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Ask Me By My Name

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In the years before Armada, time had passed too fast to mark; one battle slipped into the next, and the next, and always there was Uther at his back, the whine of his sword strumming a thousand million possibilities into the air, into his bones. In those days they had poured forth fury til it ran red at their feet, rivers of blood staining their boots, their swords, and lesser men might have shied away from the violence (or from the parts of themselves they must set aside in order to wreak it) but not they.

And at night, when the Brucolac bent his head to Uther's neck, his wrist, his groin, taking what was freely offered-- some might have turned away rather than share so much, but they were not the sort of men who shrank from hard truths, and in those dark unending nights there was no truth stronger than this; Uther's blood singing on his tongue, in his veins, through his unbeating heart, whispering a promise he was foolish enough to believe.