Debauchery - Fenrir

Fenrir

He had plans for his night, to travel out beyond the boundaries of his kingdom to the towns and villages beyond. To enjoy himself with cheap liquor and even cheaper company. Somewhere that he wouldn’t be recognised, and for a handful of days, forget himself.

Fenrir Thade had waited until the sun had started to set and the full moon had appeared in the sky. Signalling that he was free to leave the castle walls. He rode out on a dark bay horse that he hadn’t given a name to, a long dark cloak wrapped around his body, despite the summer heat.

The tree’s and the endless roses that wrapped through the Whirewood seemed to part before him. In the moonlight that managed to break through the clouds, he could pick out a path. He cantered, thoughts wandering to where he could spend his nights of freedom, away from the pressures of his title and kingdom; his curse.

But he hadn’t been travelling for long enough through the forest, when he heard the sounds of someone stumbling through the forbidden forest. He told his horse to canter on, determined to ignore whoever was trespassing through the Whirewood. Yet the horse had other ideas. It snorted, stopping in the middle of the path.

He groaned, Fate had a funny way of acting. He didn’t want to investigate. He didn't want to face whatever test the world was going to throw in his direction. Yet when the horse refused to move, he let out a sigh.

Sometimes it was better not to fight Fate, something he had learnt in the last fifty years of his life. He slid down from his horse with a grunt, tugging on the reins as the animals snorted. The horse nudged him in the back. Fighting against Fate was like trying to hold back the tide of the ocean. Exhausted and always doomed to failure.

He could see a figure, wading through the roses, fighting against them. Fighting the tide of Fate. He smirked, feeling sorry for the distant shape. They were so far away, that he couldn’t pick out their features, only a slender shape as they struggled through thorns.

Accept the path, he thought to himself. It was useless trying to fight the thorns that surrounded his castle. They were inescapable, surely everyone in the local village of Whire knew that? Come to think of it, none of the locals were brave enough to approach the wall of roses. They knew better than to tempt the monster that lived within.

He titled his head, watching whoever it was, battling forward; determined. Were they brave or just stupid? Was it one of the local lads on a dare? Fenrir frowned, pushing his fingers through the front of his hair, annoyed.

Did they risk their lives so lightly? Perhaps the locals needed a reminder of the horrors that awaited trespassers? A lesson could wait until he returned from his journey. He stepped forward, unafraid of the thorns that moved away from him. Creating a new path wherever he went.

As much as he wanted to turn away from the person as they tried pushing through the tangled briars, it was curiosity that pulled him forward. His horse kept it’s distance, pacing back and forth, unwilling to brave the roses without it’s Master.

Fenrir paused, realising as he drew closer, that it wasn’t a boy trespassing through the forest, but a young woman. He frowned, watching her as the moonlight slanted through the clouds. She stumbled, the bow in her hand lost in the undergrowth. He stood, obscured by the thick trunk of the nearest oak tree as he watched her land.

He winced on her behalf, the rose bushes hurt and she’d landed among them. He heard her sniff, and felt his heart lurch. Something he pushed aside. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for women that got lost in the woods. He wanted to bury himself in a woman, to enjoy his nights of freedom. Not this woman.

But he couldn’t help but admire her. The way she gathered herself together and turned, facing down her obstacle. She was a beauty. Even in silver light, he could see the rich dark tones of her hair. Her face was flawless, with a pointed, determined chin that seemed to match her character.

Tears glistened on her cheeks before she wiped them away. His gaze dropped over the long, elegant lines of her jaw and neck. The sweeping curves of her breasts, caught in the corsetry of her dress. The fabric was torn, caught in the thorns she’d been fighting through. The skin of her forearms exposed, ripped and bloodied.

There was something in her expression that compelled him to move. Not just the strength in her features, but the vulnerability that she tried to hide beneath it. A desire to see the gracious curve of her lips pulled into a smile. Perhaps to taste her lips, because imagining them against his own, was enough to make his blood run hot.

‘Would you like some help?’ He realised his mistake as she was startled. She looked up and he was lost. Her eyes were the pale blue of a glacier beneath a winter’s sky. Icy, crystalline and shining in the night. She had eyes like the moon and all the beauty of her countenance faded in their singularity.

She didn’t answer and he took a breath, repeating his offer. She was stubborn, he knew that from watching her fighting to make her own path for so long through the roses. He felt a flicker of uncertainty, a fear that he did not recognise. What if she said no? What could he do then?

Fenrir Thade had never forced his company on a woman, and this wasn’t the right time to start. His gaze flickered over her form again, taking in the belt around her waist. A sword belt? He looked up, meeting her eyes again. He didn’t recognise the woman from the village, sure he would have remembered those eyes. Certain that they would haunt him forever.

‘Yes,’ it was a whisper and his heart squeezed again. ‘Please help me.’

He swallowed his sudden nerves. You’re a Prince, he told himself, get a hold of yourself. He’d had more lovers than he could count, he was confident and this woman was no threat to him. Sword of no. He bent down beside her, pushing away the briars that dared to defy him.

‘Just hold still,’ he encouraged and looked down at the way the rose stems had twisted around her legs. Like a sticking weed she was completely ensnared. He glared at the roses, they’d gone too far. They’d been so determined to catch the girl and hold her, that they were acting unnaturally.

He planted his own hands on his knees before looking up at her, ‘I have to touch you,’ he warned, lifting a brow. Most young maidens might have turned pale at the suggestion. The touch of a man on their legs, unwelcome. Unladylike and improper. Certainly it was something forbidden by a woman who was part of the nobility. He looked up, watching her face as she took a breath and nodded.

Not a noblewoman then. Not someone who would be honour bound to refuse his offer of help, even if it meant her own pain. He reached out, pulling away each strand of the roses as though picking away strands of straw from her dress.

He flicked a glance at the woman, watching how she reacted. She frowned, but didn’t gasp. He wasn’t the first man to lay a hand upon her. Yet from where she held her hands out, he saw no sign of a wedding band. A harlot? He frowned at the idea of her selling her body and one of the thorns slipped, digging into his thumb.

Concentrate, he scolded himself and forced on the task at hand. He had known enough whores, bedded enough and for some reason, she didn't seem the type. She was young and lucious…concentrate he sucked in a breath as another thorn bit the back of his wrist. He pushed the roses away and they fell back, like grass in a meadow.

‘You’re not from around here?’ He tried to distract her with questions as he worked, pulling the thorns free with more ease than he had any right to. The roses bending to his will.