back down onto the bed as her legs give out from beneath her. Polyxia smiles at all three of them, and Anaxa lowers his head, ashamed—unwilling to look the face of his miscalculation in the eye.
"Lord Moonchanter," she continues, voice soft. "Thank you, for giving me this chance to say goodbye. Now I can go without any regrets."
No, Anaxa thinks to himself, hearing both Castorice and Hyacine hiccup as they hold back their tears. Don't you dare thank me, with so much respect. You deserve better. I could have done so much more.
And almost like she can hear his self-deprication, her voice gets gentler as it already starts to fade.
"This sickly body was no one's fault—just bad luck is all," she whispers, then looks to Castorice, smile beaming. "And I'm so sorry to leave you like this, dear sister. But know that I love you, and so many others love you, so you'll never truly be alone. Be strong for me, okay?"
Her hands reach out to mimic a hug, which Castorice returns in kind. The other girl nods, biting her lower lip, and she's able to keep herself together as Polyxia fades away for good, her pale form merging gently into the moonlight.
If you asked Anaxa—the rest of that night, and the days that followed, were all a blur. News of Polyxia's death shook the Scions, and her funeral stood on ceremony, the acting Moonchanter responsible for officiating her burial. After the dust settled, both Castorice and Hyacine swore their secrecy on what actually transpired—and while the latter was skeptical of Anaxa's wellbeing, she allowed him to forgo an explanation as long as he promised to take time and rest.
But rest, Anaxa knows all too well, is a fickle thing. He's never been comfortable just sitting still. It takes almost a week for his energy to fully return after his attempt at bringing back Polyxia's soul, and most of it, after the funeral, is spent holed up in his library trying to discern what he did wrong.
And in the end, he deduces, it was a number of things. The unpredictable, impulsive nature of the moment; the physical state of Polyxia's sickly body; how he hesitated with the knife, ever slightly, thoughts frantic—it was enough to allow significant room for error, and though he knows it was mostly unavoidable, his heart still aches with regret.
He loathes himself for how Castorice smiles at him warmly, as if she's still grateful despite his transgressions. He finds himself spiraling further and further every time Hyacine or another one of the Scions pays him a visit; a tinge of genuine worry always etched into their features.
He never wanted this—to be such a pillar. In far too deep to abandon it all.
And perhaps it's a rash decision, when he leaves the village in the middle of the night to a waning false moon in the dark sky—but he needs the air, and actual time away to himself. He doesn't leave the island, but goes far enough southwest he loses sight of the Frostmoon Enclave; climbing up the plateau of Thunderclap Reef and chuckling dryly at the idea of visiting someplace forbidden being added to his record of blasphemous acts.
But he finds comfort in the cool rain falling down his cheeks, then sliding up in reverse back into the night sky. While only about half full, the moon is still bright and illuminates his surroundings, and even he has to admit that it's beautiful, even if he knows it's a fake.
So, in relative peace, he spends a few hours sitting along the edge of the plateau, listening to both the rain and the waves slamming against the rocky shore. The kuuvahki energy in the area is intense and unstable, causing his golden blood to flutter in his veins—but he's grown quite accustomed to such things at this point in his life, closing his eyes when his heart starts to ache, waiting for the feeling to eventually pass.
Soon enough—much sooner than he'd like—the moon dips low in preparation for the day. He decides it best he return, lest his attendants wake early and notice his absence, and the walk back starts with little fanfare, the sand glimmering like snow beneath each of his steps.
But then, almost unnoticed, a fleeting wisp of dark blue catches his eye. He turns his gaze towards Silvermoon Hall, and freezes—furrowing his brow at the onset of the Wild Hunt, tainting both the clean air and white earth with rot.
It's off the beaten path, but still closer to the village than he finds comfortable. While he usually tries to avoid dealing with it personally, Anaxa is certainly no stranger to it—and he even knows simple methods of purification, learned after prying from visiting Lightkeepers and the like.
And, in a strange way, he finds the Wild Hunt rather fascinating when it's not harming others. It's rarer on Hiisi Island compared to mainland Nod Krai, and the sickly blue and black tar of its rot is an unnerving contrast to the white sands of its beaches. The nonsensical clamoring of the broken souls within its grasp are revolting, almost nauseating—but that only makes them more pitiful, a sigh escaping his lips as he edges closer to inspect the size of the area infected.
Much to his chagrin, it's much larger than what he can deal with alone. Both unarmed and lacking sleep, he's still a decent ways from the village—and while there's a Lightkeeper beacon visible nearby, he hardly imagines one will make it out in time to assist before he's noticed. Letting out a quiet breath, he turns to head back the way he came; only for the frightened chitter of a bird above to echo in his mind, giving him barely enough time to react before a tight rope around his ankle yanks him to the ground.
His ears ring as his head slams into the sand, hard and damp from the morning dew. The whiplash makes him dizzy, and as he looks down to assess what's grabbed him, he tenses—
Because the grip around his ankle isn't rope. It's too warm to be rope, too alive, and he shudders as it pulses, then multiplies, wrapping around his calf, then his thigh, wasting no time in dragging him down into the dark blue mass below. He opens his mouth to scream, but quickly realizes it's fruitless—turning his attention instead to that same bird fluttering above in a frenzy, urging them to go call for help.
As the animal warbles back then darts away, Anaxa flips himself onto his back, clawing at the tentacle-like appendages now wrapping around his torso. They scramble beneath his thin nightclothes, turning unbearably hot against his skin, and his heart thrums with a sudden fervor that makes it feel like it will burst—the feeling a painful enough distraction that he doesn't think to react when his feet dip into the shallow pool of rot, sliding deeper than the ground beneath should allow.
No, no, he claws his hands at the sand now, dirtying beneath his nails as they fail to gain purchase. I can't die here. Not like this.
But he's never been one to fight the inevitable; only begrudgingly learned to use it to his advantage. His legs feel weightless as they're dragged under, then his hips, his waist, his chest—and he throws his head back for one last breath of air before he's fully submerged, squeezing both his mouth and eyes shut as the rot envelops him.
And if his life weren't on the line, he thinks he'd find the feeling worth studying. His body sinks like a rock as it's pulled for over a minute, maybe more—however long he's able to hold his breath for, he isn't sure—until his body seizes, and he's forced to inhale. A liquid as thick as molasses floods his mouth, and it slithers its way down his throat, filling his lungs.
Funnily enough, it has no taste. Either that or he's already lost his senses, numb as he's slowly suffocated—but then a sudden burst of light flashes from beyond his eyelids, and his knees clamor down onto solid ground.
The all-encompassing liquid surrounding his body dissolves. The appendages wrapped around him loosen, but still linger, and his eyes open, vision blurry from frayed nerves. There's a short moment of calm, where in his addled mind he thinks he might have just had a strange nightmare—before he promptly heaves to the side and vomits up filth, skin pallid and sticky as if the very life had been sucked out of it.
His choking sounds disgusting and pitiful, body ready to collapse as exhaustion takes hold. He blinks back tears from the pressure of his heaving, and struggles to even keep himself upright on his knees. There's another moment of calm—aside from his ragged breathing—where he thinks he has time to compose himself, but then there's a strong hand grabbing one of his antlers from behind, forcing him upwards and spinning him around.
The movement makes him dizzy; unable to hold back another gag from escaping him as his stomach rolls. The half-standing position he's stuck in is uncomfortable, and a second hand wipes away the spittle now dribbling down his chin—almost gentle—before tightly gripping it between thumb and pointer finger, forcing his gaze forward with eyes struggling to focus in the low light.
"Skemma?" he hears, clawed fingers piercing against his squished cheeks. "You—You are, but you're not. But you are. You have to be. You smell just like him. You look just like him. Everything except for this."
Anaxa blinks, both in confusion and a hint of fear, as he's shaken by the grip on his antler, not unlike that of a ragdoll. The man—if he can even be called a man—stood before him looks ragged; disheveled clothing a mix of scraps and bandages, a black cloak hiding an enormous frame along with clawed gauntlets and boots—but perhaps the most jarring things about him, he thinks, are the shock of white hair atop his head, the dull lifelessness of his visible right eye, and the crumbling visage of his pale white skin, revealing beneath it cracks harboring an unnatural, deepened blue void.
A putrid amalgamation of the Wild Hunt. If his throat didn't still burn, he would choke out some kind of expletive. Instead only escapes a hoarse, breathy cry, face burning in shame at his helplessness—but the man continues to just look at him, scrutinizing his features, the appendages wrapped around him tightening once more in tandem.
Along with that, he notices their ends sliding dangerously close to more intimate areas—flinching as one lightly brushes against his inner thigh. The movement must annoy his captor, whose attention shifts to holding him down on the ground and pinning him; sharp claws making quick work of his nightclothes, though they'd already been ruined beyond repair.
"Hey—!" he finally manages to croak, but it's ignored in favor of hands moving to grip his hips. That infuriates him more than anything—more than this assault, than whatever this monster's real intentions even are—and it gives him the slightest burst of energy to kick and scratch, channeling enough kuuvahki through his protests that would leave the average human stunned into submission.
But, unfortunately for him, this man was no average human. The pulse of kuuvahki energy does give him pause—enough so for Anaxa to scramble away from beneath him, though he quickly realizes he has nowhere to escape to—but instead of doubling over from the intensity, it only seems to make the man look more unhinged; eye wild and mouth breaking out into a deranged grin beneath his bandages.
"Yes," he whispers, bordering on a groan, and it sends a shiver down Anaxa's spine. "That's it. That's perfect. I knew it was you, Skemma. It has to be you."
Anaxa scrounges through his memories, but the name Skemma is wholly unfamiliar, even with his vast knowledge of the local history. His legs still weak, he attempts to crawl away from the frenzied man in slow steps, but he doesn't get far—appendages curling back around him with a vengeance, heat pulsing from them burning even stronger against his skin.
"Don't run," the man coos, in a tone almost sickly sweet. "It's you, I know it. You just don't remember. I'll help you remember. Then we can do this together."
And there is nothing more in his life that Anaxa would rather not remember, though he's still surer than anything this beast was mistaken. He lets out a yelp as he's yanked back beneath him, legs suddenly spread to unceremoniously reveal his sex to the heated air—and he blanches, piecing together very quickly what was about to happen.
"A-am I someone you care so much for?" he stammers, giving the man pause once more. The clawed hands holding apart his thighs prick at his skin, and he can already see a bead of golden blood where one has pierced through. "And you would assault me, then? Cause me undue harm?"
He hates the idea of playing into this monster's delusions, but he deduces it's his only viable shot at stopping this madness before it gets to a point of no return. The hands pressed against him squeeze dangerously, and he swallows as the pricks of pain sharpen—gaze moving from them, to the single narrowed eye staring back at him—and they sit in silence for what feels like an age, no sound in the darkened domain other than the quick rasps of Anaxa's breath, the beating of his thrumming heart.
"Who said I would harm you?" The man finally continues, thumbs rubbing unnervingly gentle circles into Anaxa's skin. Perhaps he simply doesn't realize his own strength—or this Skemma had a certain penchant for masochism. "I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that."
No, I don't— Anaxa means to reply, but he's cut off as the man surges forward, raising a hand as he does to pull away the bandages covering his mouth. A hot, thick tongue against his cunt makes him lose his breath, his hands attempting to rise and push away the head now nestled between his thighs—but the appendages around him turn binding, giving him just barely enough room to twitch and squirm.
And he hates even more the idea of this beast pleasing him, tongue inhumanly long as it begins eating him out with an obscene vigor. His eyes roll back from a sharp suck to his clit, hips canting upwards from the intensity, and his blood boils when the man hums, obviously pleased, grip shifting from his thighs to instead encircle his thin waist.
"S-stop, ugh—stop—!" Anaxa whines, pathetic. His duties as Moonchanter kept him away from both relationships and sex, but he wasn't unfamiliar with such pleasure—partaking occasionally when he was particularly bored and had a rare moment to himself. In that sense he knew what was coming, almost impossibly fast, like this man knew his body from the inside out, or had a knack for such depravity—and it comes over him like a crashing wave; gasped out in a broken moan; leaving him twitching and writhing on the domain's dusty, barren floor, unable to even parse the next words he wants to say.
"There you go," the man murmurs, a sharp-toothed smile now dangerously visible as he backs away. Anaxa can see the glisten of his slick staining his lips, and it makes him want to drown and suffocate all over again. "I know you better than you know yourself, remember?"
N-no, I don't, he again means to reply, but he's way too exhausted, way too out of breath. His protests are all but negligible as he's pulled up off the ground, back sore and aching, then settled into the man's lap, some kind of chair formed out of the rot allowing him to sit comfortably with his legs spread.
And Anaxa then makes the mistake of looking down between them, noticing the man at some point already freed his length. It's monstrously large, ridiculous even relative to the size of his body—but he seems to have no qualms with raising up Anaxa's thin frame, overly familiar as he positions it against his entrance, fondly rubbing the tip back and forth against his heat.
"You'll kill me," Anaxa manages to mumble, head lolling to the side in defeat. His antlers feel especially heavy, adding to the dizziness weighing him down.
"Nonsense," he hears, almost loving in its cadence. If it were any other scenario, he thinks he'd find it romantic, how his tone is so reassuring. "You've taken me countless times. What's one more?"
And any response he can think of fizzles out as he's lowered, the thick cockhead below him slowly splitting him open, inch by inch. The burn is intense—only somewhat lessened by the amount of slick between his legs and exhaustion, but he can hardly even breathe—hands balling into fists where they're still bound behind him, gritting and grinding his teeth from the pain.
"Relax," he hears again, almost mockingly gentle. Every second feels like an eternity as every inch slides down, down, filling him way past his natural limit. "Just like that. Just like always. Always so good for me."
The last remnants of his coherence send a fresh wave of irritation through him—both towards this monster and this Skemma who dared allow himself be debauched so freely. Any comments he has die on his tongue as their hips finally meet, cock bottoming out—and it's a jarring mix of both gentleness and brutality, as the man cradles him close in his arms.
Anaxa's body is so tense, he starts to believe he might actually die from the strain alone. He lets out nothing but garbled whines as kisses are pressed against his neck and collarbone; as the hands now cupping his hips roll them forward in slow, arduous grinds—turning sharp as he's gently raised, then allowed to fall back down—over, and over, and over, punching the very breath out of his lungs with every assault against his cervix, painstakingly aided by gravity.
This continues on for a time; longer than Anaxa would have liked, but likely shorter than he actually remembers. He's loathe to admit that the pain fades to a dull, winding pleasure, another orgasm or two pulled out of him much to his captor's delight—and he hates the most how in the end, with a final snap of the man's hips, he finds himself returning the open-mouthed kiss against his lips as he feels a sticky warmth fill his insides, more depraved comments filling his ears.
And when they sit in the aftermath, a semi-hard cock still twitching within his aching cunt, Anaxa wonders what will happen next. Is he to be killed? Turned into some kind of sex slave? In that case he thinks he'd rather kill himself, swallowing as he tries to blink away his exhaustion, eyes meeting the gaze of the other now still and silent beneath him.
"Hey," he croaks, voice nothing but a scratchy rasp. "What do you intend to do with me now?"
You don't get anywhere without being direct. The eye staring back at him slightly dilates, then turns to face an empty wall of the domain. He almost looks embarrassed.
"I—" the man starts, before trailing back off. Anaxa clicks his tongue, rolling his hips sharply despite his soreness to force back his attention—causing the hands on his hips to steady him, locking him in place. "Don't—! Don't do that. You'll hurt yourself."
At that Anaxa's mouth gapes, at this sudden absurd shift in tone. His wrists writhe against their binds, which finally give way, setting them free—and his right hand rises to land a sharp slap against the man's face, which turns abruptly from the impact.
"Hurt myself?" he barks, ignoring the painful rawness of his throat. "Listen—I don't know who this Skemma of yours is, but—"
"You're not him," comes a whisper, Anaxa's thoughts suddenly thrown off track. "I mean, you are, but you're not. I see that now. I'm sorry."
The abashed expression on the man's face is almost comical, similar to that of children in the village whom he'd caught stealing from a snack jar. His words still make no sense, further cementing his confusion, but it becomes hard to focus as he's finally lifted off and away from the length spearing him open, maneuvered so he's instead lying across the man's lap, cheek pressed against his chest.
He does his best to ignore the feeling of cum dribbling out of him, surely making an obscene mess between his clenched thighs. He rubs his cheek into the man's chest, oddly warm—but he finds it eerie, how he can't hear a heartbeat. It makes sense, those who rise from the Wild Hunt are hardly alive, only husks—but for some reason he assumed this man might be different, due to his remaining coherence, his obvious control.
It makes his own heart thrum, even more so as a clawed hand is placed against his chest, feeling the way it steadily beats beneath his skin. It lingers, both of them quiet for a time, before his gravelly voice continues, still just as abashed and meek.
"I've seen you before, up above," he starts, and Anaxa tenses as there's a light pressure pushed against his visible ribs. "You're the Moonchanter of the Frostmoon Scions. They revere you, but it's not what you want. You're tired of the life you've been forced to live."
His words once again flare Anaxa's irritation—at being read like a book so easily. Who even was this monster, to be so familiar? To act like he does know him, after what he'd been spouting before?
He squirms to try and wrench himself from his grip, but the hold on his body is steadfast.
"I can help you," the man continues, giving Anaxa a slight pause. Not that he believes him, no—it was just that the idea of someone even offering him help was jarring. "But only if you do something for me in return."
"You just raped me," Anaxa bites back, incredulous. He's close to passing out, but he forces his strained voice to continue. "And now you expect me to help you?"
The vitriol of the statement does little to phase the man—who simply closes his eye and lets out a deep breath, adjusting his grip.
"We can help each other," he finally responds. "There's a relic being kept by your people that's of little use to you, but of great use to me. If you bring it to me, I can release you from the golden shackles that bind you."
And while Anaxa was never one to believe in false hope, it feels somewhat different when it's staring him down, while he's nestled in steady arms. Not sitting fake and silent in a dead sky.
"Your claims are too vague," he comments back. "Why should I believe you're even capable of such a thing?"
A coherent beast of the Wild Hunt, falling apart at the very seams. Anaxa muses to himself that if he gets out of this alive, he'll have a hell of a story to tell the Lightkeepers.
"I have no means of proving it to you," the man says, and Anaxa scoffs, "but you also have no other choice, do you not?"
And at that, Anaxa's eyes widen.
"So you're threatening me now," he laughs. "Will you kill me if I say no?"
"I will not, you—" the answer comes too quickly, and it's almost as though it takes a considerable effort for the man to not get upset. "I wouldn't—you remind me too much of him. But I have no such attachments to that village, and while it'd take longer without your assistance, I'm sure I could eventually find the relic myself beneath it should it be reduced to rubble."
Anaxa falls silent, the grip on him flexing. He wants it to be a bluff, but he's reminded of the flaming grip of those tendrils; how the Wild Hunt itself heeded the monster's call. He thinks of Hyacine, and Castorice, of Polyxia freshly buried, of all those he still cares for—and his heart beats faster, aches so badly his consciousness wanes—enough so that he fades out entirely, coming to some time later, lying on the ground beneath a black cloak.
And the man is there, sitting beside him, waiting patiently. Anaxa sits up, his head now throbbing along with his heart, loud and thunderous in his ears.
"What is your name?" Anaxa asks, a final question that probably should have been the first. "Or what should I call you?"
The man blinks down at him, a hint of sorrow in his expression. Anaxa internally scoffs at the idea that he was still expecting him to remember.
"The people of Nod Krai have recently taken to calling me Flame Reaver," he responds, voice even. "But you—no, Skemma—knew me as Neikos. I'll leave the choice to you."
How considerate, Anaxa chuckles through his sarcasm. "Fine then, Neikos, I'll help you. But if you do anything to harm them, I will sooner find a way to make your life a living hell until the end of time."
He doesn't miss how the man slightly tenses at the call of his name, nor the quiet laugh at his threat that follows. The black cloak covering him is taken back, leaving him bare, and Neikos leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, then over his left eye.
"What are you—?" he tries to begin, shooing the man away—but a sudden, sharp sting in his head steals his breath. His hands rise to press against his temple in an attempt to relieve the pressure, but with every second that passes, it only grows more and more intense.
"Try and relax," he hears, but it's hard for him to parse. "It should only last but a moment longer."
His body convulses, and his consciousness wanes again. He reaches out to grab something for purchase, gripping onto that black cloak for a fleeting moment—
Before it fades away into blackened dust beneath his fingertips, and the vision in his left eye blurs, a blue fire burning against his skin. He doubles over, a choked scream escaping his raw throat, excruciating—and it compounds again and again until he can't feel anything anymore, collapsing to the ground as the world goes black.