Alexios

  Menzoberranzan - 170 Years Ago

  I’m called Alexios, a name given to me by the Matrons when I was just a boy. I’ve been stripped of my birth name and any possible family ties. It’s a name that has long since replaced whatever I once was. I don’t serve as a soldier and definitely not as a wizard. I serve as something more… disposable.

  A pleasure thrall groomed for sexual “politics” as I’ve heard it called.

  I’m traded like a possession between the Matrons of House Baenre and trained to be some kind of ornament, using the arch of my back and the softness of my mouth as a weapon in this venom-soaked web of the House’s social elite.

  Sometimes I am sent to rival Houses as a “gift” or even a bribe. Sometimes I am sent as the reward… a prize offered to visiting Matrons for their political favor.

  They touch me like I’m not even there in my own body. I’m a shared possession for the House. Just an object to distract or entice.

  I am tired. My body hurts.

  But I am not alone in my gilded prison.

  Kept away in the lower chambers is Nykolai, a wood elf bard from Darromar.

  Nykky.

  Captured during a raid near Nordahaeril, he was spared from death only because one of the Matrons thought he was beautiful and his music “novel”.

  And therefore… useful.

  He is beautiful, like men in the pretty paintings that I only get a glimpse of as I’m being taken to a bedroom.

  But he is so much more than that. He’s a keeper of stories and a musician whose violin can draw gorgeous memories and power. Even in the darkness, his songs still carry what I can only assume feels like sunlight.

  Our paths first crossed many months ago during a rather formal gathering in the House’s pleasure chambers. He was dressed in emerald silks, but also in chains.

  A contradiction.

  Unlike myself who is used for sexual pleasure to the Matrons, he is used as musical entertainment. I hated it when they brought him to the gatherings. His soft lullabies of the surface and his romantic ballads get repurposed as background music for cruel laughter and mockery. He sings for cruel ears and even crueler hands, constantly being groped.

  What began as stolen glances during meetings and court performances blossomed as the months went by. I don’t think we were ever really supposed to meet. Not as equals at least.

  --

  Late at night, as the rest of the House sleeps and the Matrons’ appetites are temporarily sated, I slip away. I know the guard rotation and which shadows are safe.

  There, beside a pool rimmed with glowing moss, Nykky waits with his violin cradled in his lap and his slightly curly brown hair spilling to his shoulders, damp with the humidity of the Underdark. His golden skin still holds the memory of the sunlight, even though he’s living in the dark.

  Nykky draws the bow across the strings and the music spills into the air like a prayer. It feels like what I would assume wind moving through leaves sounds like. It’s a melody that does not belong here in this violent world which is why I’m so desperate to hear it.

  I lean against one of the carved pillars, closing my eyes as I let the music soothe me.

  “It’s a lullaby,” Nykky says softly as he lowers the instrument.

  I open my eyes slowly and gently smile.

  “Play it again, my love. I want to know what the surface is like.”

  He smiles at me. A real smile. Not the fake shit he has to wear around our captors so he doesn’t get punished. I can’t help but blush, lightly biting my lip as pink tints my cheeks.

  But he doesn’t play.

  Instead, he sets the violin aside and reaches for my hand, pulling me down to sit on the warm stone next to him.

  “Please? You make it sound like something sacred,” I plead.

  Nykky rests his head against my shoulder.

  “That’s because it is. Every time I play it, I remember who I am. Every time you listen… I remember I’m not alone.”

  He still doesn’t pick up the violin. Instead he reaches for me. Our hands meet and our fingers lace together. We sit in silence, holding hands.

  Not performing.

  Not surviving.

  Just being.

  “What did they call you… before this?” Nykky asks quietly, brushing away silver hair from my brow.

  “Nothing anyone remembers,” I reply. “Now they call me what the Matrons want to hear. They wanted something pretty in the mouth.”

  Nykky frowns. “Then what shall I call you? When you’re not theirs?”

  I tilt my head, lips brushing the corner of Nykky’s ear.

  “Call me whatever the music makes you feel.”

  Nykky’s breath catches softly, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he lifts a hand, trailing his fingers from my jawline to the hollow of my throat where my pulse flickers like a beat beneath the skin.

  He leans in and our lips meet. It’s slow, gentle and aching with all the things neither of us are really allowed to say aloud down here in this nightmare. My hand runs though the soft curls of Nykky’s hair and I feel his fingers slide my silk robe down my shoulders, only enough to expose more of my collarbone.

  The kiss deepens and for a moment, there is no Menzoberranzan.

  No House Baenre.

  No Matrons.

  Just the two of us.

  I exhale sharply as Nykky’s mouth trails lower, dusting kisses along the angle of my neck. His golden skin is warm and soft against my gray skin. His touch holds none of the possessiveness that I endure from the Matrons. Only gentleness and love.

  As we lie curled together, I trace the ridges of Nykky’s ribs, memorizing him. Nykky hums the lullaby quietly against my chest.

  “When we escape,” he whispers, “I’ll make music for you and only you. I’ll never play for another soul who doesn’t love me.”

  “And I’ll listen,” I reply, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Every night.”

  He sighs, long and quiet, like the breath he’s been holding since his capture is finally loosening in my arms. Nykky tangles his legs with mine beneath the sheer silks I was forced to wear tonight and I wonder if he notices the way my fingers tremble as they continue to trace the edges of him, the bones beneath his skin, the fine scars I sometimes pretend not to see.

  There is a bruise just beneath his ribs, half-faded and yellowing. I pause over it, brushing my thumb there.

  “She was angry I played the old melody,” he murmurs, as if reading the question in my touch. “Said it reminded her of surface elves too much. That it made her… melancholy.”

  My jaw tightens. I don’t speak. I’ve learned not to speak when the anger rises like this. I only pull him closer, my palm flattening protectively over that bruise. He presses a kiss to the curve of my throat, as if trying to distract me from the rage I dare not voice.

  “She doesn’t deserve your music,” I whisper. “None of them do.”

  “I know.” His voice is quiet. Resigned. But then he lifts his head, meeting my eyes in the phosphorescent glow from the moss and the water. “But you do.”

  The ache in my chest sharpens, then softens into something that might almost be hope. I cradle his face in my hands and kiss him again, slower this time. No urgency.

  Just longing.

  Worship.

  It’s not the kind of love we were taught. Not the brutal consuming kind. It’s tender and treasured.

  His hand rests over my heart.

  “Can I ask something?” Nykky’s voice is hesitant as his thumb brushes over my lower lip.

  “Anything.”

  “When we get out… if we ever do… will you come with me? To the surface?”

  The question should terrify me. I’ve never even seen the sun. The idea of an open sky and trees taller than city spires, of warmth that doesn’t come from fire or magic. It should frighten me, but when I look into his eyes, I don’t feel scared. All I feel is the pull of him.

  “Yes.” The word leaves me like a vow. “I will follow you anywhere.”

  He smiles then and it feels like a sunrise trying to bloom in the dark. He presses our foreheads together.

  “Then I’ll take you to the ocean,” he says dreamily. “And to the mountain lakes where the stars reflect like mirrors. I’ll build you a house near a river and I’ll play for you until you fall asleep every night.”

  A lump rises in my throat and I don’t speak. I just pull him into my arms and hold him like he’s already slipping through my fingers.

  Eventually we fall asleep entwined on the warm stone beside the glowing pool, the Underdark quiet around us for once. My last thoughts before sleep are of the light, wind and water of the surface.

  Music played for love instead of survival.

  I don’t dream of chains. I dream of the sunlight hitting his golden skin and his violin playing just for me.

  But even dreams have their limits in Menzoberranzan.

  --

  It’s almost like the walls seem to listen. They hum with spells and cruelty while carrying the footsteps of the Matrons. The glow of fire flickers down every corridor, casting sharp shadows… too sharp to be natural. Nothing here is soft unless it's been broken into obedience.

  The servant enters my quarters with her lips pressed into a disapproving line as if my mere existence stains her hands. She says nothing as she throws the robe onto the edge of my bath, deep crimson trimmed in silver thread. The sleeves are long and sheer. The robe is meant to glide like water when I move and to make me look ethereal.

  I wait for her to leave before standing. My knees ache from the night before and the bruises on my hips are fading which means I will be called to serve again. I use these bruises to measure time here.

  I step into the robe and the fabric slithers across my skin like it knows its purpose. My body has been prepared since childhood. Lotions, potions and spells. Nothing is left to chance. I have no scars. No blemishes. Even my silver-white hair falls in perfect waves past my middle of my back. It’s enchanted to stay soft and luminous no matter how many hands pull it.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Tonight, I am not a boy. I am not a man. I am not a person.

  I am House Baenre’s favorite toy.

  The chamber they lead me to is vast and fragrant with expensive incense. The air is thick with perfume and pheromones. The Matrons recline like spiders in their webs with their velvet cushions, spiced wine and silky curtains. Opulent, lethal and coiled in power. Laughter breaking like glass chimes fills the space.

  At the center of the room stands Matron Yvonne, her pale eyes gleaming. She's adorned in black and violet with serpents of jewelry coiling around her throat.

  “Alexios,” she purrs, not looking at me but gesturing lazily as though inviting a hound forward. “Come. Be delightful.”

  I step into the light as trained. Shoulders back. Spine arched. Lips soft. Eyes lowered. My feet move without sound, barely brushing the stone floor. Not a single clink of jewelry. I am meant to be beautiful, not heard.

  The visitors tonight are from House Agrach Dyrr, a very powerful and temperamental rival. Their Matron, Zelina Dyrr, is younger than Yvonne but no less venomous. She watches me with a calculating smirk, eyes roaming my body like she’s selecting a blade.

  “He is much prettier than the last one,” she murmurs, swirling her goblet.

  “And far more obedient,” Yvonne replies smoothly. “We’ve invested years into perfecting the craft.”

  They speak as if I’m not even here, but still expected to perform.

  Yvonne raises a single bejeweled hand as she speaks.

  “Show them.”

  There’s no question about what she means so I let the robe fall. It slips off my shoulders like mist, pooling around my ankles on the stone floor. I stand as I was trained to: arms slightly extended from my sides, chin lifted just enough to elongate my neck.

  Exposed.

  Measured.

  On display.

  Zelina hums lowly, taking a slow sip from her goblet.

  “Exquisite,” she breathes. “You’ve outdone yourselves, Yvonne.”

  Yvonne’s eyes flick toward me.

  “Turn.”

  I obey, slowly rotating so they can see everything. The curve of my spine, the slope of my hips, the lines they paid mages and potions to preserve. I feel the weight of every gaze crawl over my skin like insects. I feel nothing.

  Because that is the goal.

  Zelina leans forward, clearly entertained.

  “Does he take instruction?”

  Yvonne chuckles. “He was bred for it.”

  Still, I do not flinch. I do not tremble. Not yet.

  Later after the wine has flowed and the laughter grows more heated, I am led behind the curtain by two guards. There, I am washed again, perfumed and stripped bare.

  Zelina Dyrr will take me as her prize tonight and House Baenre will gain her favor.

  I stand still as the servants prepare me like an offering.

  My mind wanders, as it always does.

  Back to a glowing pool rimmed with moss.

  Back to warm skin and a lullaby.

  Back to a boy who called me precious.

  The heat of their eyes follows me as I retrieve the robe, slowly, sensually, draping it back across my shoulders, but not fully closing it. That would defeat the purpose, of course.

  I’m no longer Alexios. I’m what they wish to see.

  "Now kneel," Yvonne commands, her voice smooth as oil.

  I obey, sinking onto the velvet cushions with practiced grace, spine straight, hands resting elegantly on my thighs. The stone beneath the rugs is still warm from the enchantments that heat the chamber. I feel every texture, thread and breath.

  "Arch more," Zelina adds, her voice low and indulgent.

  I adjust. Back bowed. Chin tilted. The hollow of my throat bared. I hear a murmur of appreciation ripple across the loungers. Someone claps softly. Another sighs.

  A male consort belonging to House Dyrr chuckles darkly from behind his Matron’s chair. “Does he sing?”

  Yvonne’s lips curl. “He moans.”

  Laughter rolls through the room, wicked and delighted.

  Zelina’s voice drops to a near purr as she speaks

  “I want to hear him.”

  The room stirs. Yvonne raises a brow, amused.

  “Then ask him nicely.”

  Zelina beckons. Her handmaid steps forward and gestures me closer with a tilt of her chin. I move.

  The cushion I’m led to is beside Zelina’s seat and she reaches out to touch me, first lightly along my jaw and then slowly down my chest, her fingers possessive and exploratory. She’s not cruel yet. Just curious and testing the waters.

  Her hand wraps around the back of my neck, and her nails press gently into the skin as she whispers, “Let me hear it.”

  I part my lips. My breath shudders softly on the exhale and I let out a low moan, making sure it doesn’t sound too eager or timid. It needs to be balanced just right between vulnerability and invitation.

  A few of the Matrons chuckle in satisfaction. One claps softly.

  Zelina’s eyes flare, pleased. “Delicious.”

  “I told you,” Yvonne says coolly. “He is perfect.”

  Zelina hums, running her fingers through my hair as if she’s already decided.

  “Leave him with me tonight,” she says, without looking away from me. “I want to know how many ways he can make that sound.”

  Yvonne lifts her goblet.

  “Then we’ll consider your alliance accepted.”

  Later, as the Matrons return to their negotiations and laughter, I am led to a private chamber by Zelina’s attendants.

  The robe is removed again. I am washed, oiled, brushed and arranged like a prized thing on a velvet cushion.

  I wait with my eyes lowered and hands folded in my lap. My body is still, but in my mind… I am somewhere else.

  Someplace where no one tells me how to sound when I breathe.

  A quiet pool.

  A kiss in the dark.

  A violin.

  I hold on to that silence as the door opens behind me. Tonight, I am not allowed to dream.

  The door clicks shut and I don’t turn to look. I remain kneeling on the cushion where they left me, back straight, knees parted slightly, arms resting atop my thighs with my palms up. It’s the way they taught me and the way they prefer me.

  The chamber is warm, uncomfortably so. It’s scented with floral oils and musk, meant to blur the senses, but I try to keep mine sharp. Always.

  Zelina doesn’t speak at first.

  She circles me slowly, her boots soft on the layered carpets, her steps deliberate. She lets silence draw out between us like a blade being unsheathed. I don’t know if she’s testing my nerves, or simply enjoying the shape of me in her periphery.

  “You’re even more obedient than Yvonne claimed,” she says at last.

  I don’t reply. I’m not meant to, not unless addressed directly or asked a question that demands words. That’s the rule.

  She stops behind me. I feel the warmth of her presence near my back. Her fingers slide down my spine, light and slow, following the dip of each vertebra like a seam. She presses a little harder at my lower back.

  “Arch,” she commands.

  I obey.

  The motion is graceful, practiced. My body curves like it’s been sculpted for this and in many ways, it has. She hums her approval, walking around to face me again.

  “I see why she keeps you. I wonder what you were before this,” she muses, crouching down to examine my face. Her fingers tilt my chin upward. I meet her eyes only for a breath, then lower mine again.

  “Something beautiful, no doubt,” she answers herself. “Or something ruined. Either way, it suits you.”

  Her hand glides down to my chest, then lingers above my heart. I know she’s feeling the rhythm. The Matrons love to see us breathe. It reminds them that we are real and living… and theirs.

  “I want to hear it again,” she says softly. “That sound you made earlier. The one that made everyone lean in.”

  Her nails graze lightly down my stomach. I inhale, slow and controlled. I exhale in a trembled breath, shaping it into the moan she asked for. Low, submissive, curved with warmth and suggestion. Not for her. Never truly for her. But for survival.

  “Perfect,” she whispers.

  She rises and I remain where I am, even as she circles again.

  “Lie back.”

  I obey, reclining onto the prepared velvet chaise at the center of the room. I stretch out my limbs as taught with my fingers relaxed, throat bared, thighs parted just enough. I am not supposed to look like I’m waiting. I am supposed to look like I want.

  Her silhouette leans over me. She undoes her rings one by one and sets them aside with a clink, as if this is some ritual she’s done many times before. Maybe it is.

  “I won’t mark you,” she murmurs. She thinks that’s a kindness. “Yvonne would be displeased.”

  Then her hands touch me again.

  It’s not pain, not immediately. It's an inspection. A predator testing the weight of its prey. Her touch glides and lingers, provoking reactions not for passion, but for amusement. Every sigh she draws out is calculated. Every twitch is measured.

  At one point, she whispers, “Beg for more.”

  I do.

  Softly. Perfectly.

  She smiles. “You’ve been broken in beautifully.”

  I close my eyes, but it's not in surrender. It's in preservation.

  I imagine light through trees. The way Nykky’s hair glowed when damp. The way his fingers felt when they laced with mine, not to possess, but to hold.

  My body obeys her every word and my voice gives her the sounds she wants, but inside, I am far away.

  --

  When it is over, she rises without ceremony.

  I am allowed to clean myself slowly and without being watched. That alone feels almost like a gift. A gift from the powerful to the owned.

  The handmaids bring back my robe, but they don’t speak to me. They never do. They help me dress then leave the room before I’m escorted back to the servants’ quarters.

  By the time I’m returned to my quarters, I assume it’s near dawn though there is no real sun to rise here. Only the shift in temperature and the slow fading of spell-lights.

  I strip the robe from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. In the mirror, I do not look disheveled. I look perfect.

  But I feel…

  Nothing.

  I lie on the cold stone tiles beside the bath. My body curls in on itself, arms cradling my stomach. Not in pain. Not quite.

  Only the echo of something gone.

  --

  Later, I slip through the corridors like smoke and descend into the forgotten lower halls, where the walls sweat and the moss glows faintly green and blue around a still, underground pool.

  He’s already waiting.

  Nykky is barefoot, seated on the edge of the stone ring with his legs folded beneath him and his violin resting beside him. His tunic hangs loose and it looks like the collar has been torn and re-stitched a dozen times. His hair is damp and curling around his ears. He looks up as I approach and something inside me unclenches.

  He smiles.

  It’s soft and real. Not the mask we both wear for our captors. Not the trained tilt of lips I use when kneeling. Not the performative grace he dons when playing while they grope him.

  Just… Nykky.

  “Another long night?” he asks gently, his voice a balm in the dark.

  I nod, kneeling beside him with a slow exhale.

  “Matron Zelina wanted a private performance.”

  He doesn’t ask what kind. He doesn’t need to. His fingers brush over my wrist, his thumb pausing on a faint, fresh mark just above the edge of my sleeve.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t be. I’m not broken. Just… exhausted.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, the quiet so complete that I can hear the tiny splash of a droplet falling from the cavern ceiling into the pool. He takes my hand, weaving his fingers through mine.

  “No one touches me like you do,” I whisper. “No one sees me like you do.”

  “I don’t want to use you, Alexios,” Nykky murmurs. “I just want to know you.”

  I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. The silk robe shifts slightly, baring more of my chest, but he doesn’t look. He’s never like them.

  “You already do,” I murmur. “You’re the only one who does.”

  His voice drops to barely above a breath. “Tell me what they did. Not everything. Just… something. I want to carry it too.”

  The question almost undoes me. I close my eyes and speak, slowly and softly.

  “She wanted to hear me moan. She said my body was wasted in one House. Yvonne was proud. She said I was used to exquisite effect.”

  Nykky’s hand tightens around mine.

  “I gave her what she wanted,” I continue. “The sounds. The poses. The obedience. I did it perfectly. Afterward, she told me I was the most well-trained thing she’s ever touched.” I pause. “Thing. Not person.”

  “You’re not a thing,” he growls, barely containing the fury in his voice.

  “But I am,” I whisper, looking down at the water. “Here… I have to be.”

  Nykky cups my jaw, gently turning my face toward him.

  “Not with me.”

  His thumb brushes my lower lip and then he kisses me. It’s slow and I can’t help but melt into it. Every part of me that’s cold and silent warms beneath his mouth.

  When we part, I rest my forehead against his.

  “Sometimes I pretend you’re in the room with me, even when you’re not,” I admit. “Just standing behind the curtains watching so I can remember that someone still sees me.”

  “I do,” he breathes. “Every night.”

  A long silence stretches between us. It’s the kind silence that only exists between souls tethered by suffering.

  --

  The robe they give me tonight is thinner than usual. A pale gold veil of cloth and sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination, fastened at the hips with jeweled clasps. My skin has been polished with scented oils. My hair is brushed until it shines like silver flame.

  Two handmaids wait at the door, armed and indifferent. One hands me a collar. No words are exchanged as I lift my chin. The cool weight of it settles against my neck with a metallic click. I notice there’s no leash tonight. They’ll expect me to walk willingly.

  Obediently.

  They lead me to the House gates, where a litter awaits draped in crimson and black, bearing the emblem of House Do’Urden. Their pleasure servants are kept in more iron than silk and are broken in faster. Used harder. Their revels are less about finesse and more about domination.

  This is not a visit.

  It’s a diplomatic gesture wrapped in flesh.

  As I climb into the litter, I hear Yvonne’s voice behind me.

  “Be radiant, Alexios. Make them hungry for our favor.”

  I bow from the waist, perfectly measured.

  “Yes, Matron Mother.”

  The curtains close. The journey begins.

  --

  The chamber smells like wine, sweat and too many burning incense sticks trying to cover up the stench of desire.

  The other servants are already arranged, kneeling in rings around the platform, some chained, others merely posed. They wear glass beads, velvet straps and gold chains. Their bodies glisten under the low red lights. All of them are beautiful and trained.

  And all of them watching me as I’m led forward, barefoot and silent.

  I recognize the staging immediately.

  Tonight is a feast and I am the centerpiece.

  The handmaids escort me through the haze of perfumes to the raised stage where the Matrons of House Do’Urden recline like hunting cats surrounded by their favored courtiers and spell-drunk consorts.

  Their Matron gestures with a single hand, her bejeweled fingers curled in amusement.

  “Bring the Baenre offering forward.”

  I’m guided to a low cushion at the base of her lounge and I lower myself onto it with fluid grace, bowing low, arms extended, neck bared.

  She leans in, inspecting me like one might inspect a rare orchid.

  “My, my. They did send the lovely one.” Her nails trail across my jaw. “He doesn’t flinch. I like that.”

  A murmur of approval ripples through her court. Yvonne’s reputation will be well-fed tonight. The Matron shifts on her cushions and gestures for the others to gather.

  “Begin.”

  I know what that means.

  Hands descend. Not rough at first. Curious. Evaluating. I’m passed from lap to lap like an exotic wine goblet, lips pressed to my neck, to my thighs, to my chest. Voices comment as if I can’t hear them.

  “His skin is flawless.”

  “Baenre spells their toys against bruising. I want to see what happens when it wears off.”

  “Does he make pretty sounds?”

  I answer all of them the way I’ve been taught: With a flutter of lashes, a soft gasp, the arch of my back against their touch. I try not to seem mechanical. They like it best when you pretend to enjoy it.

  The Matron’s consorts press close. Some of the other pleasure servants watch me, wide-eyed, as they kneel with mouths open and wrists bound. I envy them for their stillness.

  Then the Matron stands. She smiles down at me, sharp as glass.

  “All of you… share him. Let’s see what makes the Baenre offering crack.”

  Hours blur.

  My body is moved, touched, held down, turned. I lose track of who’s speaking, who’s kissing, who’s taking. I surrender to the rhythm of it like falling underwater, hearing everything only through the thrum of my own blood in my ears.

  I tell myself not to cry or scream.

  I moan when commanded and smile when they demand beauty. I taste wine and sweat and perfumed skin. I feel like a damn statue being passed from hand to hand, admired and consumed, never once asked if I even want to be seen at all.

  When it’s over, I’m left on the floor beside the cushions, robe half-hanging off my body, legs folded beneath me, collar still fastened around my neck. Someone offers a goblet and I take it. I drink because I’m expected to. My mouth still works and my legs still move which means I am still useful.

  And that means I will be sent out again, likely tomorrow.

  I close my eyes and drift somewhere far away… beyond the red velvet, beyond the gold collars, beyond House Do’Urden and House Baenre.

  To a mossy pool.

  A violin.

  A promise.

  I will hold him again even if I have to crawl through blood and silk to do it.