Imperius

Authors note: This is my first erotic piece of fiction, and I hope you enjoy. A forewarning, this story will have a scope beyond the sexual encounters within, involving political intrigue and world building.

~ * ~

His vision began to cloud as the blood seeped from his body, and the cries of the wounded and dying filled his ears. He could feel his own heartbeat slow, and the sensation was awe and horror in equal measure. It was like standing before an infinite void, an unknown and intangible abyss ready to consume him.

So this, he thought calmly, is how he would die. Betrayed, broken, all his grand ambitions lost in the debris of battle, and an inevitable emptiness swallowing his consciousness by degrees, it's progress slow and deceptively painless.

And then, from above, he heard a voice, lyrical and warm. He lifted his gaze against the light, and met eyes the color of a summer sky.

They were set in a heart shaped face, wreathed by a sunlit cloud of Botticelli curls. For what felt like an eternity he stared into that face, the cold emptiness in his hardened heart melting away, to allow for the possibility of heaven, and angels, and of divine comfort.

But as the pain in his gut sharpened to a razor edge, he realized she was not looking at his face, but at his wounds. That she was opening his shirt, and exposing his vulnerability to the unfeeling air. He tried to make a sound, to lift his shoulders, but she held him in place with her feather touch, and his own pain rendered him helpless, pliable to her will, and he could only beseech her with his stare.

"Lilah, he's not one of ours," Came a voice from further away, like an echo in a tunnel, "If you waste our supplies on him-,"

"I can help him," said the angel, touching his face to keep him awake. Her voice was firm, and he noticed a little pucker form in her brow, a testament to her focus. In the delirious whir of his mind, he realized that he would find the effect immediately adorable at any other time, when not in so desperate a condition and not so likely to take her efforts very, very seriously.

His mind cleared then, enough to identify the medic uniform she wore, the military tag hanging from her neck, even the dirt on her clothing and face. There were signs of exhaustion about her eyes and the tightness of shock and stress in the set of her lips, but all of this it did little to mar her beauty. He studied every feature in that moment of clarity, recording her face to memory.

"Stay with me," she said, her eyes holding his, even as the shadows again began to envelop him.

One Year Later

Magnus stood at the precipice of the battlefield, his storm gray eyes surveying the carnage below impassively. His was a stately figure, somehow statuesque and regal at a glance. Though he was not inordinately tall, he gave an impression of filling a space. His ballistic armor was black, like that of most his men, and snugly fitting. However—unlike his men—he wore a blood red cloak, vaguely reminiscent of the ones worn by the centurions of the ancient world. The cloak marked him as a Praetor, and under many others circumstances, he would scorn the vanity of wearing it so recklessly in the open, where any particularly cunning sniper might strike.

Today such concessions were necessary, with the imminent arrival of several other generals and a legate. The war was well in hand. They knew it, and so did the enemy. Unlike some of his more negligent peers, Magnus was not inclined to turn his back on a wounded tiger, and he would tell them so today.

Illythiel had battled fiercely, but it would take it's place within the Imperial command, even if he had to single-handedly squeeze it's life force to the very breaking point.

The bodies strewn across the field before him lay as a testament to that.

He turned, the faintest trace of surprise flickering in his eyes, as the sound of an airship signaled in the distance. The Legate's procession was expected to arrive more than an hour later. Magnus quickly moved toward the front of the camp with a select few of his men following behind, while the rest formed into disciplined lines to welcome a procession.

But it was not the Legate's sky ship than landed before him. It was the ship of one of the Legate's most cunning advisors, Vero. Magnus watched the man descend toward him.

Vero was a man of slight stature. He would have looked almost delicate were it not for his ostentatious taste in attire. His reasonably agreeable features were punctuated by a keen sense of his own awareness of them. He wore purple, accented with gold jewelry. The display wasn't a matter of necessity. Vero's growing wealth and influence was well know with the imperial ranks.

"My Lord Magnus, it is an honor as ever," Vero enthused, his arms spread with every indication of open warmth.

Magnus' response was stoic but not cold. Vero might not be the same breed of predator as he, but he could still offer him some measure of respect, one serpent to another.

They exchanged the briefest of niceties before Vero surprised him, "Would you walk with me, my liege? I would very much like to show you the captives we have acquired in the last week. I think you'll be pleased to see our growing success."

Magnus was as intrigued as he was wary. Vero's renown as a spymaster was fast becoming the stuff of legend. He had told only a very skilled few of his search for a particular figure amidst the enemy ranks, but it was not inconceivable that even the most loyal of his men might have been unknowingly compromised. Summoning the entirety of his all too exhaustible capacity to graciousness, he bid Vero to lead the way.

While guards followed at a discreet distance, they strolled toward the lines of chained captives being led from the ships. "So many," remarked Magnus his eyes scanning the rows, each member clad, though scantily, in a color indicative of their role among the enemy. Most of them were of pale coloring, a marker of Illythian heritage, so different from the darker, bronzed features of their captors. "The third legion is surely to be congratulated."

"The Emperor has promised them a festival to themselves as a reward...as I believe he has promised you, Praetor."

"You are omniscient as ever, Vero," murmured Magnus, his gaze still roaming the prisoners before him.

"And you are too kind, Magnus," Vero replied, the irony of his smile betraying the complexity of that sentiment. They both knew quite well that Magnus would have him gutted if it suited him, or if he merely suspected him of meddling where he was unwanted. "I am merely a servant of the Impireus, eager to help where I may."

But Magnus was only half listening, and Vero was perfectly aware of it. The spymaster's mouth firmed in satisfaction as he watched Magnus' stare latch onto a particular form in the line up.

There, amongst the first row of slaves, stood a girl with pale curls and a delicate build. Her face was lowered slightly, but there was a keen sense of alertness about her, and Vero had little doubt she was aware of being closely observed, if not by whom. She was clad in blue, the marker of captives who had served as as non combatants, as doctors and medics.

While the Praetor's expression remained impassive, the flare of recognition and greed in his eyes was unmistakeable. Though her own eyes remained carefully fixed on the ground, her cheeks flushed with the awareness of being studied.

"I have been tasked with the training of these, with the understanding that the Imperial house will have first selection once the training is completed. And it's small wonder, they are all of exceptional quality."

Magnus nodded in acknowledgement, his mind working quickly.

"However, my liege," Vero continued, quieter now, "I would like to offer you two and ten of your own choosing before that time comes."

The reaction in the Praetor was so satisfying, so without precedent, that Vero almost laughed at the sight. Magnus turned to him, struck speechless. The spymaster gave him time to collect himself, his face politely blank.

"Has the Legatus approved such an exception?" Magnus managed after a few moments.

Vero responded slowly, as though weighing every word, though he had planned this speech carefully. "The Legatus allows for the consideration that some slaves might prove untrainable in the short term. Even so, keeping such a transaction between ourselves could certainly prove wise."

Magnus was at a disadvantage, and he felt the fact acutely. His gaze sharpened, but his voice was amiable. "In return for such a gesture, honor would insist that I repay it in kind-," but Vero raised his hands, politely rebuffing the impending offer.

"My liege, I ask only that you remember my esteem and friendship in the days to come, that I may have more opportunities to be of service to you."

Magnus considered him, allowing the spymaster some credit for for managing such poise under his scrutiny. Lesser men were prone to tremble. The implications of this were clear. Vero wanted a favor, in his time, and of his choosing. Magnus was not usually willing to allow himself to become indebted.

And yet...

He held Vero's gaze and nodded. "As ever, Vero, your generosity is to be celebrated."

Vero waved this away graciously, "May I suggest, my liege, that you make your final selection after the end of the summit? I would be only too glad to offer you the stock on loan until then to ease the decision, and then you may decide which to retain at your leisure."

~ * ~

It was late night when she was led to a new room on the sky ship, hands still bound with hard steel, and guided through the door. And there he was.

He faced a floor to ceiling view screen of the landscape, his back to her and his hands clasped behind him. There was a tension to his stance, just beneath the apparent composure. She could feel it fill the room like a magnetic force. "Dismissed," he said, unmoving. The guards obeyed.

He turned then, and she could see him in profile. Thick waves of dark hair framed a squared face with a long, aquiline nose and bronzed skin.

He looked at her. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, with all the ominous magnificence of a hurricane on the horizon. She tore her own focus away from them with difficulty, and then she took note of his expression. He was gazing at her in return, his eyes tracing the shape of her with a predatory focus. A nervous shudder raced up her spine.

He lowered smoothly into a chair. Lilah tore her eyes away once more to sweep the room. It was a small space by any general standard, but large for a sky ship compartment. It was marked by a sense of stately comfort, dark and sleek. Gold and green accent pieces captured her attention here and there, a stylized map, and sky ship hologram. And on the wall, prominently situated, his sigil: a green serpent on a field of black.

He was still looking at her like she were a small animal ready to bolt. There was a bowl of gleaming fruit, meat, and cheese on the table before him. She looked at this last for a moment overlong before she met his watching eyes.

Lilah tried to steady her nerves, holding one of her hands inside the other. She suspected his tactic was to make her anxious enough that she would attempt to fill the silence. To a point, It was working. Like her fellow captives, the "clothing" she wore barely amounted to more than a bathing suit, revealing her belly and legs, and much of her chest. She felt utterly exposed.

"Please," he said, with nonchalant grace, indicating the chair across from him. Then his tone hardened, "Sit," he said. There was that magnetic pull again, increased threefold by the sense of command in his voice. She walked forward shakily and sat in the chair he indicated, then felt a small thrill of terror when his hand moved forward—only for it to take hold of a bottle of wine. The effect on her composure reminded her of being on a battlefield. She felt numb in some places and tingling in others. It wasn't just the unknown in this circumstance that frightened her. It was him. There was a quality there, that as serene as he seemed on the surface, a ferocity lay buried within. Like magma beneath water.

She watched him pour the wine, and tried to find her voice, but she didn't know what to say. Her prospects seemed ominous. She knew enough to believe that this man held her fate in his hand. He could be mad, or murderous. To imagine, dodging a hundred missiles on the battlefield, only to do be murdered in a quiet room.

"You remember me," he said. She wasn't certain whether it was a question or not.

There was a pause. "Yes," she acknowledged.

He took a sip of his wine, looking every bit as relaxed as she was nervous.

Internally, his heartbeat had gained speed. He had waited, and searched—for months and months, and here she was. She looked lost, vulnerable. She had maintained a frail sort of dignity when she was first thrust into the room, but now it was falling away from her, with every word they exchanged.

He poured a second glass of wine. "You helped me."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut across her, "Drink," he said. She was thrown off balance by the interruption, as he had intended, and she reached for the glass tentatively, her shackles clinking. He watched her take a small sip, his eyes lingering on her mouth. There was something apart from the satisfaction of having her in his grasp at last. She excited a thrill in him he hadn't expected. He would have liked to bring her close and kiss her so senseless she wouldn't even notice his peeling away her clothing until she was already nude and trembling in his arms. The violence of his want was like a brilliant red flare in his mind, distracting from the warnings of the competent tactician within. The quiet voice cautioning him to hold, not to frighten her too soon or too suddenly. A scorpion doesn't spring until the prey is close enough to catch and keep. The thought kept him still, his external composure infallible. He mustn't think of her as an irresistible lure, drawing him closer. Satisfying as it would be to claim her at last, to possess her and touch her, he wanted more.

"I'm offering to do the same for you now," he continued, meeting her sky blue eyes.

He stood, and walked back to the window, the sunset casting a red gold gleam throughout the room.

"There's no going back to your home, of getting away. I am sorry to tell you that, but you must know. The Imperius has won this war, in every sense but the most official."

"You haven't caught General Arturius yet," she said, before she could catch herself.

He turned to her again, moved closer. She rose instinctually, frustrated with her own skittishness but unable to shake it even so. His eyes were fastened on hers, holding her gaze captive.

"They have lost, Lilah," he said softly, watching her start slightly at the use of her name. "Your survival depends now on your versatility. I can protect you from the slave markets, from the arena, but you must cooperate with me."

He reached out, his fingertips brushing against her cheek, stroking back feather soft curls. She didn't quite cringe away, merely strained infinitesimally. He could see the warmth in her cheeks, the proof that she was not repulsed, just resistant.

The growing hopelessness of her expression had the beast in his chest purring, panther like. She was so utterly aware, attuned to his motives, and yet there was a frozen desperation in her eyes. She held very still, as though she could fade into invisibility if she simply didn't move.

"And are you the sort of man who offers help for nothing?" she murmured.

His lip curled into a smile, and she felt a tiny shudder vibrate through her as his hand finds her shoulder. His every movement brought her closer to him, drawing her in. His lifted her chin so that her eyes are fixed on his. "I am not." Then his other hand was at her side, and he drew her even more near, his breath warm on her cheek.

Lilah attempted to extricate herself from his hold, feeling like a small winged thing in the grip of a spider, but he held her effortlessly, as though she weren't really struggling at all. She expected him to kiss her, even felt a panicked thrill of anticipation, but he surprised her. Instead of claiming her lips, his own brushed against her forehead, and her temple.

Warmth spread over her, and and she felt her muscles turn liquid. When he did lift her chin again, bringing her mouth to his, her light blue eyes were dazed, and his usually stern expression turned warm and hungrier than before. For all the dreaminess of the sensation, her stomach gave a panicked flutter when she saw that look. "Wait!"

She maneuvered out of his hold, suddenly enough that he doesn't seize her back immediately. She darted to another side of the table and took hold of the back of one of the chairs as though she might use it as a shield. His eyes hardened again, narrowing like a bird of prey's. She swallowed, but straightened and lifted her chin. "I'm not a thing to be bought and sold."

One of his eyebrows lifted, and the expression looked slightly surprised and more than slightly intrigued. A flicker of a smile formed on his face as he walked around the table towards her. "Indeed not," he came near, and she backed up, again, and again until she felt the wall behind her. His face was inches from hers in a matter of moments. "You're already mine. And I have no intentions of selling you."

He again claimed her mouth, and even lifted her slightly against the wall. The little mewls she let out through the kiss at his voracity only made his member pulse with want, and he felt her breath catch as she felt it pressed against her.

Some coherent part of his brain told him to pull back, to bide his time. This voice of reason warned that he was rushing his onslaught, losing his normally flawless control.

But she was in his arms, trembling and warm. The scent of her was as soft and light as he remembered, when she had once placed cold cloths on his head and brushed back his hair to check his temperature. Her kiss, timid but unresistant against the pressure of his, was as sweet as he had always known it would be.

He tightened his hold around her, crushing her to him and eliciting a delicious whimper from deep in her slender throat. He kissed that throat, luxuriating in the softness of her skin. The scent of her made him feel feral.

She gasped, and froze in a kind of distraught tension. But he continued to kiss the spot, soothing, and felt her melt again. He was turning her satisfyingly dizzy and confused, but that did nothing to temper his own heat, his sense of almost frantic need. He reached to feel her heat, radiant against his hand. "Lilah," he breathed, with a wry chuckle underneath, "You'll be the death of me."

Gripping the slender chain of her shackles, he smiled softly as he lifted them above her head, pinning them in place with one hand. He felt her shiver against him as he toyed with the fabric around her waistline with the other. "What a lovely little waist you have," he remarked, He could make out little golden curls around her womanhood. He toyed with them as he reached toward her hot little sex, and watched her eyelashes flutter as though she were drifting in and out of a dream. With a low groan, Magnus tore the scrap of clothing down toward her thighs and lifted her further up against the wall, so that her hips were at the level of his waist, then pulled it off entirely before parting her legs, "Wait—wait," she said, but he shushed her softly, and silenced her with a kiss.

"No more waiting," he said, and penetrated her, watching her blue eyes widen as his cock entered her. The sensation was magnificent, smooth, wet, tight. There was that feeling of perfect comfort, with just enough resistance to add a sense fascination. Coupled with the lovely expressiveness in her eyes, the surprise, the arousal, the flicker of pain. The bliss of it eluded his ability to define. He groaned with delicious frustration and insatiable want.