The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The bard stretched his fingers, rounding off the last notes of his song to polite applause. A middle string was a touch out; it’d been giving him trouble for a while, and finally decided to stretch awkwardly in mid-song. He sighed, and pulled his tuning key from the bag, checking the errant string against its counterparts and bringing it back up into pitch. He plucked it, and hummed the note with it, his attention drifting to one of the guests. He plucked it, again, and watched the woman across the room blink and nod as he made a flourish with his hands toward the kithara, disguising the magical gesture that he knew would earn him a few coins in his hat.

It would be a good evening. Always was, singing the songs of his childhood for an audience with money. Not that any of them could speak Keld well enough to understand a word of it, or to notice when he had substituted the lyrics of folk ballads for words of sorcery. Checking the string’s tuning again, he risked tightening it a little more to bring it right into place, then hit an open chord to get his notes right, whispered a little enchantment across the strings, and began the next song in his list.

A lively song of a thief, who was so quick that it was said that he could pluck words from speech, stealing them from the air after they had left one’s mouth and mind. The thief had been hired by a god to gather up all the prayers offered to another deity, and deliver them to a bushel to her, instead. A fun, funny, and deeply metaphorical tale, a good challenge to sing, and a fine way to end a set so that he could take a break.

“Wait,” the young woman asked him, while his quill sat poised over the parchment, “you never told me that part.”

He chuckled. “Well, my dear, I had never wanted to trouble you with the minutia of a string out of key. I have a performer’s reputation to uphold!”

As he expected, this won him a playful shove. “No, you silly thing.” She had that look in her eye. “You never told me that you had the whole crowd... enthralled like that.” He heard a faint shiver at the thought, one she bothered little to hide.

“That’s true, I didn’t,” he grinned. “You never told me, though, what you were discussing so urgently with that friend of yours.” A thought, a note of song hummed on his breath, and the quill floated out of his grip and into hers. They shared a smile. “What was her name again?” he asked.

Marlie’s eyes were beaming as the music finally sprang up again. The two girls forgot their conversation, leaving it behind with their glasses and treats as they dashed hand in hand to the dancing floor, like so many other eager pairs. They took a twist around each other, laughing out loud as their thick layers of skirts flowed around and around. The younger woman was sure that Marlie looked like a zipping shape of red, while she herself must’ve looked like a confused swirl of purple topped with gold, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about appearances. Father had told her to attend. He didn’t tell her she couldn’t spend the whole evening with her childhood best friend, come down from the north for the big night.

“You live up there.” she said to Marlie as their movements slowed. “Do you have any idea what he’s singing about?” Both of them glanced to the far corner, past the heads of a huge crowd of finely dressed nobles, past marble columns and expensive artwork, to where a young man in a nice, but comparatively shabby coat was utterly focused on the strumming of his stringed instrument and the tossing of his voice high into the air.

Marlie looked back to her, and shrugged with an impish grin. “Not an inkling. I just live there, doesn’t mean I have to speak it.” Marlie stuck her tongue out and imitated a retch, to the giggling of them both. “It sounds ugly.”

“I’ve never heard a conversation in it,” the girl remarked, dipping and swaying around her dance partner’s arm.

“Oh, you don’t want to. Most of it just sounds like coughing!” More laughter, drowned out by the music and motions and joy in the crowd around them. Marlie leaned in close, as the song softened slightly. “His voice is lovely, though, isn’t it?”

The dancer put on a polite smile. “It is. He’s very talented.” Another glance his way, one Marlie saw. And one she knew Marlie wouldn’t let her live down.

“He’s quite lovely, too, isn’t he,” Marlie said over her giggling, as the girl felt herself flush. The two spun again, and taking her eyes off Marlie, for just a moment, she met the bard’s gaze as he sung. Her heart skipped several beats, and then Marlie was whisper-giggling again. “I’ve caught you staring at least five times tonight. You can admit that he’s your type,” she teased.

“My type?” The girl gaped, too loudly, and she blushed a touch hotter as she felt eyes on her. She continued, quieter, “You know I’ve never... you know,” she squeezed Marlie’s fingers, “with a Keld before. Are they...?”

Her dance partner nodded, with a look of thick salaciousness. A bloom of warmth mingled with churning in her stomach. “Just go talk to him,” Marlie urged, “ask him about the song, they love to talk about their songs. And if your dad gets a look while you’re talking...”

“I’d be kept under guard for weeks,” the girl sighed.

“That’s why he’s your type,” Marlie grinned. “Handsome, tall, musical, mysterious, exactly the kind of man your father would hate.”

“Marlie!” she started stammering then, lacking any recourse, but merciful gods, the song soon ended, and all in the crowd had to release their hands to applaud for the player, who took a bow. She met his eyes again, felt the lump in her throat and the shortness of her breath, as she thrust her eyes away, to find any other pair but those deep and dark ones. Green ones, instead, came into view—Marlie’s—and the girl felt herself half-shoved away by her friend. She sighed, and let the momentum carry her off the dance floor, and into the path of a waiter from whom she procured two long-stemmed glasses of wine.

The singer had already gone. She hid herself, literally, behind a pillar beside his chair, and felt the side of her cheek with her hand. So much heat off her skin surprised her. A few gulps of wine would, she hoped, steel her nerves, explain away her blush, and muddle her senses enough to prevent her questioning what she was about to do. “Just talking,” she assured herself beneath a breath, “I can talk, I talk plenty...”

“I remember,” he said beside her ear, “even then, first time I laid eyes on you, you had that manic passion in your gaze.”

She shook her head, smiling with a hint of blush and handing the quill to him. “Next you’re going to tell me that you picked me out of the crowd with those spells.”

“And if I did?” he murmured, close enough to kiss her lobe and send another shiver down her spine.

“Keep writing,” she nudged him again, “you might find out.”

A Keld-cut red dress was what first drew his attention. Worn by a fairly young Damean woman, with an elaborate mound of dark-colored hair, and with her sash aligned all wrong and a silver brooch where it absolutely did not belong. Still, he’d sung the song a hundred times, and played to far worse crowds than an ignorant girl. The thief in song was first demonstrating his talent by stealing a negative from an insistence of innocence, resulting in an execution.

He forced himself to look away from the abuse of his people’s fashion. And as the next verse started up, the thief beginning to pilfer the words out of a choir’s hymn... a pair of gorgeous blue eyes slid into view. The curiosity. The interest. The look of an unwitting victim of his song, the look he’d seen before. Not that anyone else would notice that stare, or the spell. In fact, he’d barely noticed it, either, but the connection he felt to her was surely as strong as the subtle, incongruous pull that she would be feeling to him. It came naturally. The bard covered his surprise with an improvised flourish, retracing his steps back into the verse as the young noblewoman spun back into the magically-charged frenzy of her dance.

Patience, he told himself, bringing his focus back to the music, back to the thief snatching syllables from a poet, cleverly amassing a whole array of words to be reformed into praise for his new patron. He played, and played, and played... and then it was done, and he opened his eyes to the sound of applause. A weary smile crossed his lips, he held his kithara beneath his arm, and took his bow.

He had twenty minutes, as agreed with his host, before he would resume the entertainment. Had to step outside, get some air, relieve himself, take some water. He had seen the wine, it was good vintage, but mixing alcohol and magic was generally a bad idea, especially when attempting subtlety.

It shows what’s important, his teacher had said, as the singer placed his hat with its not-insubstantial collection of coins on his seat, and it shows trust. He carried the instrument beneath his arm while he slipped away from the room, the attention finally off of him. First things first. Cool evening air, and finally doing something about the mounting pressure in his bladder.

A secluded, dark, and above-all, quiet corner made the perfect space to water the grounds. Sighing with relief, he tucked everything back into place, and lifted his kithara. A check of that nuisance string again, and another that had gone off during the thief’s confrontation with a mystic cult. Which snapped.

Fuck. A second sigh, of exasperation this time. There goes my break. I’ll have to go back to the hall, get my bag, and put this damned thing back together, all in the fifteen minutes I should be spending in quiet contemplation. He closed his eyes and leaned against a tree, for just a moment of rest, only to be surprised by a sudden vision of a pair of bright blue eyes, leaping from his memory. He shook his head, opening them again. No time, no time.

He made his way back to the grand hall quickly. Rummaged through his bag even faster, set the hat on the floor, and started to tug at the strings of his instrument.

Then someone cleared their throat.

The bard looked up. Piercing blues, and a smile below them—and a glass of wine in an outstretched hand. “That was a lovely song,” the young noblewoman said, in the infuriatingly slow tone of one trying too hard to accomodate a foreigner.

He nodded. The broken string came loose in his hand. “Thank you,” he said in the flawless, unaccented Damean that he’d spent years cultivating, holding her gaze. She seemed startled by the voice. They often were. “It is one of my favorites. A fascinating story, a beautiful melody, and some truly innovative harmony.” The smile he wore threatened to break into a grin. “Were you the one dancing with the girl in that red dress? Your footwork is most impressive. Ah, but do pardon me a moment...” Reluctantly, he looked down to the instrument bag, searching for the spare string he’d found, and lost, in the span of a few moments.

“Oh, yes,” she said, voice edged with some nervousness, or drunkenness, “that’s Marlie, my good friend, we’ve known each other since we were practically babies. She lives up in Keldia with her family, and it’s really only this time of year the year that I get to see her...”

A pause. Now, he knew, it was the nervousness, at least some of which was being engendered by his magic.

She cleared her throat again. “We were just talking about the song, and we weren’t sure what it was about...?”

He didn’t look up; both hands were working to unravel the tuning pin and manage the catgut without dropping the kithara. “It is the tale of a thief, so able, quick and clever that he can steal words from the air.” String tied in place, pulling it taut. “He’s sent to perform several tasks, as an audition of sorts, before being given a legendary duty by his god. One moment.” His teeth held the stretched string, as he manipulated the whole thing into position.

“That sounds quite... unique?” she said hesitantly. “What sort of duty?”

Other end of the string, tied off. Bit the loose end, cutting it clean with his teeth, carefully taking it in hand and placing it in the bag. He applied the tuning key to its peg. “To steal the prayers of believers in a rival god,” he replied, plucking it. Sharp. Loosening it lightly, testing it with its compatriots, before looking back up to her waiting, curious, pretty eyes. “This is after he’s stolen, among other things, protestations of innocence, and the song of a bard, and...” he plucked and tuned the string without even looking. “Declarations of love.”

The young woman chewed on her lip, and for a moment, her blue eyes focused elsewhere, then drew back to his. She inched the glass of wine even closer to him. He had barely noticed it there. “That’s very... Keld, I think,” she said. “Something just like my father would tell me about, from his travels. And it’s very fitting on the anniversary, isn’t it?”

The singer saw the genuine warmth in her smile, while his own froze on his lips. Vanished from his eyes. “It... yes, it is rather typical of the tales of Keldia. Stories of impossible deeds, unspeakable works, legendary tasks done by small hands.” He looked back down, and properly tuned the new string. “I’m sorry, I do not drink while I work, miss, but I thank you for the kind offer.”

“Oh.” Seemingly undeterred, despite her obvious flush, she discreetly set her own near empty glass on a waiter’s tray before coming closer to him still. “You’re very good at playing them. And I’ve never seen anyone hold a kithara quite like that, is that Keld too?” she giggled, sipping at the wine that was meant to be his with a raised brow.

“That is simply my way, miss. You would have to ask my teacher.” His fingers plucked across the troublesome strings, and found them satisfactory. He glanced to the large clock on the wall. “If you would pardon me, miss, I should take the air I had been hoping to take before this instrument decided to complicate the evening.” The singer rose to his feet. “I have but five minutes before I must sing again.”

“Oh, why I’ll come with you!” The noblewoman said, all too quickly, almost spilling her glass as she rounded the chair. “I’ve just been dying to get outside, what with all this,” she indicated her ornate purple dress, which looked as though it would choke the breathing of anyone even half an inch wider than herself. “I-if you wouldn’t mind the company, that is?”

He stared a moment. Purple. His eyes glanced to the banners swaying overhead, suspended from the ceiling. Purple. He saw those blue eyes flashing again. Ones that, with a sinking feeling, he recognized.

She is the daughter of my employer. The bard sighed inwardly. Not a noblewoman, then, but close enough. No title, but carrying the weight of this grand estate on her back. Can’t risk offense, can’t risk impropriety...

“Would you not prefer to return to your friend, Marlie, was it?” He subtly plucked the strings while he adjusted his hold on the kithara, letting the magic come through it and into her. “She would no doubt be better company, at this moment.”

She shifted on her feet, the hesitation coming on strongly for a moment while the note he played, the subtle magic he cast, reverberated in her ear. But, yet again, she was undeterred. That genuine, warm, and oh so naïve smile again. He couldn’t help but admire it. “But I’d like to enjoy your company,” she said. “It’s not often around here that I get to meet someone that isn’t so... you know, normal,” she laughed.

Music in that laugh. Poetry in those eyes. A body smelted from finest bronze, though the cheeks seemed to be sculpted more of rose-quartz, in the moment. His expression softened, even as the spell returned to his fingers, and he watched her eyes momentarily become dull and blank. “Meet me after the next dances, not now,” he said. “There will be more time to enjoy when I am done my work for the evening.”

“Alright,” her voice answered, distantly, while she nodded along to his strumming and turned away. She walked, in time with his slow rhythm, spellbound in even so simple a motion, before her head swung ’round her shoulder to steal another look at him. She winked. His mouth was dry.

“Her dress really wasn’t that bad,” she said as she took the quill from his fingers again. “In fact, I was a bit jealous of her figure in it.”

“Were you, now?” A smile playing around his eyes, as he sat back.

“Yes, I was, though it would be bad form to write it down.” She laughed. “I don’t want you thinking too hard about her anyway.”

“Trust me, I avoid those thoughts as much as I can. If you wanted me to, though...”

“What?”

He smirked. “Well, I could play for her, the next time she comes down. Help her correct her dressing errors. I could, perhaps, show her the proper way to fasten the kiprah. Or the proper way to remove it...” She swatted him, and shoved him again, and the two broke into laughter that faded slowly. “There are certain... traditions, among the Keld, that are frowned upon in Damea. Knowing her... interest,” he flashed a wan smile, “in Keld culture, I could help the two of you to perform them. I could even watch.” Broad wink. Light punch, harder shove, more laughter still.

She gave him a light, absentminded cuff on the shoulder, reading what he had written. “Dearest...?”

“Yes?”

“... that isn’t how I remember it,” she gestured to the half-inked page.

“Well, of course it isn’t.” He showed her a grin. “You were fairly bewitched, it’s only natural not to remember. As you well know.” She giggled shyly, in her way, as he brought an arm around her back. “Show me then,” he whispered, “show me what you do remember of those first words.”

“That was a lovely song,” she said slowly, and immediately felt embarrassed for it. The singer didn’t even move for some moments. He seemed to heave a sigh, both his hands in the bag at his feet. She’d made a mistake, she thought. He’s not interested. Maybe you’re not his type. Maybe he’s married, is he married? What if—

His whole body turned to face her, and she immediately felt lightheaded, couldn’t stop herself from absorbing his features, now that she was so close. A strong jaw. Beautiful hair, not too short, not too long. Small, tender-looking lips. And those eyes. She felt she could stare into them for hours. She felt as though she might have already, that she was simply lost inside of them, that she had to—

“Thank you.” His voice cut through the noise of her thoughts, and she felt herself smile wide. Even simply talking, it was a beautiful sound. Gentle and soft, but strong in a way that commanded attention. And then he was speaking again. Speaking about the song, she registered, but she was barely listening to the words. The way he spoke sounded like a song in itself, with lilting rises and falls, a melody weaving around the story he described, a harmony she heard echoed in her own breath. Not just the song, speaking about her. He had complimented her. He’d complimented her. Out of all the people, even the duchess was there, and he’d...

His eyes were thrust away from her, out of her clutches even as she yearned to grip them tighter. The world around her grew noisier. Courtiers were bargaining, servants were serving, laughter and noise, far too much of it. She wanted the simplicity of his words and his stare again.

She hated all of this, not that she ever really spoke of it, or thought of it in such a way. It was simple to realize it then, though. She tired easily of the drama of court. She couldn’t imagine how it should be, were she more than the sole heir to a growing fortune. She swallowed. He was staring into his bag, searching, but she almost needed his focus on her, again, or else she was sure that she would drown in the ballroom’s hugeness.

She managed to spit something out, at least, something about Marlie. She wasn’t quite sure why Marlie was coming to mind, had he mentioned her?

Damn it, why would I mention some other girl? she chastised herself, then she said something else. She saw a smile on his lips. That was good, she knew, and she took a sip of her wine, unsure how many she’d had in the past several moments.

“It is the tale of a thief, so able, quick and clever that he can steal words from the air.” He said it while he worked, and though his eyes were still away from hers, she felt the centering pull of his musical voice yet again. He was still talking. She was still listening. He was doing something to the instrument’s strings, something she didn’t understand, but she did watch the act. Watched the way his hands pulled and slid and caressed along the kithara, touching it with supple grace, as though... as though it were a lover.

She swallowed again. What had he said? Something about gods, and men, and a duty to be performed. She told him it sounded unique. She wanted to know more. In truth, while she did want to know more, she wanted to know more of him.

Something about stealing. She beheld his stare again, and she knew herself to be short of breath, and warm of everything. His lips were working with a skill that she was certain had been honed, lips that could do a good many other things. A pluck of a string brought her back before him. “Declarations of love,” he whispered. Something in his eyes. Her heart leaped. Her throat was dry, she drank more wine, and had to allow herself one moment in reality before looking back into that gaze.

She said something, about how nice it was, about the silly anniversary. Something to get him talking. But he turned away, and again, chaos of the room started to press around her. He was still speaking, yes, but it lacked the animating joy and passion that it had.

Shit, she thought. This has become difficult.

The aid, of course, would be still more wine. The noblewoman was aware that he would not drink the glass she had forgotten about, and so she discarded her own and started into it. She asked about the instrument, the kithara. No, no, bad choice, he began to stand. Readied to leave. She was on his other side, hadn’t even felt herself moving, stammering something, anything to get him to stay by her. “I-if you wouldn’t mind the company, that is?”

She felt the gaze sliding over her body. But when it met hers again, it was even deeper. Even more of a strange, beautiful something else. Strings were playing. Or, maybe that was just his words. He sounded just as lovely as they.

A question was what he asked, and though her tongue almost slipped, she fought the urge to just nod, and told him something else. Something that made her blush, something that made her laugh. Something that made him smile. And then the kithara was being played again. Stronger. Louder. She didn’t hear anything else, didn’t see anything but his eyes. No words, not ones that she could hear—but ones that she could feel, instead. Pulling her awareness along, dragging her through, or out of, or into some lovely mire.

He told her to do something. She couldn’t say no, and she had no desire to. Whatever it was, she knew she wanted it. Her head bobbing. Her feet walking. But when the sound of the strings had faded just a touch, enough for her to be aware of the world around, if vaguely, she turned her head for one glance, both long and short, before rushing to find some quiet table where she could steal more glances still.

“You’ve always had a way with words, my love.”

“You’ve always had a better way,” she giggled.

“And yet,” he chuckled with her, “here I sit, captivated, and I should say, aroused, and you expect me to write?” He sighed, at the sight of her smirk. “I suppose I have to. For now.”

Water. He ducked from the room, toward the kitchen, took a glass of clean well-water and downed it in a single gulp, fighting to catch his breath. He stood by the door, out of the servants’ way, forcing his eyes to shut. Trying vainly to block out the bustle and the noise. Trying vainly to call to mind the songs he’d need, another half hour’s work, fingers plucking the air, trying vainly to ignore the stunning blue, the gorgeous shape in decadent purple, the golden glow of hair like the thousand stars in the sky... The magic danced in his head as clearly as the music, the spells he could twist on her as she made her way around the floor—her and her ill-dressed friend...

Shit. There was no respite in those thoughts, only more distraction. He needed to play. He needed to run, if he wanted to get away from the vision of those eyes. He needed to... he needed to work.

Fuck it, he decided. I’ve worked in worse situations.

He shoved back through the kitchen door and made his way to the great hall, a burning energy driving him on. He dropped into his chair, and without waiting for a nod or an instruction or a moment of silence, he struck up a chaconne, a wild set of variations that set his fingers flying before his voice joined in, rough and violent, singing a tale suited much more for the bar than the estate and the crowd of nobility. Few in Damea knew the proper steps. The spinning shape of purple flashing blue his way certainly didn’t. Even if any did, they wouldn’t have had the space to execute them among the frantically moving crowds.

One woman joined a blond knight at his camp, and he extolled to her his deeds of glory as she danced in the firelight, and then a second joined her, and he told her tales of strength, and then a third, and he sang her songs of passion. The bard didn’t care, at this point, if there were any among the crowd who could understand the archaic Keld dialect, in which the knight told the stories of sex to the women he was making love to.

The fury of the music was in full swing, and he was enrapt in it, as was his crowd, while the fingers flew into the voiceless contortions detailing the pleasures, the actions, the sights and sounds of these three young women and their noble knight, straining the ability of his hands and threatening the integrity of his instrument as he brought the final slides into the great climax and, with one final snap of the strings, concluded the ancient, virtuosic bardsong.

The entire room erupted with applause, more deafening than the sound of the steps and the song had been. The singer stood, sweating, and took several bows as the thronging crowd ceased in their riotous stomping, and much of it began to surge toward him. He set his hat onto the seat, and heard coins jingling into it before he could even straighten up. But he didn’t look to the many nobles and rich folk, eyeing him with interest or curiosity or disdain, or to the ones both generous enough and spellbound enough to pay him a fair tithe. His gaze was fixed forward, as a pair of blue eyes stared him down unflinchingly.

She was crossing the room, and it was as though the crowd parted for her. She didn’t seem to bother any longer with blushing, or embarrassment, or shying away. And though he couldn’t spy her feet, he knew they would be moving with a vibrant determination, judging by the set of her shoulders, the movement of her skirts, and the even more appealing motions of her upper body beneath the purple dress. The dancer, the daughter of my employer, he reminded himself, strode straight up to him, and grabbed his arm with a hand caught in a long white glove.

“Come now,” she said, with a surprising calm, and a clarity in her eyes, “you don’t want to stick around here for the pageantry any more than I do.”

He knew that it wasn’t just the spell doing its work. And so, he smiled at the startling stare. “Will you not be missed?” He took his hat and poured the contents into the kithara’s bag, tucking the instrument beneath his arm as he rose. “Surely you are needed within said pageantry.”

“Me?” She indicated herself with her free hand, as the other moved to lock arms with his. “I’m the only child of the host, yes,” she said, making her status clear to him whether intentionally or not, “but I’m no figure of importance. This is Father’s big night, not mine. He’s going to be up there for the next hour, and then the duchess, and then these and those honored guests...” She gave him a sigh, and looked toward him for some recognition. Standing side by side, he was surprised that they were at such an even height. “I’d rather have some fresh air with you,” the noblewoman said.

The singer chuckled, and led her from the hall, leaving his bag behind to gather more weight from heavy pockets. “You do occupy the thoughts some, you know,” he said, passing a rushing group of servants, several of which gave him and her some looks of appraisal. “You seem to have a way about you that does so. I must admit that I was rather taken with you earlier, even if my first impression of your friend is less favorable.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” she chuckled gently, weaving her fingers tighter together with his. “Marlie’s personality can be a bit offputting, I know. To be truthful, there are times that I’m glad she’s up in your country for nearly the whole year. Some people can just be so exhausting.”

After catching the unsubtle glances of some finely-dressed guests, the singer twitched his fingers, casting a light aura of normalcy around them, making the noticing a little more difficult. “I hadn’t spoken to her,” he admitted. “It’s her dress, I’m afraid. The sash is set wrong, and the brooch doesn’t belong at all. As for showing...” He looked over at her, and caught her smile. “I’m a professional, miss, and my instrument’s my life and livelihood.”

“Still, I’m glad we’ve got our chance to slip away now.” She took the lead from him and they passed through one hallway, and another, and out into the quiet courtyard that he’d so recently defiled. Moonlight cast silver and shadows, and she admired the bubbling fountain as they approached. “There’s an enchantment on this. My sorceress told me about it, once, though I don’t quite recall what she said...”

His fingers brushed across it. “Keeps it clean,” he said immediately. “Look, nothing grows in the fountain. No moss, no algae, no plants.” While she did, his own gaze went to her figure. Bronze skin, glistening in the moonlight, catching and filtering through her hair, making a valley of shadows between two eye-catching swells...

“Miss, I should ask what you have in mind,” he said, a bit strained. “Here, in the garden, in the shadows. I... daresay that if I mention what I am thinking, that the pretty blush you wear, no doubt due to the wine, might deepen some.”

Even the simplest allusion was enough to encourage the pink hue, though she did try to shrug it off. “I’m merely taking an interesting walk with an interesting guest.” She kept her hold on his hand and strolled briskly past the fountain, past the garden, out of the starlight and fresh air and into some farther-flung hallway. Removed from the main hall as it was, only the faintest din of clapping could be heard, along with her clicking heels and swishing dress. “I don’t want to hear that noise,” she muttered, and led him deeper still.

“I am no guest, miss,” he reminded her then. “I am merely hired help. But I might do my work for you, as I do for your father; there is perhaps another noise you might appreciate.” He saw the hesitation in one step, the flutter working its way through her ears and into her mind. The temptation of the song. Accompanied, of course, by the near-indetectable humming of the kithara held against his side.

“Perhaps I might,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, before turning her head forward again. She squeezed his arm. The two stepped through a thick pair of doors, ones which closed behind them. A long hallway ran perpendicular to the last, and though the last had been anything but simple, this one was so much more. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminated by magical flame. Paintings, endless paintings covered the walls, statues and busts on the floor, monuments, artifacts, full and fragmented alike... “My father’s collection, small as it is.” She said it as though the size of it might disappoint him. “Nobody should come near here, but maybe we should keep our voices low... just in case.”

“Do you fear apprehension?” he asked with a smirk, loosening his arm from hers and taking a few steps deeper in. “Is there some reason that I ought to worry, miss? And, for that matter,” a chuckle, “might I know your name? It occurs that I don’t know it yet; you mentioned Marlie, of the poorly-arranged kiprah... but you, I know very little of.”

The dancer let free a laugh, finding some clearly valuable and treasured bench to sit herself upon, crossing a leg beneath the curtains of purple below her waist. “Brenna. I think perhaps the only reason I have to worry would be my sitting alone, with a stranger, and a Keld at that, in an isolated part of my home. And a stranger you are, as yet. I don’t know your name either.”

“Dalhareayar,” he intoned with a bow. “Dal, to friends, and I imagine I can count you among them.” She favored him a smile. “I do think I may risk execution for being here with you, Brenna.”

She shook her head simply, her grin growing. “What crime could there be, between two friends as we sharing a moment of quiet company?”

“What crime, indeed.” Laughter, from them both. “Brenna,” he said, with a pause. “Is that a name all its own, or is it short for something else?” He came to her side, sitting by her on the stone seat.

“Goodness no, Dal,” she shook her head quickly, the pulled-up bob of gold bouncing in time, “my family has money, yes, but my mother is not the duchess, and my father is certainly no duke. We are brickmakers, and brick sellers, I have no title nor great honor to my name.” She smiled. “Brenna was the name of my grandmother, but farther in time beyond that, I do not know.”

Idly, and mostly automatically, his hands brought the kithara to bear, and his fingers grabbed a few strings. “There is an old, old story that I know, of a woman. A woman of the name Brenhalaurania.”

“... and this is where you told me the story,” Brenna said, though he could tell that it was not entirely directed at him.

“It is,” he said softly. “You remember that much, but...?”

“... but I’m sure it is a different memory than your own, Dalhareayar,” she giggled.

Wordlessly, he handed her the quill.

“... but farther in time beyond that, I do not know.” She had been staring at the bard for mere minutes, but it felt like so very, very much longer. Her chest was torn between tightness and loveliness, her stomach between embarrassed churning and eager fluttering. And the conversation, what little there had been, had come so easily. The words had slid right off her tongue, right into the air before she’d had any time to ponder them, to focus too hard on them and to tear herself apart over it. She was sure that it had been the wine, since she’d had three whole glasses.

But she was gladdened. She had never been one for courtship, it was as stuffy as politics and as constricting as her corset. Too many games, rules, twists and turns to keep track of. But with Dal, the words were coming easily, even as her nervous energy and excitement warred against each other.

She still drank up the look of his eyes, whenever they came her way, and there they were. Deep and dark, holding hers surely and steadily, while his lips wore an easy, confident smile. And though she was staring, she did not fret this, either. Staring into Dal’s eyes felt as natural as breathing. She had never seen such interesting eyes before. The way the colors mixed, the way the brown wasn’t quite brown, the way the dark of his pupils stood out from it all and beckoned her even deeper still. She was also dimly aware of his hands setting to work. And that awareness was sharpened to a point as the first plucks met her ears.

Dal told her of a story. Not the story itself, not yet, but he told her a story, a story and a name. Brenhalaurania. A name she had never heard before, but one she would hear many, many times after. And even later, she would still smile, and giggle with amusement as she had then, not knowing whether it was a real name and a true story, or one he had devised just for her. She would never be quite certain which interpretation she enjoyed more.

Another chord shifted her focus. Back to Dal. They were chuckling at a joke she had made. Her hands were removing gloves. She said something else, and he grinned. She knew those were the right words.

Song on the strings. His fingers were moving slowly, gliding across, but she only saw this from the corner of her eye. She never even thought to turn away from his stare. Because he was speaking, speaking of the song, and though he did not sing, his fingers carried the melody, and though it was not spoken in Keld, his breath carried the words. Words of a woman, Brenhalaurania, a woman like her. How was she like her? That didn’t matter.

Behind, beneath, or perhaps through Dal’s eyes, she saw herself drawing a blade, holding a child, awash with the blood of not only her enemies. She said something to Dal. Something to make him speak again.

His strings spoke for him, firstly. But there was something strange, while Dal told her a joke, and she giggled into it. A ting he had plucked, sounding unusual in the air. And then the singing was back, and her imagination continued. She saw herself, the child, the winter, the desert. The strange note again, making her pause even as he kept his pace, making her need to rush her thoughts to catch up. A lull bade her speak again, but she didn’t even care what words they were. She knew that he would keep singing, anyway.

Strings. That ting. Just slightly out of place. Not a wrong note, or perhaps it was, but she was never a musician. Voice, again, imaginings, again. A queen of ice, chosen of a god, a trial of combat. Drawing a blade and—that ting again. She couldn’t even hear what Dal had said over its sound, the way it filled her ears so completely and forestalled her imagination. It was an infuriating little note. And it kept coming between his pauses, giving her no lulls in which to think. She was aware of lips moving again. A battle. ting A home in the snow. ting A word on her lips, drowned out by the song. ting Drowned out by the note. ting At home in the north. ting. Home with a man. ting Home with a lover. ting A lover with lovely song. ting A lover with beautiful voice. ting Brenhalaurania, enraptured. ting Unable ting to resist his words. ting Her own slow breath. ting “She would never go back.” ting His voice ting or hers? ting She couldn’t tell. ting “She couldn’t.” ting A place. ting Lovers. ting Want. ting Story. ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting ting ting ting...

A random chord, hitting several notes, but not the note. She blinked, several times, her head afog and dizzy. Dal sighed beside her. “I should really work on that one. It’s never been a favorite at my performances, though.”

“And you know how the story of Brenhalaurania goes, even still.” Dal said to her.

“Only because you’ve sung it to me at least a hundred times.”

“It’s a good story!” Laughter between them. “You love that story.”

“I think,” Brenna pressed the quill to his hand, “that you should tell it for them, too.”

“There is an old, old story that I know, of a woman. A woman of the name Brenhalaurania.” He smiled, while his hands fell into a slow and steady rhythm, far easier than the words he was struggling to remember. “A heroine of great deeds. Perhaps you have some Keld ancestry in you.” A nice, simple chord.

Brenna’s eyebrow rose was drawn up by the sound of it. “We are close to the border, and my color is not as deep as it could perhaps be...” Both of them chuckled, as she began to remove her long white gloves, baring her tan skin and delicate fingers.

Another chord, one he made sure would draw her eyes back to his. “It’s not a song I sing often. I’m not sure I could remember it all.”

“I won’t begrudge you if you can’t recall the words, Dal.” She grinned, and he matched it. “I couldn’t understand them anyway.”

He took her words as an invitation, and his fingers began to slip across the strings, strumming slowly. He winced a moment at that troublesome string again, but his tuning key was in his bag. He would have to make do. “Brenhalaurania began life as the daughter of a powerful noble,” he said, speaking in Damean for Brenna’s benefit. “And her first great deed came at the age of her first blood, when mere days after, her father’s lands were invaded, and she drew a sword from a fallen enemy and defended her infant sister, rescuing her from the arms of her slain mother.”

“My,” Brenna whispered. She was staring already, and so quickly. Good. “Do all Keld stories have so many great deeds?”

“It is something of a joke among Keld bards, that we cannot tell the story of a busty barmaid but that she serves at least three mighty heroes and a god.” He chuckled, and listened to Brenna’s lovely, near-sleepy laughter. “It is something of the culture, I think, that this is how we choose to remember ourselves.”

His hands carefully chose the harmonies that would make the magic flow, and, acting on impulse, he let free one, out of place, errant note. “Brenhalaurania then carried the child for three months, across the Northlands in winter, towards Sel’het—which was not Sel’het, then, but that doesn’t really matter to the story. The tales tell that she survived by her own wits, and nursed the infant though she was herself barely more than a child.”

As his voice quieted, hers, naturally, filled the space above the strumming. “Where was she going?” Brenna’s words were vacant, airy, as if the thought that had made them was so full of holes that a gust of wind had simply let it fly freely, untethered from her mind. Her leg uncrossed. She moved an inch closer to him, and he felt his breath quickening.

Steady. He put his focus on the contained spell, eking it out slowly. “The tales don’t tell us, because she didn’t make it to wherever it was.” The low string, plucked again, he saw Brenna’s eyes blink heavily at it. It had no place in that harmony, and though she was no scholar of music, she knew it was... special. “In her travels, you see, she came across a woman, one of the gods’ chosen stars. A lady of ice and snow, a true queen of the Northlands, who challenged her to a duel for her sister’s life.” Striking the note again. It grated on his ears, but to Brenna’s, he knew it would ring with an ethereal beauty. Besides, it gave him direction to his improvisation, a dissonance to resolve. “She fought the queen to a standstill with the stolen sword, and the queen adopted them both on the spot.”

Another pluck, another slow, heavy blink. Brenna’s hands were still working, absently, removing that other glove of hers. “And then?” She breathed. Sighed. Music to his ears.

“Children in the north are warriors,” he replied, a little improvised melody in his voice. There, again, a pluck of the wrong string, the right string. “Brenhalaurania trained with the woman, and was sent to do her works in Keldia, to bring justice to those who burned her lands and killed her family. But, this is not something she wanted to do.” He swallowed. “She felt called in another direction.” The false note was appearing every third or fourth beat, then, slipping into scales, bending its way into the counterpoint, defining a rhythm all its own.

More tired blinks. Had he not known the depth of focus in her mind, he would have judged that Brenna was ready to fall asleep right there. But she did not. Her mind was far too curious, far too eager to follow the story. “She... went against her destiny?”

“She found another,” he breathed, hands shifting into a light and delicate melody, laden down with the powerful note. “These are old stories, very different times, so even at her young age, she’d fallen in love with a man of the north, and soon she had a girl of her own, raised as a sister to her own sister.” His eyes closed. He needed the space for a moment. “There is little talk of destiny in Keldia, and less so now than ever. But those two children, those two little girls, they grew in the Northlands, and Brenhalaurania made sure they knew where it was they came from.

“So it was, then, that when the young girls reached the time of their first blood, it was them who would drive south with cold steel and colder hearts, and bring death to their family’s murderers.”

“Gods.” Brenna’s voice was a mere whisper within his music. He had picked up the pace, the odd string resounding near constantly, as he focused and twisted and warped the magic with every move of his fingers.

He nodded. “Brenhalaurania would stay in the north, with her lover, a man who, it is said, gave up war to learn to sing.” Softer then, softer he played, except for that one constant note, a numbness for it growing in his own ears. “His songs were so lovely, so beautiful, that they left the young woman enraptured, unable to resist his words.”

The beautiful blues that had been staring him down were glassy. Empty, like the words on her breath, “She would never go back,” Brenna asked, but her voice was flat, and lacking the effect to make it a question. It was a fact.

“She couldn’t,” he replied, smiling. “The story says that, once, she even drugged her bard, so she could slip away to see her daughters, but he kept her still by talking in his sleep.” Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. He was barely touching a string that wasn’t that one, enchanting note. Pluck, pluck, strum. “There is a place you wish to take me, Brenna,” he said it carefully, as though a sound too loud might spook her from her half-sleep. Pluck, pluck, strum, strum. “I can see it in your eyes, and hear it in your voice.” Pluck, pluck, strum, pluck. “You won’t remember my saying this, but you will still take me to a safe place, a place where you bring your lovers.” Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. “There, you will desire to make a story of your own.” Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck...

Brenna wouldn’t have heard her agreement. She wouldn’t have felt the way her chin drooped with the slow, lazy nod. And she wouldn’t even remember the plucking, thrumming note, which was melting between her ears even as it played, and played, and played. He empowered the spell, gave it further direction still, made it wash itself away as he struck one final, enigmatic and unfinished chord. He sighed. “I should really work on that one. It’s never been a favorite at my performances, though.”

He watched her blinking herself awake, looking around, confused... but settling on his eyes, before she was even aware of it. “I... I think it’s wonderful, Dal. Truly I do,” Brenna said, even as he felt a self-deprecating smile of disbelief tickling his lips. “You have a gift, and I mean that. I would... very much like to hear more, but...” A glance past him, to the closed doors, which could not remain closed forever.

“But you fear your father’s reprisals, should he find you with his Keld musician,” he finished for her, rising onto his feet with a smile. “Still, Brenna, I thank you for the time you’ve granted me.”

A hard swallow, and both her bare hands grasped his empty one, startling him with her speed and want. “I do not fear my father, Dal,” she said seriously. “I fear...” She blushed, brightly. “I fear that I might let this night come to waste, without... knowing you better.” Carefully said, despite the biting of her lip, glancing to the side. He followed the look, to an expanse of empty wall.

“You do?” He smiled. “Where might we go, Brenna, where is safe, where is comfortable?”

Another gulp, and she was leading, mostly pulling him along down the gallery. He recognized faces on his right, stern-looking ancient heroes. The Claimant, himself, far from his foremost position in the Keld pantheon, only had a single arm remaining, and half of his expression looked to have been broken off. The half that should have been smiling. On the left, scenes of glory, paintings on oil and canvas of some scenes he was certain that Brenna’s father could recount in explicit detail.

Scenes from his stories. Scenes from his land. Locked up in a room full of antiquities. He sighed, and put his attention on the bouncing knots of hair in front of him, until Brenna came to a stop just before the empty wall.

He tilted his head at it. His brows knit together. “Something’s... off, about this,” he said.

“Really?” She turned her head around to assess him. “She told me that it should be undetectable...”

“That what should be undetectable?”

Brenna giggled. “Watch,” she said, and then spoke a word, one of power, one of an ancient, ancient tongue. One, he knew, that she did not have the strength for in her veins alone. But whatever enchantment had been graven recognized her command all the same, even if she lacked the magic to implant it there herself. The wall shimmered, then warped, and then a door was there, just in front of them. Like it had been there all along.

He blinked at it. Brenna laughed, pulled the knob, and practically shoved him inside. The door shut, and clicked, locked, and he felt the shake of magic in his bones again as it hid itself.

“I like both versions,” Brenna decided.

“Then we can keep both versions,” Dal shrugged.

“And what about...?”

“Brenna, Brenna,” he shook his head in mock-disapproval. “You’re thinking too much like a Damean. They’ll be old enough for it. And it deserves the beauty that you put into your writing.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” she laughed, “you want me to... all by myself! Oh no, Dalhareayar, you are not getting away with that so easily. If we’re doing it at all... we’re doing it together.”

“Together it is.”

The room was dark. Very dark. Sealed quite tightly, Dal thought, too, judging by the stuffiness. But Brenna spoke another word, and a fireplace roared to life. Happily blazing, it lit up wood-paneled walls, a solid oak floor covered with large, thick pelts, understated armchairs and a cozy-looking couch. She sighed, and Dal caught her smile as she strode toward the flames, shedding a few knots from her hair and loosing pins.

“We’ll have some privacy here. There’s at least three more rooms like this, and though my parents might know of those...” She laughed, far more shyly than she’d been in the gallery. “Something about that enchantment’s made them forget about this one. The only people that know of it are myself, my sorceress, and my maid... and the latter two are not in attendance tonight.”

Dal nodded. He looked impressed, to her, and she couldn’t help but grin. “I do enjoy a private audience, from time to time.” He chuckled, “And this room is the very definition of comfort.” He fixed his gaze on Brenna. Her heart pounded in her chest. “So. What are your plans, Brenna, now that I’m locked in here with you?”

She dropped the pins from her hand, shaking out her flowing waves of blond in a display that he couldn’t quite keep his eyes off. And the couch that she settled into looked quite nice, as well, and even moreso as her hands went, and worked slowly behind her back, picking at the mazes of thread. “Why don’t you play me another song, and we can find out together?” Brenna asked.

He hardly needed encouragement, and he joined her across the couch, hands poised on the kithara. “Fast, Brenna? Or slow?” An open wink.

“Slow,” she chuckled softly, “for now.” Her hands were busy with their own strings, and he played his idly. “You’re lucky I had this dress made easy to remove, or I’d have to say very slow...”

Dal laughed, and she joined him as he strummed a gentle chord. “Perhaps I might play you one of the songs that so captivated Brenhalaurania,” another wink.

She laughed further, and noted the way his eyes darted to her bosom with a satisfied smirk. “You have a beautiful sound, Dal, but not the voice to give such mythical songs their power, I’m afraid.”

“Think you not? Is that a dare?” He matched her smirk, and played a beautiful roll with... one note slightly out of place.

“Does it sound like a dare?” Her arms darted inwards, the loosening having freed enough space to pull her shoulders out, but her hands cupped the rest of the dress to her front teasingly.

“It does, Brenna.” Dal repeated the roll, and Brenna shivered with it. “This note,” he said, breathing across the string, “this string is tied to you. To your mind, to your body. When I pluck it, like so,” he demonstrated, she felt, “you can feel its pull.”

She exhaled. Forced out a little nervous chuckle, clutched herself a bit tighter. “That’s just some cleverness of yours,” she said, “a musician’s work, not a magician’s... right?”

Dal smirked, by way of reply, and plucked the string again as he rolled a new harmony. “Amnahres,” he whispered into his instrument. Entrancing, in Keld. Not a word of a spell, the spell was already cast, but a direction, both to his music and to his audience.

Another shiver. A hard gulp down her throat. Her blue eyes looked at him with wariness... but not without their ever-present curiosity. Brenna was growing more certain by the moment that he was no simple kitharode.

“Brenna?” he asked, and she shook her head quickly to clear the fog that had swam up around her.

“I-I’m sorry?” she asked, higher-pitched than she wanted.

“You looked like you had a question,” Dal smirked.

Those eyes, those endless eyes... “You... aren’t just a kitharode, are you.”

“Would you rather I be?” Two more rolls, without touching her string.

The grip of her hands on her dress, on her breasts, loosened a hair. “I imagine I should rather that... but I have never been good at doing what I should.” She smiled.

The string was plucked.

Her eyes went glassy, vacant, waiting.

“Answer,” Dal whispered, plucking it again. “Would you rather think of me as just a musician? Or would you rather feel my magic?”

“Magic,” Brenna answered, after a moment’s thought and a moment’s blink, opening her eyes to see his fingers poised to strum.

“Then,” he said with a flourish that ended on her note, “fall in to my spell.”

The hint of song drowned out a word on her lips. Her hands fell, fell into her lap as her body became loose, taking half of the rich purple dress with it, unveiling the dark-colored corset that she’d half-loosened already. Her head bobbed forward, heavily, tilted to the side as she started climbing back up from the first wave. Dal strummed again, quickly, sending her back down into the note, eyes fixed on her, on the revelations of her body.

“Your mind is not your own, Brenna. Your body, not your own. Bare both to me.” Her note was heavy in the music he invented, in the spell he wove as she stood. She didn’t resist, as her hands moved back to the bonds. Each pluck of the note, each word off his lips that she couldn’t remember, wouldn’t remember, drove the magic farther and farther in. Made the thoughts that tried to think of resisting scarcer and scarcer, as they tried to return each time. The feeling was electric. To be unable, and in the same moment, unwanting. To know that she could have wanted, but she did not. To feel, keenly, with each plucking behind her eyes, that she could not muster a will to do more than think about thinking about resisting. A moment of easy, free breathing, then the note again, the light leaving her eyes, her jaw going slack once more.

But her hands never stopped moving. Navigating the restrictive knots better than they would have while awake, they worked, and worked, and soon the corset fell into her lap just as well. Round, supple breasts, moving with each breath, drawn up and down to the rhythm of each note. Dal’s hands still worked, even as his eyes and mind were pulled elsewhere. “Step closer, Brenna, as you disrobe.” Beautiful, stunning. Her eyes did draw his attention, but they had competition with the rest of her.

She moved, she stood, a flowing step with the song, arms and fingers working with precision as the rest of her slept and woke over and over again. The mess of purple and jewelry was pushed down, off her waist, past her hips, carrying anything else that was below down to her feet. Her body pulled upright, watching his eyes with a blank stare as he hit the note, over and over, like a reward to her naked form.

Dal’s mouth went dry, and he was shocked into silence. More gorgeous than he’d imagined, by far. “Wake, Brenna,” he uttered, dampening the strings. “Wake now, and see my power.”

She blinked awake quickly. Startled by his eyes. Then looked down. “Holy hells,” she gasped, and nearly stumbled out of the mound of clothes, out of what should have been an impossible sight to see, and yet, it was. Brenna looked back up, and her mouth hung agape. “Y-you did this?”

He nodded once, slowly, a movement that allowed his gaze to travel from those slender shoulders, to the full bosom, to the finely-sculpted tummy and hips, the delicate curls about her sex, the athletic legs, and back up again. “I did, Brenna.” His hands stayed poised. He was ready to strike the chord if the need arose.

Brenna swallowed nothing but dryness, nearly coughing on it. “You did,” she whispered, sounding more true in her ears. “I... I never knew that magic could do things like this...”

“This, and much more besides.” A calming chord, carefully avoiding her note. “What would you like to know?”

The tension melted from her shoulders, her stance loosening. “How are you... don’t you need some staff, or a jewel?”

“My kithara,” Dal replied, watching her subtle relaxations. “And my songs. The magic is in both, the former feeding the latter.” He reached with his fingertips, and plucked her string, whispering, “Come closer,” over it, commanding her, drawing her on. And she did. Quick steps carried her over the dress, almost touching his toes with hers before she blinked, and again, a full-body shiver rocked through her curves.

This is wrong, she thought to herself, but at the same time, half of her wanted him to play that string and banish the thought entirely. Brenna shook her head. “Do you do this to all your audience members?” An embarrassed giggle, as she started a vain attempt to cover herself up with arms and hands.

“Only the ones that aim to seduce me,” he said with a crooked grin. Between having masterfully played the Knight’s Chaconne, and put his spell on her, and now having her so nude and so very close, he was rock hard beneath his trousers. “Tell me what you’d like, with this power.”

She took that last step, legs coming up against the couch and beginning to lean down above him. “Finish out this seduction and make me sing like your strings, Dal.” She hadn’t known where the confidence came from.

“Still,” he whispered over her string, and struck it, watching her gasp and vibrate and... stop in place. “If that is your wish, beautiful Brenhalaurania,” he said, standing and setting the instrument aside, “then so it shall be.” His hand touched her cheek a moment before his lips. Then, searching, roaming, starting from her shoulders, pausing to explore her perfect breasts, sliding down over her belly, hips, thighs before teasingly, lightly brushing over her labia. He paused to remove his own clothing, to be as naked as she, before pulling her stilled body into a deep kiss as the spell broke its hold on her.

All of the sensation rushed to her at once, the hairs on her skin standing on end everywhere. It felt amazing, and she moaned happily against his mouth, suddenly wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing him even deeper, pulling him even closer. Letting his tongue tease, explore, but not before her own tasted his, moaning again as their bodies pressed together. He lifted her up, gripping hard on her bottom as they kissed and kissed again. He leaned into her ear, he hummed her note as he kissed her jaw. She felt herself slackening to the sound, even lacking the magic of the string and its perfect reverberations, as it made her quiver and sigh, threatening to go limp before she wrapped herself tighter to him, kissing all over his face.

Dal moaned at her ministrations, and carried her slowly toward the fireplace. “I could cast a sleep so deep over you that you wouldn’t wake for a year,” he whispered between gasps. “I could make you beg to serve me. I could bind you in chains of magic that wouldn’t free you until I alone gave the word.”

Brenna shuddered onto him again, stalling in her actions only to entangle herself in his hair and clutch her thighs tighter to his body. Her voice in his ear, breathy, hot, still shy even then, “Am I bad for wanting that?”

“Gods, no,” he moaned. “No, never, your wants are not bad, Brenhalaurania.” He chuckled, and sang the name again, on her note. And again. Another wave of pleasure, and another. Her grip loosened, with the weight of her eyelids, her weight dragging the both to the floor, her back buried in luxuriously soft fur, writing with joy as he rose above her. Eyes opening with some clarity, if still a bit fogged.

“Then, please,” she whispered, cupping his face with both her hands and pulling him closer, matching her hips to his, “I want it, Dal.”

He kissed her deeply, deeply. He teased between her legs with his hard member. “Brenhalaurania could not resist her lover’s voice,” he said, holding her cheek, “and so, you cannot resist mine.”

Shivering, she nodded, burning with need, hips slowly moving to try and draw him inside. “I cannot,” she exhaled, while the fire cast a shimmering glow to her eyes.

“And when I sing,” he sang, on the note, before moving off it in a lively melody, “your body and mind will listen.” He allowed himself to be snagged, and thrust inside her, before lowering himself to lick and suck at a nipple. Gasping for air, her arms falling back, tangling in the rug and pulling as he thrust inside her again, as he kept singing in and around that perfect, irresistible note. “Pleasure,” he sang into her, thrusting once more, and, “Pleasure, Brenhalaurania, sing for me your joy.” Working on the other breast, kissing tenderly, caressing with his tongue.

Another deep, long moan. Filled to the brim with that pleasure, rising, climbing higher and higher with each caress, each touch and kiss and word and sound and thrust. Her thighs flexing, arms pulling hard, body reacting with vigor all over. His hands dug in the rug, encouraged, needing as she. “This is your moment, Brenhalaurania,” he rasped, “let your lover feel your climax.” Thrusting, again, and again, another word she could barely remember, another song filtered in and out of ears and mind, another spell over body and self, and one more thrust, one more whisper, one more moan sent her flying up, up, up into heavenly pleasure, her whole being squealing at once with delight. He held her, rode the feeling with her and revelled in the feel of her body with his, the pleasure and joy she felt, holding as she hit new heights, and finally started to flutter down.

Her eyes fluttered up, seeing faint pricks of stars, still drifting in and out of the blur. Her lips a simple, stunned smile. “Dal...” she exhaled, beckoning him to hold her longer still, to keep the warmth from the fire even brighter in her for hours more.

Still hard within her, though, he leaned close to Brenna’s ear. “We are not finished yet,” he grinned and gave a nibble. “I want to see you glowing in the firelight.”

“I cannot resist,” she whispered and winked. Smiling warmly, she allowed herself to melt into the humming again, the note in the air and all around, until she was back from the fog. They had moved. No, not moved. Shifted. She was above him, now, her knees on the rug. One hand of his on her breast, kneading and massaging, the other doing the same to her buttocks.

“The fire casts beautiful shadows on you, Brenhalaurania,” he said, shifting inside of her. A full shudder, half a moan escaping her lips as her head rocked up and down, glancing between the glowing flames and the warmth of his eyes.

“You look good in it, too,” Brenna giggled, rocking her hips with his.

“You say that, because I’ve enchanted you,” he grinned, fingers tickling her nipple.

“I thought you were handsome from the beginning!” she cried in retort, then paused, her hand held aloft in the air as her brow furrowed. Another thrust jolted into her awareness. “... unless you were doing it from the start...?”

“I’ll never tell,” Dal whispered with a wink.

She did manage a smirk. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

“And if I was?” he said, rocking her back and forth atop his hardness, giving away a moan. “If every song I played tonight was building to this? To enchant you, steal you away?”

A moan as reply. “I count myself blessed no matter the way it’s come to pass.” The two leaned together, locking lips, long and slow. His fingers tangled in her hair, still moving inside her. Moaning, into her kiss. On her note. Both felt her body go limp, dangling and suspended by his word and song, loose and open to his will, before there was even a capacity to consider otherwise.

Lifting her slightly by the shoulders; as they separated, Dal muttered to her, “Fuck me, Brenhalaurania.”

Her hips responded before her mind, and then again, and again, her lips lighting up with a grin to match that of her eyes. He lay back on the rug and groaned, lacking both pitch and precision. Staring up at her alluring form, moving, dancing on him, lit by the flames, and again and again, fucking back and forth along and against him, leaning to kiss, cress with him, pleasure his lips and cheeks, anything in reach and sight. He grabbed her hips, tight, pushed up inside with a wordless cry. He pulsed, within her, and managed to gasp, “With me, Brenna!” as his cock began to spurt. Her mind reeled from the surprise, body dancing to the song of his words, propelling her to another quaking orgasm, dropping onto his chest, moaning and sighing and moaning again in his arms, as both floated together, warm before the fire, utterly at peace.

And eventually, Dal whispered, in a tone without music or magic. “Do you really want me to enchant you so that you sleep for a year? Or bind you in chains of power? Or make you beg to serve?” He was softening, and punctuating each question with a light kiss.

Brenna chuckled, kissed his cheek. “Not the first. The others are negotiable yet.”

He couldn’t not grin. “Now that you know what I can do, perhaps we can get Marlie to tie that sash properly.”

“Gods,” she laughed, “my parents would kill you first, and then me, if they knew what you’ve been doing... no, what we’ve been doing this night. You’re a bit of a danger, Dal...”

“It’s true. I could...” He paused, having a thought. “I could always steal you.”

“If only you knew how many fine men of your age have offered the same proposition...”

“I am lacking in finery,” he chuckled, rubbing her back. “But none of them sing to you the way I do, I imagine. And none of the others would call you Brenhalaurania.”

“None of the others could even pronounce that word,” she blushed, and giggled in spite of herself. “Not that I can, either.”

Dal smiled. “We ought to return to the festivities, I think, before we’re missed. After which, you might make a daring escape...”

“Not likely.” Brenna winked, and began to pull herself away. “But if, say, a certain daring and fair-skinned musician were to, say, make a short climb to the third window over, second from the top on the eastern wall, well... such a window may be open tonight. Despite the breeze.”

“Such a musician might.” He grinned, and helped her stand before climbing to his feet, himself. “Until then, Brenhalaurania?”

“I’ve got all this,” she gestured down to the discarded pile of clothes, likely worth more right there than most of his possessions, he imagined. “Don’t look too suspicious when you go.”

“I’m a Keld in Damean lands, and a musician besides.” He flashed a smile, dressed quickly, and started for the door. “I always look suspicious.” Open, and closed, the shimmer of magic made it vanish again.

He looked back, and then to the side, smiling fondly at the visages of his well-storied ancestors and their many victories. “Well, Vejnarik,” he said with a chuckle, “looks like I’m the one to conquer, this time.”

“... and that’s that,” Dal said, putting the feathered pen down and dropping back into his seat with a sigh. “Think they’ll like it?” he asked, hopefully.

“I think that they’ll think us a very strange couple,” Brenna laughed, and lacing her fingers together with his, their rings rubbing against each other.

“There’s been stranger,” he grinned, “Kirrus and Banahkal, Brenhalaurania and her lover...”

“Oh, hush,” she laughed, squeezing his hand tight, then, drawing it over to sit with a reassuring warmth atop her belly. “I’m sure I felt them kicking just now. They’ll love it.”

“Even if they don’t, they’ll know the truth of how it began. No lies, no secrets. That’s what matters.” Dal kissed her gently on the cheek. “We’re still lucky your father didn’t throw us out.”

“Always a chance of that, but, I think he’s warming up to you. Luckier still, though, that kendarine makes my face break out so horribly.” Laughter from both of them, as they drew close together. “I love you, Dal,” she said on a yawned sigh.

“And I love you, Brenhalaurania,” he sung her name on the very same note, and kissed her again, as her eyes slid shut, and her mind fell, and slowly, began its wonderful, floating rise.