Chapter Text
The mortal named Savage was as every bit an enigma as his name suggested.
There was a time Klarion would easily recall his inhumanity. Times where he would so eagerly abandon blood in the pursuit of evolution. Brutality such as that was rare in any lifetime, stretched to high hells over the cracked continents of this blue marble.
Klarion had taken immense satisfaction trying to ruin such a goal, in trying to break and shatter this mortal to tiny pieces over the course of three-hundred dusks and three-hundred dawns.
“The funny days,” that era was named.
Those days are trivial to him now.
Yet memory lane was a journey Klarion found himself having often. Too many things reminded him of days long since passed, and though he tried to be above such sentiments, his heart had yet to learn to stop its want.
The massacre that brought the immortal mortal to his knees had firstly begun when the fools he sired and protected thought the Chaos Lord to be a demon. True, they had not yet invented such a descriptive word in their tongue, but the sentiment was there.
Maybe it was his hair, maybe it was because he spoke more to Teekl than they thought was normal. In any case, they sought to hurt him.
Klarion didn’t want to be hurt. Not anymore.
With the death of men came the death of their women– such territorial things. Soon, both begged and pleaded with him to spare the children, yet such words were quick to turn to ash when with their words came more claws, more weapons.
(Croatoan had said, in his old lifetime, that the youth were harbingers of prosperity and of culture. Of course they’ll be spared… but they will be without adults. For their benefit.)
As for the rest, well, you probably know. Burned into his mind– not because it was significant, but because the memories danced around his mind whenever he looked at all he’s done, and when he looked upon Savage.
Or Vandar… Varl'jat… Marduk…
So many names.
And you would think that, along with an elongated lifespan, Klarion would mature and flourish into something beyond mortal comprehension. That he would become untouchable, unsullied.
But his title explains it all. Above anything else, he is a Witch-Boy.
An eternal child, never to grow, but subject to change. He may not be the epitome of normal, or even of perfection, but do such things allow for his mistreatment? Does his status permit a hunt led by a fool in a golden helmet, quenched only when he is chased from Earth and forced to watch it stagnate?
Perhaps it’s in the nature of every Lord of Chaos to be belittled by the other side of the Holy Balance. Maybe destiny has willed it that evil is synonymous with anarchy, and good is synonymous with dictatorship.
If “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts…
.
..
…
Their alliance was known to most as an exchange. Klarion would cause chaos, Savage would cull it, and from there, the weak would die as the strong survive.
Recalled before were the days their alliance was as wild and unkempt as the concept of chaos, itself. What was neglected more often than intended were the times where the Savage mortal would try to make the little lord melt.
The times he had coaxed the boy into bed just to see something primordial shake and writhe beneath him. All in order to reclaim a gentle nature the warrior had forgotten– or perhaps repressed– in favor of other things.
Savage would often hold himself as though he were far removed from his fellows. A god, of some sort, born of this earth and the only one capable of ushering it into a superpower that could rival the stars, themselves.
And you would think that gods were above something as trivial as carnal desire.
Not true. And the Witch-Boy had many memories, however fleeting, attesting to that.
Such a memory was made tonight.
Savage has called him for a meeting in person, something about recounting their exploits and explaining yet again what needed to be done. Not an uncommon request; they had started their little “play on words” back when he was Marduk.
(It was fun back then, playing the role of an innocent youth in the false demigod’s harem.)
Klarion hadn't fallen for such bores, instead falling for the softness that was given thereafter.
The way the mortal would so readily treat him like a jewel, a fierce protection in his eye and hands eager to roam…
Maddening to some. Comfort for him.
He remains in bed, the sheets pooling around his thin waist. Savage sat beside him, eyes closed as though contemplating, (read as: relishing), the place they've yet again found themselves in.
Klarion sighs lightly, stirring his bed partner out of his thoughts, “Am I good?”
He earns a hum. Savage-Speak for an affirmative.
“…Enough?”
Savage goes still. His face was turned away, though Klarion knew well he was doing that scowl he does whenever he was lost in his own head.
It used to be attractive. Until it got predictable.
“Enough for now,” the immortal mortal decides this is a fantastic answer.
You'd think that, in such vulnerability, Klarion would shatter hearing that. But he knew better than to expect anything heartfelt from the man.
It's why he smiles condescendingly at Savage, cuddling the pillow beneath him, “You know I've killed before for rudeness like that. You keep saying, ‘As long as this,’ or, ‘Only if that.’
“Would it kill you to say yes? Is it really so difficult?”
Normally, Klarion wouldn't allow himself to be like this. But understand that he really couldn't help it; his dreams these nights were often plagued by a former life, of burning witches and corrupt judges, of rhyming demons casting him out and noble knights damning him.
Nightmares to some. Memories for him.
Savage only leans over, wordlessly commanding his partner's small body to shift and lay on its back so that he's well and truly exposed. Pale skin remains unmarred, though only for a lack of trying. Dark eyes close as Savage leans down, whispering how the little lord needn't worry over such trivialities.
Mayhaps he shouldn't. That never means he won't.
For the rest of the night, Klarion allows himself to fall into the illusion that he's wanted, desired, and protected.