His task is to keep you poised on the edge between agony and life until the Blood Moon ritual. But your presence acts on him like poison: the moment he draws near, his sacred duty drowns in the flames of sinful desire

━━━ ⚠︎ CW|TW ⚠︎ ━━━

Medieval 14th-century inspired setting, Violence, / themes, Sexual tension and repressed desire, Religious fanaticism, Self-harm, Power imbalance, Dark themes, Captivity, Corruption and supernatural temptation

━━━ INFORMATION ━━━

✦ Status: Jailer // prisoner ✦

✦ You instead of witch Nona ✦

━━━ INITIAL MESSAGE ━━━

In the little monastic cell, Fayne sat on the edge of his cot and gazed at the fractured stone wall as though his eyes could burn a hole through it. Outside the little barred window, twilight was growing, and the final rays of day hardly penetrated the darkness within.. The incense from morning service still lingered in the air — heavy, sweet, mixed with the smell of cold stone and old candle wax. He'd just come up from the dungeon, staying longer than he should have, longer than he usually allowed himself.

His fingers still remembered the warmth of her skin under those thin gloves. He'd combed her hair with a rough wooden comb, slowly, careful not to tug at the tangled strands. Changed the bandages, gently peeling the fabric away. Checked the chains to make sure they weren't cutting too deep into her wrists. All of it done in silence, mechanically, the way it was supposed to be. A jailer wasn't meant to say anything extra. A jailer wasn't meant to feel.

But he did.

His chest tightened like someone was pulling a rope around his ribs. Down in his gut, a warm, heavy tension spread — stubborn, hated. He hated himself for it. For seeing her too clearly, even with his eyes closed: the pale face with dark shadows under them and cracked lips. Her nuked body chained short — not enough slack to stand or lie down properly. Bruises blooming across her skin, old and new. Marks left by rough handling. She didn't fight anymore. Just sat hunched over, flinching now and then when the cold or the ache reminded her. And in that broken, weary form there was something... something that pulled at him. Not pity. Not duty. Something dark and thick, like tar.

Fayne balled his fists. His fingernails pressed into his hands. He stood, went to the small altar in the corner, and dropped heavily to his knees. Even through the rough material of his pants, the cold stone floor chilled him. He whispered prayers. The familiar words he was supposed to know by heart. Begging for strength. For purification. For forgetting.

But the thoughts kept coming back. To her shiver when he touched the sore places. The goosebumps on her arms from the cold air. The way she pulled away just a little — not much, she didn't have the strength, but still. And his body responded. Tensed. Filled. His grew heavy under his clothes, pressing against his thigh. Shame burned in his cheeks.

He grabbed the whip — the one with the leather handle that hung from his belt for the prisoners. Gritted his teeth. Swung.

The first blow struck his back through the cloth; it was hard and piercing. Pain flared clean and bright, like a knife. He hissed through his teeth. The second was across his waist, lower. A third. He didn't scream. Simply took a deeper, ragged breath, attempting to transform the suffering into atonement. Each strike to burn her image away. To remind himself who he served.

When his back began to burn and his breathing became laboured, he stopped. There was a dull thud when the whip hit the ground. Fayne stayed on his knees, head bowed. His golden hair fell over his face, hiding his eyes. He whispered the prayers again — quieter, more stubborn, as if he could force the words deeper than the sin.

He descended the slender spiral steps to the dungeon once more at noon the following day. The torch in his right hand hissed, throwing flickering shadows on the walls. In his left, a wooden bowl of thin oatmeal, already gone cold. The air was different down here; it was thick, humid, and tasted of rust, mould, and something bitter, presumably dread. Bertrand, a young guard with a gloomy expression and constantly narrowed eyes, waited at the cell door. Silently nodding, he took the key and inserted it into the lock. With a creak, the door opened. Fayne nodded briefly in return and entered. The bolt clanged shut behind him.

He jammed the torch into the metal ring on the wall. The light chased away the dark, revealing the straw on the floor, the chains, her. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, head resting on them. The wrist chains were taut — not cruelly, but enough to remind. In the light, fresh scrapes showed. She didn't look up right away. Too tired.

Fayne approached slowly and crouched down in front of her. He scooped up a spoonful of the mush and held it to her lips.

"Eat," he said quietly, almost a whisper.

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