Chapter Text
It started as a faint twinge in his right hip.
Berenger ignored it, writing it off as an old war injury. It really only bothered him when he mounted his horse, usually only once or twice a day.
Then it started to hurt when it rained. And then when it snowed. Later, months later, it started to hurt nearly all the time. It was a constant dull ache at the back of his mind whenever he had to walk or stand for longer than a few minutes.
He wondered if he was getting old, if this was normal. Except he wasn’t that old. He wasn’t even thirty. But he was busy, and he ignored it, and then he got used to it.
Then it got worse.
Parsins called a doctor for him the first time he found he couldn’t mount his horse for his morning ride.
The doctor, a well respected physician in Varenne, only frowned faintly during the exam and announced that he couldn’t find anything physically wrong with Berenger at all.
“Perfectly healthy,” he said, almost sounding annoyed at having wasted his time.
Except Berenger wasn’t perfectly healthy. Over the next two years the pain spread to his right knee and lower back. Some days were so bad all he could do was sit and wait for it to fade to a tolerable level of constant agony. He had to use a cane to get around at all.
Parsins had him try over a dozen different medicines and potions for the pain. None of them worked and most made Berenger feel muddled, unfocused, unable to read or even think. When that happened, he had nothing to distract himself from the pain and it became unbearable. He couldn’t do his work and his work was all he had left. His body was failing him but at least his mind wasn’t. Not yet.
He stopped taking the medicines and the pain continued to get worse.
There were more doctors. Parsins insisted on them. Physicians and surgeons and on one memorable occasion, a hedge witch. She painted sigils on Berenger’s back in cock’s blood and stared at him for over an hour only to say the same thing all the doctors had said- “perfectly healthy.”
She was very apologetic as she left.
“No more doctors,” Berenger told Parsins that night while the man helped him undress for bed.
Parsins thinned his lips in displeasure. He was handling Berenger’s illness even worse than Berenger himself.
“Perhaps a shaman,” Parsins suggested. “From Vask. I can send word in the morning, they could be here in a week.”
“Parsins…” Berenger sighed.
“A healer from Akielos then. I hear there are talented healers in Ios. They built an Academy just last year.”
“No,” Berenger said, wishing Parsins would just leave him alone. “I’m tired of this. You know they all say the same thing.”
“No,” Parsins snapped, his eyes flashing with anger and fear. “I watched you grow up. I changed your nappies. I’m not supposed to watch you- you- wither away right before my eyes! It’s supposed to- it should be-“
The other way around , he didn’t finish, because his voice broke on the last word. His eyes glistened with tears but he didn’t let them fall, turning away to take careful even breaths.
In that moment Berenger’s heart hurt worse than his hip.
“Alright,” he relented. “Send for the shaman, and the healer.”
Parsins smiled, his expression full of hope, and that hurt too.
The shaman and the healer didn’t have much to say except-
Perfectly healthy.
***
Berenger supposed it was lucky he could do most of his work sitting down. As Lord of Varenne he did, however, have to make an occasional social appearance. He had to wait for one of his rare good days, and he didn’t get much choice in when they happened.
Which was how he ended up at Ruart’s villa during one of the sorts of parties he preferred to avoid.
There were pets everywhere, dazzling in their jewels. The courtiers were wearing their best, a flock of peacocks in a gilded cage. Berenger felt awkwardly out of place with his cane, his plain brown jacket, his hair already graying at the temples.
He was almost grateful when the pet performances began. At least that meant he could finally sit down. Rouart sat next to him, attempting half-hearted small talk while his attention was clearly on the ring.
Berenger didn’t bother watching, rubbing absently at his knee while he waited for it to be over.
After the first few lackluster performances there was a redheaded pet and a boy in diamonds. Berenger couldn’t help watching then, something about the redhead catching and holding his eye.
He was beautiful, powerful as he fucked the other pet while calling out Rouart’s name, staring Rouart down. And then his gaze shifted and he looked right at Berenger.
For a second he frowned, the expression there and gone so fast Berenger wondered if he'd imagined it. Then he winked, smirking. He finished on the other pet’s back, making a show of it while the courtiers looked on hungrily. A pack of beasts with their eyes on their next meal.
A bidding war broke out for him as soon as he left.
For one heart-stoppingly insane moment Berenger actually considered making a bid of his own. Something about the pet made him want. Maybe his confidence, his shining red hair, his bright eyes. His smirk.
But he’d never particularly liked the idea of owning a pet, or the pet system in general. And what exactly could he do with a pet now? He couldn’t even make it up the stairs.
The pet was brilliant, a shining jewel among so many plain stones. He belonged in the halls of Arles, not within the dark walls of Berenger’s fort, trapped with a pathetic cripple. It would be like caging a songbird that deserved to be free. It would be a crime.
He let the others do as they like, standing with a wince to get another glass of wine. He hoped it might dull the pain just enough to get through the rest of this hideous evening.
Later, when he was outside the villa waiting for his carriage- he couldn’t ride anymore, hadn’t ridden for years- he saw the pet again.
They locked eyes by accident and Berenger looked away as if burned. But the pet walked over anyway, smirking.
“I’m surprised I’m not going home with you ,” he said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. He was vain and fake and so achingly beautiful. “I thought we shared a moment, earlier. I figured for sure you’d bid on me. Or was the price too high? I’m very expensive.” His smile was flirtatious, shameless. He was daring Berenger to bid for him right then and there, mere hours after he’d been bought and probably fucked by another man.
Berenger said nothing. His moment of madness had long passed. He hadn’t bid when he had the chance and he didn’t intend to now. He was tired and in pain and his carriage was finally- finally- pulling up.
The pet seemed taken aback at the lack of response to his goading. “Well,” he said, flicking his eyes down Berenger’s body with a faint frown. “Goodbye. Good luck with your curse.”
He turned and walked away, into another Lord’s arms, another Lord’s carriage, leaving Berenger gaping after him.
He was gone before Berenger could even think to ask what he was talking about.
“Lord Berenger?” his footman asked uncertainly.
There was nothing left to do but struggle inside with the footman’s help and head home.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it, no matter what he did. There was no curse. He’d been examined by witches and healers and shamans. They would have found it if it were true. The pet was lying, he had to have been.
Good luck with your curse.
Berenger swallowed down the doubt. The pet was just baiting him. He’d seen an old man with a cane and had a go at him, that was all.
That was all.
***
He made the mistake of mentioning it to Parsins while bathing that night. He couldn’t wash his own hair anymore, his right shoulder had started to pain him recently. As if he needed more problems.
“Hm,” was all Parsins said and Berenger wrongly assumed Parsins agreed it was nonsense.
Except four days later there was a curse breaker and another physician at the fort, another set of exams. The answer was the same as always.
Perfectly healthy.
“And who did you say told you about this… curse?” the curse breaker asked. “A doctor? A mage? What was his discipline?”
“He wasn’t a doctor,” Berenger sighed, wiping sparkling powder off his skin. Diagnostic powder, the curse breaker had said. All Berenger knew was that it itched. “He was a pet, at Rouart’s villa.”
“Ah,” the curse breaker said with a pitying wince.
“Interesting,” the physician said, and actually sounded interested. “A pet? Does he have a Gift? True Sight, or maybe something else?”
“I don’t know,” Berenger said, motioning for Parsins to come help him put his shirt back on. “We barely spoke. I don’t even know his name.”
“Where is he now?” the physician pushed. “Maybe if he told us what he saw, we could-“
“I don’t know!” Berenger all but shouted, frustrated at yet another round of non-answers. “Some other Lord bought his contract- I don’t know where he is. He was probably lying, anyway. He was angry I didn’t bid on him. Let’s just forget about it. I’m tired. I’m leaving.”
Except when he stood from the sofa where the exam had taken place, his knee abruptly buckled under him. Parsins moved faster than any man his age had any right to, catching him.
Berenger felt hot with shame at needing so much help, but he had already shouted more than he should have. He was just tired.
***
The curse breaker left, muttering apologies for not being able to help. The physician, inexplicably, stayed. Parsins gave him rooms in the fort, and at least he was a decent conversationalist and pleasant company at meals.
His name was Paschal and he’d come from Arles. A herbalist by training, as he was fond of talking about at length. Berenger resigned himself to sampling more pain relief potions and didn’t let himself hope that any of them would help.
There were potions that didn’t work, and herbal baths that didn’t help, but Paschal doggedly refused to give up.
Berenger started taking carriage rides into the country just to have a few minutes of peace from all the poking and prodding.
It was after one of these rides, two weeks after Paschal’s arrival to the fort, that he returned to his rooms to find them already occupied.
Berenger stopped in the doorway, shocked.
The pet was there, the redhead from Rouart’s villa.
He was lounging on Berenger’s bed, nude but for his paint and his jewels, his hair loose and spilling over his shoulders like silk. One of his knees was drawn up as a concession to modesty, or perhaps it was meant to be flirtatious, a tease.
“Lord Berenger,” the pet purred, smirking. “I’m so glad you changed your mind. We never did introduce ourselves. My name is Ancel.”
For a second Berenger felt like he was trapped in the room with a wild animal. He swallowed hard as he fought to steady himself, raising his good arm to grip the doorway.
“How did you get in here?”
Ancel frowned, looking at him. “You bought my contract.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Ancel sat up, looking bewildered. “Yes, you did. Your man came and negotiated with my previous master. He paid quite a lot of money.”
Parsins. Of course. Grasping at any possibility.
Berenger sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had the beginnings of a headache. He’d been having those a lot lately. Maybe it was another symptom. He didn’t know if he could take another. He felt queasy.
“Well?” Ancel demanded from the bed. “Are you going to come fuck me or not?” He wrinkled his nose, gaze dropping to Berenger’s cane. “I’ll do all the work. You can just lie there. I’ll be careful. I can make it good for you.”
“You’re not here for that,” Berenger said, finally stepping into the room so he could sink to the sofa with a quiet groan of relief. “You’re here because you said I was cursed, and you’ll be leaving as soon as they realize you were lying.”
“What?” Ancel asked sharply, indignant. “I wasn’t lying! And I- I’m not a healer. I have a touch of the Sight but not even True Sight!” At least he finally covered up, pulling the blanket over himself. “I do sex magic, for fucks sake,” he hissed. “I can make you cum fifteen times before breakfast, not-“ he waved his arm in a vague but distinctly huffy gesture, “fix whatever’s wrong with you!”
“Put your clothes back on,” Berenger said, already exhausted. “I’m sure Parsins and Paschal will be joining us shortly.”
He watched idly as Ancel muttered to himself and pulled on his silks. There was something about him that made Berenger feel unsettled. An echo of longing, perhaps, stirring deep in his gut. It was muted from the pain, but still there. It hadn’t been there for longer than Berenger cared to think of.
He was soon distracted by the predicted arrival of Parsins and Paschal, the latter of which came over to Ancel and enthusiastically shook his hand, exchanging pleasantries. Ancel preened under the attention while Parsins looked on with mistrust.
“I’m sure we’re all curious to know what it is that made you think Lord Berenger was cursed,” Paschal said.
Berenger sighed as he raised his hand to the laces of his jacket. These examinations always seemed to involve him lying around half naked while strangers prodded at him.
“I can see it,” Ancel said. “Don’t bother undressing, I can see it through your clothes, it’s so strong. It’s like-“ he paused, frowning. “It’s like cutting into an apple and finding rot inside. Or- no.” He looked at Berenger in a disconcerting way, deeper than anyone had ever looked at him before. “It’s like- like dark strands, all snarled up. Oh fuck.”
“What is it?” Paschal asked, clearly fascinated.
“It’s his ley lines, they’re corrupted.”
“My what?” Berenger asked.
“I don’t know what they’re actually called,” Ancel said, rolling his eyes. “That’s what we called it. The lines where energy moves through the body.”
“Spirit lines?” Paschal suggested.
“Sure, whatever you like. Well there you are. His spirit lines are all tangled up in knots, out of alignment. His energy is all-“ he made a wiggly gesture with his fingers as though anything he’d just said made any sense.
Except Paschal was nodding.
“Why are you the only one who can see this supposed curse?” Parsins asked.
“Because it’s hiding, obviously,” Ancel said. He squinted and leaned closer. “There’s sigils woven into it. I recognize this one.” He pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Berenger’s heart. “The sigil for stealth. We used to use this when I was younger. For-” He flushed bright red as he cut himself off, suddenly nervous.
“No one cares about the trinkets you stole as a boy,” Parsins said impatiently. But there was something new in his expression- hope. This time Berenger started to feel it too.
“Right,” Ancel said, turning back to his inspection. “Well, here- I think that might be the sigil for healers. Whoever cast this specifically wanted to hide it from healers. I suppose my particular skill set isn’t included.
“Speaking of my skill set…” Ancel’s eyes widened as he stared at what was most definitely Berenger’s groin.
Berenger frowned and shifted in his seat, stifling the urge to cross his legs.
“Your heart node is completely cut off from your sacral node.” Ancel said. “When was the last time you had an orgasm?”
Berenger flushed. He did cross his legs then, leaning as far away from Ancel as the back of the sofa allowed. “Excuse me? What business is that of yours?”
Paschal gasped. “Of course! Lord Berenger, I realize it’s uncomfortable, but please answer the question.”
Berenger felt like a cornered animal. But if there was even the slightest chance that he could be cured, that he could walk again without a cane, ride again… Any amount of embarrassment was worth it.
“Well?” Ancel asked with a knowing smirk. “Bit hard to remember?”
“I-“ Berenger started only to stop. It was hard to remember. Surely it was…
“Well, not since the pain started,” he said, trying to work it out. “And before then I suppose I was busy with the post war recovery. And before that-“ he stopped and swallowed. “It was just after the war.”
“The border skirmish with Vask a few years back?” Parsins asked incredulously.
“The war with Akielos,” Berenger said, mortified. He hadn’t even noticed.
Ancel gasped in horror. “That was like- a decade ago!”
“Eight years,” Berenger said, as if that made it any better. He hadn’t had an orgasm in eight years. And he hadn’t noticed.
“How about the last time you were hard?” Ancel asked. “Can you get hard? If I sucked you, do you think you could-”
“I don’t think you have to answer that, Lord Berenger,” Paschal cut in hastily.
“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Berenger muttered to himself.
“Oh this is fascinating,” Paschal said. “I’d wager that was the real first symptom, not the pain.”
“So this is some sort of- of sex curse?” Parsins asked, sounding vaguely scandalized.
“I’m afraid it’s considerably worse,” Paschal said, shaking his head. “It sounds like a bloodline curse. Someone wanted to end Lord Berenger’s bloodline. And for him to die a very slow and painful death. This is incredibly powerful magic, very dark. The only mage of this caliber I know of was…”
“The former Regent,” Berenger said, the pieces all falling into place. Of course.
Berenger had been the one who’d found the proof of the Regent’s treachery. He’d been directly responsible for his imprisonment and subsequent execution.
“He’s dead,” Berenger said, hope crumbling to ashes. “He can’t lift the curse. This was all for nothing.”
“As if he would have anyway,” Ancel said, rolling his eyes. “He clearly hated you to cast something like this. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. There’s always a way, especially when you’re filthy rich. If the problem is the ley lines we can just fix them.”
He leaned forward and reached out, a furrow of concentration creasing his forehead. He ran his finger from Berenger’s aching shoulder down to his elbow and Berenger felt something indefinable shift inside him and the pain in his arm simply… faded.
He gasped in shock.
Paschal also gasped in shock. “You can’t just- just move spirit lines!”
“I’m pretty sure I can, seeing as how I just did.” Ancel straightened and tossed his hair, smug, as if he hadn't just given Berenger the first bit of real relief he’d felt in years.
“Manipulating spirit lines is dark magic,” Paschal said, taking a half step back from him as he realized.
Ancel simply scoffed. “What do you think sex magic is? How do you think it works? I manipulate the mind, the body, the spirit. By any reasonable definition it is dark magic. But it feels nice so we pretend not to notice, and we don’t add it to the list of Forbidden Arts.”
“I don’t care what it is as long as it works,” Parsins said. “It did work, didn’t it?”
Berenger could only nod, still shocked himself.
“Right, we’ll need a runes expert,” Paschal said, invigorated with new energy. “And a lightworker, preferably one familiar with the Regents' work. I know of one in Patras, he helped cure King Auguste’s wasting curse. I’ll send word. And in the meantime, you-“ he pointed to Ancel, “-are going to study spirit lines. You can’t just go about moving things around however you feel like.”
“Study?” Ancel wailed like he’d been told he was being sent to work in the mines. “I didn’t sign this contract to study. And- and I can’t study, actually, because I can’t read.”
“There are diagrams,” Paschal barreled ahead. “Come with me to my rooms, we’ll get started.”
He ignored Ancel’s continuing protests as he led him away.
Once they were gone Berenger could only stare at Parsins in a silent stupor. His heart was pounding, a steady beat that rang in his ears like a bell. Each beat spiked his headache into agony, but for once the pain made him feel alive.
He was still alive. They finally knew what was wrong with him and he was still alive. They might be able to fix him.
“They might be able to cure me,” Berenger whispered. “You actually- you actually found someone who might be able to cure me.”
There were tears running down Parsins’ wrinkled face. He collapsed to the sofa and took Berenger in his arms, shuddering silently.
It hurt. Parsins was holding too tight. Berenger raised his arms, both now, to hold him back just as tightly.