Chapter Text
The invitation had seemed innocent enough. It was impersonal, simply inviting Dusk to attend a wedding. They assumed that it would be for their older brother. Forty, and already on his fifth wife. Dusk doesn’t blame them for running, They wouldn’t want to spend the rest of their life with Graeme either.
It was when they had arrived at their childhood home that they started to suspect all was not right. Their mother had greeted them with a smile. She had barely frowned at Dusk’s horns. Even pulled them into a hug without flinching. If they had any sense they would have left then and there. Instead, they walked willingly into what turned out to be a carefully laid trap. The moment they stepped through the door something was shouted and everything went fuzzy.
Dusk’s limbs moved without their say. The conversations around them sounded as though their head was below water. A slew of maids surrounded them and they were marched through the halls of the prison of their youth now a prisoner in their own body.
They’re led to their childhood bedroom. A tub filled to the brim with hot water greets them there. Dusk wants to scream as their body moves. All their effort goes to preventing themself from removing their travel clothes. All that happens is a slight shake of their hands as they slip them off. The expressions of the assembled maids are aghast as they look upon Dusk’s body. Shame creeps up behind their ribs. They had long accepted that they were different from their human family members. Yet having this difference laid out so plainly to strangers makes them feel nauseous.
Many heated arguments have been had over the almost thirty years of Dusk’s life. Their parents viciously accusing each other’s side of the family of being responsible for Dusk’s infernal appearance. None of them truly know, nor do they wish to find out. If their parents had had their way they likely would have drowned Dusk at birth, however, the pregnancy had been too public. They had to instead live with the physical manifestation of their family’s ties to the Hells.
They hiss through their teeth as they step into the bath. Their heritage gives them a resistance to fire, but they can still feel that the bath water is far too hot. One of the maids, a young woman who likely is new, squeaks in horror at the baring of Dusk’s teeth. Something that feels like a snake constricting descends over Dusk’s mind and they retreat into themself even further. Now it’s like they’re seeing and feeling the process of being scrubbed down through a thick blanket. They want to scream. To thrash. To give in to every instinct that had been beaten out of them as a child and snarl like a beast so those touching them leave them be. Their body doesn’t respond to these desires.
Dusk drifts for a while. They don’t want to remember this violation of their body. The feel of hands on them, scrubbing roughly at their skin. They don’t want to remember the murmured words, especially not the ones that call them a beast or abomination. They’ll remember anyway. Each word spoken tucked away in their mind for them to remember in their weakest moments.
There’s a tug at their back and more harsh words. It hurts, both physically and mentally. The spikes that poke out along their spine are surprisingly sensitive. Having them yanked on like this, the pained noises that leave them despite the vise-grip on their mind, it’s all almost too much. They almost scream when someone viciously digs their nails into where undeveloped wings push against their skin. With whatever is controlling them, it comes out as a choked whimper instead. Their mother finally speaks from where Dusk can’t see,
“Don’t damage them. They need to be as untouched as we’re able for this agreement to be successful. They’ve already ruined themself as it is.” The overt harsh treatment stops; but they will have little crescent marks in some places from nails being dug in when their mother isn’t looking. A trickle of blood slides down their arm, and is wiped away just as quickly.
The haze lifts a little when they’re being dressed. Their mother is stood before them with her hands clasped. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line. It’s the kind of expression that makes Dusk want to run. It brings to mind the hurt of their youth, and the broken remnants of their left horn throb sympathetically.
“We finally found a use for you,” their mother’s voice is cold, devoid of emotion,
“You’re the only one still unmarried, and you will make a fitting gift to that brute,” she turns away from Dusk. For a moment her expression is unreadable as she looks at the clothes laid out on the bed, before it hardens once more,
“You will serve your new spouse loyally, however it pleases him. You’re sullied but that likely won’t matter to that beast. The Warlord’s reputation preceeds him,” true fear crawls up Dusk’s throat. They manage a short noise of panic before the grip on their mind and body tightens once more.
They lose some time. It’s terrifying, becoming aware once more in a place unfamiliar to you. They’re in front of a mirror, and their breath catches in their throat. They’re clothed in crimson, a marker of their lack of virginity. It doesn’t matter, not really, but Dusk’s family have always held everything they do against them. Despite Dusk’s status within the family they were still expected to compose themself as a noble should.
In addition to the heavy clothing, something has been done to make it look like they have two horns. It’s impressive really. There are flowers woven through their hair and covering where there’s likely some kind of seam where prosthetic horn meets real. An unfamiliar weight tugging at what remains of their tail gives them reason to believe something has been done there as well.
They’re given a few more moments in front of the mirror; long enough that they can note that any particularly noticeable scars have been carefully concealed, before they’re drawn away from it once more. Their heart races as they’re walked towards the main hall of the manor. At this point Dusk knows that it’s their wedding. If it wasn’t all this effort would have been unnecessary. The clothes press against their back uncomfortably as they move. Usually, they wear loose or backless shirts, their wedding clothing is more form-fitting. Their parents have always aimed to hide as many of their inhuman features as they could.
Their father takes their arm at the large doors barring their path, and they’re almost impressed that he manages to not look too disgusted. The doors open, and they’re led to their doom.
Their first impression of the warlord is ‘large.’ Indeed, the devil towers over all those in attendance by quite some margin. Fear nestles in their chest, making it hard to breathe. Dusk’s body doesn’t get the message, however. Instead of following a deep-set instinct to cower and bare their throat, they take measured and graceful steps down the aisle. Amber eyes focus on Dusk. For a moment they falter, then they’re being forced forward once more, partially by the magic controlling them, and partially by the bruising grip their father has on their arm.
Dusk is pulled forward until they stand next to their soon-to-be spouse. They can’t even turn their head to look up at him. Whatever spell is controlling them doesn’t allow even that much freedom. They are a doll held in anticipation of play, only to be moved by the hands that grip them. Back straight, eyes forward, the picture perfect dutiful child.
The cleric before them begins to speak. His voice trembles as he makes his way through traditional verses. Dusk wants to flinch away when the fiend at their side shifts impatiently. A growl, more felt than heard, rumbles from him,
“Is all of this necessary?” his voice is deep. The pure disdain there makes Dusk’s breath catch in their chest. Whoever is controlling them must slip in their concentration, because for a moment Dusk is able to look up. All they can see of him is the shape of his jaw and the curve of his lower set of horns. They manage to take a small step away from him, claws clacking against the polished floor, before the vice closes on their mind again.
“We have respected your demands,” their father says from one side,
“it is part of our agreement that you respect our traditions in return,” another frustrated growl comes from the devil. It’s followed by similar ones from his entourage. Dusk wishes they were able to truly look. Instead, they’re forced to stare straight ahead and listen to the sound of blades being unsheathed. Words they don’t understand are barked harshly by their new spouse, and they can hear them being put away again.
As the ceremony continues Dusk drifts again. Whoever has cast the spell seems to periodically lose some of their concentration. It allows them to fidget here and there, and, more importantly to them right now, it allows them to try and see some more details of the devil they are marrying. The red of his skin is brighter than Dusk’s wedding garb. He’s also large, larger than their first impression of him. Despite their own stature their head barely reaches his chest. Fear settles in their heart as they wonder what that means for the wedding night traditions.
Finally, as vows approach, Dusk learns his name,
“Yurgir,” he rumbles, as he repeats what the cleric asks. Somehow, hearing the name eases some of Dusk’s worry. Even as their puppet master makes them repeat the vows, selling them to the devil. It comforts them a little, knowing that he has a name, something he answers to, that he’s not just a mindless creature like the stories of the warlord make him seem. Though even the most stupid of dogs can answer the call of its master.
The fear is back when their body is made to turn to him. Their right hand is held out, and completely enveloped in the devil’s own. He could break Dusk’s wrist, yet he takes their hand almost delicately. The ribbon that binds their hands together is black. The symbolism isn’t lost on Dusk. Their family expects that they will die in this marriage. As they look at it a lone tear manages to trail down their cheek. They miss the look it earns them from their new husband.
The food at the reception tastes like ash. They’re made to eat it mechanically, and they wonder when this control will be lifted. Dusk doubts that whoever it is will be returning to wherever they will reside now with them. The moment they can move alone they’re going to try to escape. They have no idea what the agreement entails, but surely at this point this part of the bargain is fulfilled? Unless...
Their thoughts are pulled from worrying over the marriage bed by their father guiding them from the table. A band begins to play a traditional tune. It’s almost perfect. This act. However, Dusk has years of practice deciphering the subtle expressions of their parents. Their father is barely concealing his disgust in having to play this role. He barely touches them, and carefully doesn’t lay his hands on any bare skin. Overall, it’s the most awkward dance Dusk has had in their life. This time, they’re thankful to drift into the numbness that the control over them causes.
Rough hands startle Dusk back to awareness. The candles in the ballroom have begun to burn low. Guests are clearly deep in their cups. Most alarmingly, they’re surrounded by a crowd of people they don’t know. Someone lifts them, numerous hands coming to support the attempt. Dusk manages to shake their head and kick out before the control snaps back. They go limp as these strangers carry them across the hall and attempt to strip them. The one tradition that they had tried not to think about in all of this. The bedding ceremony.
An enraged growl echoes across the hall. Groping hands freeze in place before Dusk is unceremoniously dropped. They have no chance to get their feet under them, so they land heavily, stumbling to their knees, as loud footsteps approach.
“What is this?” Dusk wants to hide. The rage in the fiend’s voice, though seemingly directed at the rapidly retreating wedding guests, makes a whimper claw its way from their throat. The control on them wavers enough that Dusk manages to move away a little and look up at the devil looming over them. His expression sends a chill up their spine. He doesn’t look down at them at all, his eyes are fixed firmly on those who had held Dusk moments before.
“It’s traditional to conduct a bedding ceremony,” their father, to give him credit, does not balk under the furious gaze of Dusk’s new spouse. The slight slurring of his voice points towards some liquid courage. They can see his fear though. They see it in the way his jaw is clenched and the set of his shoulders.
“For a marriage to be truly legitimate it must be consummated. The ceremony ensures this occurs,” he tilts his head and takes on an expression as though he’s explaining something to a child,
“I assumed that you had been informed of this. Though it seems now that I was mistaken, and you are uneducated on our civilised ways.” Dusk holds their breath. They half expect this to be the limit of the hellish entourage’s patience. For the warlord to order a bloodbath. Instead, the extent of his visible frustration is a rumbling snarl.
“No such tradition was discussed with me, human,” he steps around where Dusk is still kneeling on the floor. The spell has clamped down on their mind once more, and they couldn’t move even if they wanted to.
“None but I will touch them now. Other proof may be discussed, but they are mine.” This seems to be the limit of their father’s bravery. The blood drains from his face as the orthon approaches, and he raises his hands in a pacifying gesture.
“Of course. None here would dispute your claim.” Dusk is made to stand, body moving without their direction, placing them at their husband’s side. From the corner of their eye Dusk can see him tilt his head to glance at them before he looks forward once more. He waves a large hand,
“I believe it is time for us to return to my home. Thank you for your...hospitality.”