The curse of exhaustion weighs heavier than any chains Skara could have bound me with. My legs burn like I've run a marathon, though I've done nothing but hang like a sack of potatoes across her saddle for what feels like an eternity.
"What's your name, anyway?" Skara asks, her voice oddly casual as she arranges a bedroll on the grass. The moonlight catches on her armor, sending silver reflections dancing across the clearing.
I'm too tired to lie. "Sam," I mumble, my throat dry as sandpaper from hours of jostling across the biggest horse I've ever seen in my life, a massive beast with hooves the size of dinner plates.
Skara nods. The ropes around my wrists and ankles chafe as I shift uncomfortably on the ground where she's propped me against a tree. My eyes drift to the single bedroll she's meticulously spreading out.
"Just one?" I ask, nodding toward it.
She smirks, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I have to keep you within arm's reach at all times. Can't risk you running off, Saint."
I laugh, a dry, humorless sound that scratches its way out of my parched throat. Mirelle was exactly the same way, I think to myself. Different kidnapper, same possessive behavior.
"Once we get to an inn tomorrow, I'll start trying to cure you of your curse," she says, running her fingers along the edge of her massive sword before setting it carefully beside the bedroll.
"And how exactly do you do that?" I ask, genuinely curious despite my exhaustion.
"By making you obedient," Skara replies with a shrug, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "The curse can manifest when you resist a woman's touch. Learn perfect obedience, and Velthara might just lift her punishment."
"Lovely," I mutter, slumping further against the tree. "So the cure for being controlled is... being controlled more."
"Don't worry," she says, her voice softening unexpectedly. She crosses the distance between us and crouches down, her fingers touching my face with surprising gentleness. "I'm not going to hurt you.”
She brushes a strand of hair from my forehead with an almost reverent care that's somehow more unsettling than violence would be.
She rises and begins removing her armor with practiced efficiency. Plate by plate, she dismantles her silver shell until she stands before me in just a thin undershirt and tight-fitting shorts. My eyes widen involuntarily.
Skara is built like a goddess of war, her body a landscape of defined muscles that flex and ripple with each movement. Her arms look like they could crush melons between them, her abs clearly visible through her thin shirt, a perfect six-pack that puts professional athletes to shame.
If I were a teenager, I'd probably be begging to lick those abs, my hormones overriding all common sense. But as a married man who's utterly exhausted from being kidnapped for what feels like the hundredth time in this godforsaken world, I just feel a dull ache of homesickness for Kayla's soft curves and gentle touch.
"You're staring," Skara observes, a hint of amusement in her voice as she stretches.
"Sorry," I say, trying to muster a wry smile despite my exhaustion. "I'm just taking it all in. If you're going to try to rape me into obedience, I figure I might as well see what I'm working with."
Her expression darkens instantly, the playfulness vanishing like smoke in a hurricane. She frowns, her brow furrowing into deep lines as she stalks closer, each step deliberate and threatening.
"Men exist for two things," she says, her voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. "Pleasuring and giving pleasure. Your job even more so." She crouches before me again, her muscled thighs tensing with the movement. "It's up to you to make sure the Hero is healthy, and it's your job to make sure the Hero is motivated."
I let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. "With my body, right?"
"Of course," she replies without hesitation, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.
My stomach twists with disgust, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. "And here I thought the Saint was supposed to be some kind of holy figure. Sounds more like I'm just a glorified sex toy for the Hero."
Skara tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting insect she's found. "The relationship between Saint and Hero has always been intimate. It's how the Hero draws power." She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my cheek. The curse activates instantly, locking my muscles in place. "But you need to be fixed first. The curse makes you too fragile to fight."
"And you're going to fix me?" I manage to ask through locked jaws.
She withdraws her hand, releasing me from the paralysis. “You need to learn submission."
"I already know how to submit," I say, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. "The curse makes sure of that."
Skara shakes her head, blonde hair catching moonlight. "No. The curse forces your body to obey, but your mind remains rebellious." She taps her temple. "True submission comes from within. Once you accept your place willingly, Velthara might forgive you."
"And if I don't?"
Skara's jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath her skin. "Then I suppose I'll have to give you to the priests."
She stares at me intently, those unsettling blue eyes searching my face for something.
"Tell me what you're really feeling," Skara says suddenly, her voice softer than I'd expect from someone with muscles that could crush my skull.
The curse tugs at me immediately, pulling the truth from deep inside. I try to resist, but it's like fighting an undertow.
"I believe my wife will be the Hero who's summoned," I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them. "Kayla. She'll come for me."
Skara's brow furrows, her head shaking slowly. "That doesn't make sense."
"I'm not from this world," I continue, my voice growing stronger with conviction despite my exhaustion. "And when my wife gets here, she'll kill everyone who even looks at me funny. She's protective."
Skara leans closer, confusion and disbelief battling across her features.
"No," she says firmly, that wild gleam returning to her eyes. "The Saint is always a man born of this world. Always. The prophecies are clear on this."
"The amount of mana that would have to be secretly used to bring you here is..." She pauses, searching for the right word, "inconceivable.”
I stare at her in disbelief. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm from another world. I was pulled here against my will."
Skara's expression shifts from confusion to something almost like pity. She sighs deeply, her muscled shoulders rising and falling. "I forgot the curse can cause memory distortions. You poor thing."
"What? No, that's not…"
"It's alright, Sam," she interrupts gently. "Many cursed men develop all sorts of issues after being cursed. The church has documented this extensively."
I clench my jaw, frustration burning through my exhaustion. "I'm not delusional."
She studies me for a moment, then nods as if making a decision. "You need rest. We have a long journey ahead."
To my surprise, she begins untying the ropes around my wrists, her fingers working the knots with unexpected gentleness. The coarse fibers have left angry red marks on my skin.
"You're untying me?" I ask, suspicion coloring my voice.
"Just for sleep," she says, her tone softer than I've heard it before. "The curse will keep you in line."
Once my hands and ankles are free, she helps me stand on shaky legs. My muscles scream in protest after hours of immobility.
"Come," she says, leading me to the bedroll.
I hesitate, but she tugs me down beside her with surprising gentleness. The bedroll is barely large enough for one person, let alone someone with her muscular frame plus me, but she arranges us with practiced efficiency. I end up with my back against her chest, her arm draped over my waist, not unlike how Mirelle would hold me. Content originally comes from novèlfire.net
The difference is in the touch. Where Mirelle was possessive, Skara's hold feels almost... protective. Her fingers find their way to my hair, stroking it with a tenderness that seems at odds with her terrifying battlefield presence.
"I promise I'm going to save you, Sam," she whispers, her breath warm against my neck. "Once the curse is lifted, you'll remember your true purpose."
The gentleness breaks something in me. After weeks of running, fighting, and being used, I'm just so tired. Tears burn behind my eyes as all my pent-up rage and despair bubbles to the surface.
"I hate this world," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I hate you. I hate being treated like property. I hate being raped. I hate goblins. I hate all of it."
Instead of anger, her response is to begin massaging my scalp with strong, careful fingers. The sensation is so unexpectedly soothing that I’m thankful I can’t just lean into her touch.
Her fingers continue their gentle work, massaging away tension I didn't even realize I was carrying. The pressure against my scalp sends waves of unwanted relaxation through my body. I fight against it at first, determined to hold onto my anger, but gradually surrender to the simple comfort of human touch that isn't immediately followed by violation.
As minutes pass, I feel Skara's movements becoming slower, less purposeful. Her breathing deepens against my neck, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest growing more pronounced. She's falling asleep, her fingers still tangled in my hair, but no longer moving.
I lie awake, staring at the moonlight filtering through the leaves above us, acutely aware that something's missing. No command to sleep.
It hits me with unexpected force, this small absence feels strangely disorienting. I've grown accustomed to Mirelle's nightly ritual, her voice ordering me into immediate slumber. Without it, I'm left with my own racing thoughts and the unfamiliar weight of Skara's muscled arm draped across me.
I find myself longing for the one small mercy this hex provides, instant sleep.
Skara's breathing has slowed completely now, her body heavy with unconsciousness beside me. I swallow hard, hating myself for what I'm about to do.
"Skara?" I whisper into the darkness.
"Mmm?" she responds, the sound barely more than a vibration against my back.
"Can you order me to sleep?" The words taste like defeat on my tongue.
"What?" she mumbles, voice thick with approaching dreams, clearly not understanding my request.
"The curse," I explain softly. "If you command me to sleep, I'll fall asleep instantly. It's... It's the only good thing about it."
"Hmm?" she murmurs, her fingers twitching slightly against my scalp. "Oh... sleep... yes."
She shifts behind me, her muscled arm tightening around my waist as she presses her lips against my ear. "Go to sleep now," she mumbles, the words slurred with exhaustion.
The curse washes over me immediately, sweet darkness flooding through my mind like ink in water. My consciousness dissolves, thoughts unraveling into nothingness as I plummet into a pure and peaceful emptiness.