Captured Ch. 04

Sorry for dragging my feet on this one! Have to admit, this series is more work than the others. Not sure when or if I'll continue, it's getting complicated! At least there's finally some action in this one ;)

Thanks for your feedback and votes.

~I write for pleasure. I post for joy~

******

Crouched by the edge of a cliff, Thoran emptied a coarse wicker bag upon a pile of smoking coals. The items gently smouldered, before a small amber flame flickered to life. With a satisfied smile, Thoran retrieved a long, single blonde hair from his pant pocket. Once added to the pile, the flame quickly flared to a fierce, blue blaze.

Bored, Thoran ran a hand through his tidy black hair, and sat back. The muscles across his broad back rippled as he relaxed, his dark eyes moved to the large expanse of wilderness while he waited. An hour passed and still the flame burned, slowly decreasing to the size of an egg. The remaining blue tremored, spluttered and then all trace of light was gone. Thoran's interest returned as a wave of sparkling blue rose in the air above his head. Then the sprinkling carried off, like a tiny flock of birds.

Thoran abruptly gathered his things to follow its direction. While he travelled, his thoughts centred on Sirah, particularly their upcoming binding that she had yet to accept. But it was not her choice. Pondering her physical beauty, her shy, innocent nature and the occasional streaks of rebellion, Thoran contemplated their future. The captured nymph was something of a new discovery, having already displayed various curious snippets of unknown power. Power untypical of a nymph, or any species he knew.

Another day's journey passed with the sun disappearing rapidly at the horizon, and Thoran chose to sleep under the stars. It was well into the night when he woke. He briskly sat up and stared around, his sharp, black eyes noting every detail in his line of sight, until he saw her.

It was a mortal girl, unwittingly drawn to his presence. Thoran frowned, unaware humans resided nearby. She was young, and clearly at the peak of adolescence. It was the time weaker beings were most susceptible to desire.

Thoran rested his forearms across his knees as she watched him breathlessly. He knew the girl thought herself hidden, and knew her heart pounded with fresh, voyeuristic excitement when he looked her direction.

The idea of seducing the girl only mildly interested him, and Thoran realised the true weight of his preoccupation with Sirah. Though pleased to have found an exceptional mate, he was irked by his weakness. Resentful of the fact that if Sirah somehow escaped him, Thoran could not revert to his prior life. He would find and claim her again, even if it took all eternity. He would always hunger for her.

"Come out, girl," he called, and heard her gasp. The girl timidly stepped out of hiding, and walked right up to him.

No older than fifteen, she seemed shocked by her quick approach to a complete stranger in the night. With long, chestnut curls and dark brown eyes enlarged with stunned desire, the girl's innocence was palpable.

"Why have you left the safety of your home?" Thoran asked, not unkindly. The girl tremulously smiled, still nervously gripping the front of her ivory nightdress.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, her long locks spiralled about her waist as she shook her head with confusion.

Thoran pursed his lips as the girl's eyes boldly roamed his muscular physique, every toned shadow enhanced by the moon. Thoran was glad to be wearing pants, feeling in this rare instance he was the one needing protection.

"Go home," he brusquely ordered, laying back. "If you feel restless again, wake your parents. They will explain the danger of your actions." Thinking the matter settled, Thoran closed his eyes.

They flew open with astonishment when the girl ignored his advice and crawled atop him. Her trembling hands stroked his strong chest and arms, a small keening moan escaped her lips when she pressed her lower body against his groin. Thoran cursed, forgetting how powerfully humans felt their desires.

He wondered if he should sear the girl with pain to make her run from him, screaming. Though he cared little for the welfare of vulnerable beings, the girl's determination to ruin herself was frustrating. But Thoran was angrier with himself that his desire was lacking. Even with the virgin straddling him, he did not want her.

"You are the most handsome man I have ever seen," the girl confessed in an honest whisper. "My father would have me wed a boy I've never met. I would rather give myself to you."

Thoran sensed the vibration of her beating heart, quickly accelerating as he met her eyes, shining with hopeful invitation. Thoran caught the scent of her wet arousal creeping down her thighs. Not sweet as Sirah's unearthly nectar, but still tempting with virginal allure.

"Be grateful to be matched with a boy, and not an old man," he murmured, sitting up to firmly lift her from his lap, somewhat bemused by his gentle manner. He'd not intentionally harm the girl, but he certainly had an abrupt, careless way with innocence.

"Go home," he commanded. "If you will not be harshly punished for leaving your bed, tell your parents. Your actions are dangerous."

In silent disagreement, the girl reluctantly got to her feet and resumed wringing her nightdress. Inadvertently pressing the bunched material against the throbbing ache between her thighs, she wistfully watched the unusually large, irresistible male abruptly gather his belongings and disappear into the night.

With his mind disturbed by a loyalty he never expected to show before binding, Thoran continued his journey without rest. The sparkling essence had settled at his destination, the sugary scent easy to follow, laced with Sirah's unique sweetness. None had attempted to stunt, destroy or otherwise interfere with the trace. His approach was welcomed.

Dawn broke, and Thoran's limbs mildly ached from climbing a steep interface for several hours. Heaving himself to higher ground, he stood tall and stretched, his black eyes alert to the surroundings.

Rolling green fields filled his vision, the hills lush with blades of grass shimmying in unison with the morning breeze. There was a scattering of red and yellow wildflowers, and a wide dirt path neatly cleared of flora led to a tidy cottage upon higher ground. It was an unexpectedly pleasant sight to behold. Thoran started when the voice of a woman disrupted his perusal.

"Greetings, demon."

Thoran made out a trim female figure in a pale-crimson dress, delicately perched upon a rock some metres away. She chuckled when he discerned her presence, and shed the glamour shielding her form.

Thoran stared at the pretty woman's long, purple-white hair that tumbled lustrously to her calves as she stood to greet him. He recognised her expression of impish amusement as the same mischievous glint in Sirah's eyes.

"You know my name," Thoran said finally, uncertain what manner to approach the witch.

"Aye, Thoran." With a playful light in her dark blue eyes, the woman gracefully curtsied, the gesture slightly taunting.

"You are Sirah's mother."

"By the reaches of dark magic, we learn many things," she bowed her head with more mockery than acknowledgement.

Thoran's lip curled, not liking her flippant manner or insinuation about him. "Do you know why I am here?"

"Of course," she answered with a sharpness that belied her frivolous demeanour. "You have my daughter."

"Her father, Devan, has permitted me to bind her."

"Then why do you wait?" she asked sweetly, her striking eyes flared with challenge.

Thoran hesitated. He could deal with demonic evil, with Devan's righteous dignity, and Sirah's petulant rebellion. But not something so ambiguously in-between. Thoran noted the witch's emotional mannerisms were her only resemblance to Sirah; almost all of Sirah's physical form was inherited from Devan.

Deciding to take the conciliatory route, Thoran sighed.

"Your daughter will be well-treated, witch. I will treasure her." He straightened as the woman laughed merrily in a manner that made him feel like a fool.

"Have you any choice but to worship her, Thoran?" she tittered, her tone jeering. "You physically captured her, true. But who is beholden?"

Thoran took a deep breath, disliking the truth of her words. "Why does she not know you?"

"I am a witch." The words were sharp and simple.

"You loved a nymph, and bequeathed him your daughter?"

Pain crossed the woman's face and was quickly buried. "It was a choice of two futures."

"Ah." Thoran nodded his understanding. Witches were evil creatures, with great gifts of foresight. So Sirah's mother sent her daughter the innocent path. "How did you seduce a nymph king?" he queried.

The witch stared, her blue eyes malevolently fierce. "Keep to the purpose of your call. What you mean to ask, Demon, is what your union with Sirah will breed."

"Has she capacity for evil?"

The witch laughed scornfully. "Are you evil, Thoran?" she countered, wryly smiling at his uncertainty. "Since time began, your kind earned the title, 'Demon', and maintained it."

At Thoran's silence, she sighed whimsically. "You are a demon. And yet, Thoran, you are not evil. Your brothers recognise and accept you as their own, despite your differences. Though if you were a weakling, I have doubts about the outcome."

Giggling her amusement, she eyed Thoran's powerful body. "Even your blood-brothers would not shield your demise. But with your unique...advantages, I am certain they would welcome you back with open arms."

Thoran glared at her with no reply. He did not make the journey to debate his own race.

"What do appearances tell us?" Sirah's mother continued. "Demons are beautiful sculptures of men, are you not? With such ugliness inside."

"What does that mean?" Thoran demanded. "Sirah's beauty masks something malevolent?"

"No." The witch shook her head, her beautiful hair following the movement in a gentle sway that somehow resisted the breeze about them. She smiled at Thoran's unease.

"It means that appearances are not what they seem. But this is the first rule of demons, after all," she shrugged, aware her mysterious flippancy was maddening.

"There are no rules for what is unknown." Thoran raked a frustrated hand through his dark hair, aggravated, as predicted, by a fact that gave him no answer.

The witch arrogantly tossed her head. "I do know this - should death befall Sirah, do not resurrect her."

Thoran's broad shoulders quickly tensed at the prospect his chosen might die and not return. Within a short space of time, he could not imagine his life without Sirah. The witch cocked her head at his brooding countenance, registering his silent refusal.

"Do not heed my advice, if you wish. I am only a witch, after all," she remarked with a careless shrug, though her features were grave.

Before Thoran could pursue the topic, the witch straightened with a sudden alertness, her fine brow pinched with concern. When she turned to Thoran, her eyes were genuinely troubled as they moved beyond him to the rising sun.

"Sirah is in trouble," she said distantly, peering out on the landscape as though receiving a message delivered by wind across many miles.

After an unsettling moment, Thoran dismissed his inking of doubt. "She might be discomfited, but I have prepared for-"

"No." The witch appeared suddenly older by the piercing glare she fixed upon him.

It was a look carrying ancient wisdom that roused a fear in Thoran he'd forgotten himself capable. It was an expression that conveyed a grim message he could decipher without her speaking. Nonetheless, she voiced it.

"Hasten home, Thoran. Your mate is in danger."

Without another word, Thoran turned and took a running leap back the way he'd come. The witch's words followed him as he raced home, floating through his mind.

No harm will come of a binding. Love her, protect her, and be her Master. But know the union may yield a heavy price for your kind.

Thoran snarled at a group of stunned rabbits in his path that immediately scattered.

What price? Thoran frowned heavily as the landscape passed him in a blur for the speed he travelled.

Silence followed for many miles before a response came through. The witch's last reply painfully echoed between his ears in an ominous tiding.

War.

********

"Back!" Scarn hissed, and the blonde blood-brothers reluctantly moved behind him.

Sirah stood against stone, her rainbow wings flat against her back as she strained away from the demons cornering her. Pale-jade eyes wide with terror, she barely managed to quell the urge to scream for help. It would only give them satisfaction.

Plyon and Vertar hovered restlessly behind Scarn as he slowly advanced on the petrified nymph. Sirah wanted to close her eyes, but couldn't bring herself to. All three would ravage her, for certain. There would be nothing left but a tattered dress to greet Thoran's return. Thoran seemed enamoured with her, and attentive to her comfort. How could he abandon her to this fate?

"Be easy, little nymph," Scarn spoke serenely, his eyes glowed with predatory desire. "We will not harm you."

"Then let me go!" Sirah whimpered, turning away from Scarn's outstretched hand. His fingertips traced her elegant jaw, sending tendrils of discomforting lust from her neck to her toes.

"Come, now." The purring male voice was suddenly by her ear, and Sirah squealed as Scarn encased her in his muscular arms, lightly crushing her against the disconcerting heat of his bare chest.

A deep, relieved sigh escaped Scarn when he clasped the nymph to his body. Smoothing his hand to flatten her frantically fluttering wings, a sharp, tingling pleasure flowed down his fingertips. The desire that drew him to her intensified with contact, and he learned firsthand how the girl uniquely affected him.

Scarn was visually alluring, but Sirah infinitely preferred Thoran. Bewildered and miserable, she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close her ears to the chuckles of the watching Demons.

"I claim you," Scarn suddenly announced. His clear, deep voice cut loudly through the tunnels as though making declaration to a crowd of spectators.

"I pledge to be your mate. I pledge to be yours, as you will be mine. You will be shielded from harm by my nation of brothers. I will be your master, and you will serve me. You will forever exist beneath my protection and accept my word as the highest law inferior only to that of the council..."

No longer sniggering, both Plyon and Vertar's jaws dropped and they exchanged a startled glance.

Sirah cried out and fiercely struggled. A terrible warmth emitted from Scarn's body, the earthy surrounds shuddered by his words. Sirah trembled, acutely aware of an uncomfortable sensation. It felt like a rusted, invisible chain trailed up her body like a hungry serpent, cruelly scraping her soft flesh. The chain's end slowly fastened about her neck to form an intangible, unbreakable collar.

The blood burned in Sirah's veins, thickening as the bind took hold. By the awful sensation, she imagined her blood blackened like congealed oil boiling deep within the Earth. Weak and overwhelmed, she dimly realised Scarn was speaking to her. As she scrambled to clear her tormented mind, her chin was pinched in a vicelike grip and forced up to face her tormentor.

"Your name, nymph. I command it."

Sirah sighed deeply, her beautiful eyes fluttered open.

"You are not my Master," she feebly uttered.

Immediately she screamed as blinding pain answered her disobedience. It seared every inch of her, and she writhed desperately in Scarn's unyielding hold. Despite Sirah's suffering, her senses warned it was vital to refuse his demand.

"How long can you resist?" Scarn's handsome mouth formed a cruel smile against her parted, gasping lips. "Your name, nymph. Tell me your name. I command you."

"I...No, please! I..." Sirah stiffened as more agony passed through her. Tauntingly, Scarn's lips caressed her ear in a sensual murmur.

"I adore your voice, sweetling. Little do you know, I am being gentle with you. Now, answer me."

Sirah stubbornly shook her head, and Scarn pursed his lips at her spirited nature that was both irksome and captivating.

"Very well..." he drawled, with that familiar evil smile of accepted challenge.

Sirah shrieked and almost slipped free. But Scarn held her steady and enjoyed her torment, aware she endured a pain few creatures could survive. Her resilience was impressive, but nonetheless an obstacle.

"Enough foolishness, nymph. What is your name?"

In addition to the pain pulsing through Sirah's limbs, a pounding headache surfaced as Scarn's voice mercilessly pierced her mind. Every word delivered staggering pain, as though he pressed the tip of a thin blade through her skull.

Answer me.

Accept me as your master.

I will stop the pain.

Answer me.

Tell me your name.

I will stop the pain.

Tell me your name...

"Sirah!" she sobbed miserably, relenting as her body again defeated her mind.

As the disclosure escaped Sirah's lips, her regret was instant. Scarn did not hesitate, and deftly trailed his hand through her long, blonde hair to form a fist. For a moment his lips kissed her cheeks, relishing in the taste of her tears. Then, keeping his grip amongst her fair locks, he forced their foreheads together.

"I bind you to me, Sirah. I bind you now as my..." Scarn trailed off, recognising something was awry. With Sirah still clasped to him, he spun to Plyon and Vertar, who stood watching with their mouths still hanging open.

"What have you done?" Scarn snarled.

Sirah gasped relief as the invisible clasp about her throat dissipated. The mysterious chains entwined about her body dissolved into a bad memory.

Plyon shook his head. "We did not interfere. But Scarn, this is a great wrong-!"

"What have you done!" Scarn shouted, releasing Sirah to step threateningly toward the blood-brothers.

"They have done nothing," Thoran silkily answered from behind Scarn.

The flustered demon turned back with a curse to see Thoran standing with Sirah, who looked dazed but wholeheartedly pleased as she leaned against him for support. Though Thoran spoke lightly, his tone was lethal.

"You could not bind her, when I have this." Thoran dipped a hand into his pocket to display Devan's glowing purple stone. "Willing permit from her father to claim her as my own. She is no mere prisoner to be happed upon by any scum. She is rightfully betrothed to me. I alone am entitled to her."

"What fool would bequeath his daughter to a demon!" Scarn spat, glaring at the precious gem.

"A king who loves his daughter."

Opening his mouth heatedly, Scarn changed his mind. Turning to Plyon and Vertar, his eyes were desperate. "You saw what she can do. She is wasted on one demon. She could be Queen to all our kind!"

"And I suppose you should be King, as mastermind of the scheme?" Thoran bluntly mocked.

Scarn's cheeks darkened to a deep red, aware his motives were increasingly transparent. His typical equanimity was diminished by his growing desire for the nymph.

But Scarn was consumed by a jealous rage that he could barely contain, and he was not one to display emotional conflict. He had never experienced such bitter anger to memory, not for several centuries, at least.

"The council should weigh in!" he savagely argued.

"The rules exist for a reason," Plyon said slowly, unsettled by Scarn's erratic passion. "If there were doubts, they would not have held so many centuries-"

"They might reconsider knowing she is different!"