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Zorba sighs. He can't think of a time he’s been any more bored. He does it again just to watch his breath fog in the frigid mountain air.
He’s come to this wretched city disguised as an aide to Sanctifex Forden, insufferable fool that he is. A charade he’s unfortunately been holding for weeks, much to his own disgust. This stale, boring, tiresome day in Altabury has been spent following this pompous idiot around the city, attending Forden’s campaign events, nodding his head along feigning agreement to his trite and backwards ideas, and putting up with this farce of a pretentious holiday. He knows why his presence is requested here, knows why his face can’t be shown anywhere else, but that doesn't make any of it less of a bitter pill to swallow.
Zorba would never say it to Louis, no, for who was he to question his own Lord’s plans? But this assignment sparks nothing but hate and anger deep within his roiling guts. Hell, he can feel it tugging on the very edges of what's left of his soul. Being here, hiding that he even exists while all these other unworthy creatures and sycophants get to soak in Louis’s radiance. It’s enough to tempt him into massacring everyone within reach. Not that murder ever took much convincing for Zorba, anyway. Maybe then he could animate a corpse or two to entertain himself. He hums, considering it far longer than he should.
Anger and petty jealousy aside, Zorba had done nothing but yearn desperately for his Lord in their time apart, having only seen him through the corners of his hood in passing, heard him only when he was near enough to spy conversations not intended for himself. Yearns for him now, even with the boredom making itself known again, hearing these religious zealots ramble on about nothing.
So, he wastes his time in the back of the opera house worrying the fabric of his gaudy church-issued robes, fantasizing about how next to make his Lord’s toes curl, on what noises he can coax next from his slender, elegant throat. How he would leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on Louis’s milky white skin, how only he was allowed to mar that perfect canvas with the crescent shape of his nails. He envisions the way Louis’s face contorts with pleasure when Zorba stretches him open, the gasps Louis makes when Zorba switches it from two fingers to three. The way Louis pants his name, his lust riddled eyes full of trust he doesn't allow anyone else.
Regrettably, the fantasy is destroyed when a deluge of shattered glass pours suddenly from the ceiling of the opera house, and in the middle of it all is none other than his Lord himself. Zorba barely has time to comprehend the sight before Louis lands in front of him with a crack and a crunch and a squelch that turns Zorba’s insides into knots. His eyes go wide as the room breaks into a cacophony of admittedly gorgeous screams. Bile rises in the back of his throat, his hands twitch with something not unlike fear.
“Was that Louis? Someone go and see to him! Is he truly dead?” Forden’s grating voice bellows above the crowd. It snaps Zorba into action.
“Allow me,” he offers, much calmer than he feels. He makes his way to his master after quickly seizing the opportunity to swap the counterfeit lance for the authentic one that tumbled with his Lord from above. The continued cries and gasps and shocked sounds from the crowd mean nothing to him anymore, they're drowned out by the frantic beating of his own heart roaring in his ears. Distantly he can hear those aggravating paripus brothers shouting about his Lord like they were anything special to him, like they even mattered. Zorba sneers. Not worthy.
He takes a few more steps and hears Gideaux mention the weapon, his sneer fading to a sly grin. It seems the swap went off without a hitch. Louis will surely be proud of him, he thinks. If he still lives, anyway.
As he makes his final approach to Louis he thoughtlessly swallows, mouth dry and fingers trembling as he pushes a piece of his long, tell-tale purple hair out of his eyes and back under his hood, tucks it behind his ear. His eyes catch with his Lord’s, still open, fading, but not yet clouding over with the finality of death. Zorba sighs with relief as he kneels down to inspect him further.
Now that he’s closed the distance, Zorba can see small amounts of blood still trying to gurgle out from Louis’s mouth, leaving a long and sticky trail down the side of his face and neck. Louis’s chest doesn't move, yet Zorba can hear him miraculously draw the shallowest of wet, shaky breaths. Through the hole in his breastplate Zorba sees Louis’s magla furiously trying to knit his ruptured flesh back together. Zorba frowns. There’s so much outside of his body that should be within, but somehow the lance has missed his heart, undeniable proof that Lord Louis is destined for so, so much more. Zorba can work with this. It’s not ideal, but this will do. Louis will live.
“The man is dead, without question,” he announces anyway, never breaking eye contact with his Lord. Forden is worth less than the dirt on his shoe, he has no qualms lying to him. He takes joy in it, in fact. He stands, mouthing a quiet promise to Louis that he will return.
He backs away slowly, eyes trained on Louis like he’s afraid he still might die if he looks away. And well, he is afraid, but a new wave of commotion arises causing him to tear his gaze away. That fucking group of brats he fought at the cathedral in Grand Trad are here, not even twenty feet away. He turns around and dips his head, hoping to remain unseen. It takes everything in him not to lash out in that moment when he learns they were the ones that nearly destroyed his Lord, his love. The ones to blemish his Lord's perfect skin, who gave them the right?
He stands there with his back turned to them, which distressingly also leaves him with his back turned to Louis. His fists are balled and shaking at his sides, and it's only when the pool of blood spreads almost to his feet in the corner of his vision, that he can start to think clearly again.
He turns his leg slowly to toe at the edge of the crimson pool and thinks to himself, What a pity. He thinks, What a waste. He wonders how it would taste on his lips, if it were yet tacky or cold. If his Lord's blood would be more acrid or sweet than the usual drops he’d tasted from the spray in the heat of battle. The flavor of it sharp or smooth, would the metallic tang that usually took over all else do so here? Would it be overwhelming, blinding him to all his other senses, or as underwhelming as the droll voices clamoring all around them?
The scent of it finally wafts to his nose and he thinks, No. His Lord’s very essence would be nothing less than perfect in itself. He feels ashamed that he could doubt his beautiful, beautiful Liege. One corner of his mouth twitches up into an impish grin, salivating at the chance to savor it himself. He lets himself drift back to his rudely interrupted fantasies from before, cock twitching under his robes at the thought of it all stained in brilliant red.
***
The minutes drag into what feels like hours until they’re finally alone. It took almost no time nor effort to convince Forden and his flock to trust the interment of Louis’s corpse to him, the difficult part proved to be waiting for them to leave so he could begin his work. It was all worth the wait, he thinks now as he saunters back to his Lord.
The scene he walks up to is breathtaking.
Lord Louis. Beautiful, gorgeous, ethereal, Louis. Body splayed like an angel in sanguine snow, perfect white clothes, porcelain skin, and blond hair all in stark contrast to the unbelievable amount of blood spread around them. Most of it has long dried, but some still shines with the reflection of the opera house lights like stars in the night sky. A little of it splashes over his boots as he inches closer.
“Z-zorba?” Louis croaks, lungs barely pulling enough air to speak.
Zorba kneels down in the pool next to his Lord and places a finger on his lips. “Shhh,” he tells Louis as he pulls down the hood covering his face with his other hand. He mumbles a litany of promises and apologies as his fingers follow the trail of blood from his mouth to his neck. I’ve got you. We’ll get them. I’ll make them pay, my Lord. I can fix this. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, my liege. I'm sorry I kept you waiting, my love.
Louis seems to not hear most of it, head rolling back and forth in attempt to move, to get up.
“Not yet,” Zorba chides, stilling Louis’s movements by cradling his cheek in one hand. He pulls the hand tracing his Lord’s neck back to eye level and stares at it, wet and tacky. He takes two fingers and presses them into his own mouth flat against his tongue. The moan that tumbles from his lips is filthy. Deranged, even. Emphatic.
It’s everything he hoped it would be and more, somehow. He makes a show of it, sucking down his fingers, fucking his own mouth until he gags. He’s not sure if the tears that prick in the corners of his eyes are from the fingers hitting the back of his throat, or from the pure, unadulterated joy of finally getting a taste.
He pulls his fingers back out with a pop. A wet, obscene noise that widens Louis’s eyes. “Look at you. They tried to break you, but they've only made you prove your godliness.” Zorba sighs and mutters under his breath, “Gorgeous, just gorgeous.”
“Get… get me out...”
“Of course, my Lord.” Zorba pets through the curls of his hair with the reverence of a fanatic at an altar. And who’s to say that’s not exactly what he is? “I do need to put you back together a bit first. You've been like this for much too long already.”
Zorba begins his work, starting with dismantling his liege's armor. A process he’s all too familiar with, as he usually helps Louis dress and undress at every dawn and dusk. It's been weeks since he's had the chance to do so, however. He bites his lip at the thought. He misses the routine and the sigh and the shrug of Louis's shoulders when he’s taken the weight of armor and his day from him. Misses the gradual state of undress and the kisses he would place between his shoulders, his teeth scraping along Louis’s neck once he’s pulled the last layers of his attire from him.
He looks down to Louis and the hole in his chest and thinks this is almost as divine.
He peels each layer from his Lord's limp body, each piece removed reveals how much has been viciously marred. Zorba should be furious, but he can't find it in himself to be. Not with how intimate this moment is. Not with knowing he’s the only one trusted enough to see these parts of Louis no one ever should. The last layer of linen gets pulled and dropped to the side with a squelch, landing in the pool around them. Zorba’s eyes widen with something like awe, maybe devotion, maybe ravenous lust. He traces his fingers along the edge of the slowly closing wound, gasping a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.
But no, this isn't right, more inside things are still outside and that needs to be remedied before everything heals over in the wrong places. Zorba shakes his head to clear his thoughts, the gesture wasted as he pushes two fingers inside the wound and has to bite back a moan. He pries the wound back open little by little, but not before languidly sliding his fingers in and then back out a time or two. Heat that has been building low in his belly threatens to boil over, his breath quickening with every movement. He pulls a knife with his free hand and whispers, “Love? I need you to tell me I can do this.”
Louis weakly nods.
“No, out loud, before you pass out on me. Hate to be struck by the king’s magic because he gets the wrong idea.”
Louis groans, spits the blood from his mouth but not the venom from his voice, “This man means me no harm, king.” He gives a weak chuckle at the absurdity of it all, baring teeth stained in red.
Satisfied, Zorba nods and fucks his fingers into the wound again, earning himself a grunt from the man beneath him. He pulls his blade to the sticky new skin and carefully cuts away the bits that have grown over wrong, revealing more of the organs that have shifted out of place. He wonders if Louis would hold it against him if he slid a piece of the pared flesh past his lips to taste that, too.
Louis hisses and whines as Zorba spreads his fingers apart, stretching the hole in his chest open in a familiar way that makes him twitch and smile. Zorba leans down and laps at the gore with his tongue, clearing the area for visibility. It’s what he tells himself anyway as he greedily sucks down the new trickles of blood he’s created with his own hands. Zorba’s eyes roll back into his skull, moaning as a piece of errant flesh finds its way past his teeth. He swallows it and swings a leg over the man, no, the God on the ground, landing on his lap and straddling Louis’s hips between his thighs.
As desperately as Zorba wants to grind his hardening length into his Lord below him, he does his best to settle himself down. He needs to do this right, needs to make sure Louis is stitched back together immaculately like he deserves. He must not do a perfect job of concealing himself though, for when he peers back up at Louis’s face he gives Zorba a knowing smirk.
“You’re so predictable, pet,” Louis manages to get out between hisses and pants. There’s almost a fondness to his words, none of the annoyance Zorba expects. “You can have your fun after we get out of here.”
Those few words are enough to bring Zorba back to earth, his concentration renewed. He bites his lip while he works, brows furrowed and eyes flicking between the mess in front of him and Louis’s perfect face. It only takes a few more moments of gently prying him open for the cavity in his chest to become large enough to slip his hands inside. He takes his time caressing every tender piece inside him, putting each thing back in its proper home. Zorba feels like nothing less than a god in that moment, this precious life trusted in his hands.
“You’re doing so well for me, my Lord,” Zorba whispers after a particularly painful tug that had Louis gasping for air. He continues whispering his affections, tells Louis he’s so beautifully spread and so strong for him as he places the leather holster for his dagger between his love’s plush lips. Something he really should have done sooner, he laments. It’s not long before Louis loses consciousness, eyelashes wet with the amount of fight he put up. Zorba kisses the corners of his Lord’s eyes and licks the tears away, the motion only smearing more blood onto that glorious face.
Half glad that Louis wouldn't feel this part, half regretful that he was almost done, Zorba sets the bones in his chest back in their place, holding all his hard work together in a porcelain white cage. He watches in awe as Louis’s flesh mends itself together again, sped along by the addition of his own magla. He hopes to never have to do this again, to never have to repeat seeing Louis so thoroughly broken. Though a dark place squirreled away inside him would definitely be agreeable to getting another peek.
Zorba sighs, satisfied. This will do. Louis will live. He ardently kisses the brand new flesh, worshiping at the alter of his Lord, his liege, his love.