Erasure

Author's note: Text in brackets are flashbacks.

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Years ago, he'd told Lena the Knights Templar would catch up to her, if she insisted on making such a display of her magic. She'd scoffed, telling him he worried too much.

She just hadn't worried enough.

The manacles gracing her wrists are bound in runes, cutting off her access to her powers. Her face is flushed with anger and contempt. Every so often, she tries to spit at the Templar holding her lead. Invariably, he responds with the palm of his hand, hard enough so that Carver can hear the crisp slap, even across the gallows courtyard.

She remains stiff and unrepentant.

Her robes drape obscenely tight around her hips, outlining the swell of her backside. He'd forgotten how enticing she could be.

At least he hadn't been the one to turn her in. He'd been tempted, but just being family bought her that much loyalty, at least.

Always the special one. Father's bright, shining light, to train and coddle. Now she is being dragged, shrieking and swearing, into the depths of the Cathedral's prison, eyes afire.

The Erasure Ritual is done before he realizes what has been asked, the burnt-sweet scent clinging to his skin.

He was a Templar through and through, but as a brother, no number of words from the Archbishop lessened the shock.

Lena might as well be dead. She had always said she'd rather.

She is turned back out into the courtyard, obedient testimony to the power and reach of the Cathedral.

The once-renowned sorceress has become a message: none are beyond the will of the holy crusade. None are beyond the Archbishop.

Eyes that once sparked with wicked laughter, that burned with passion, that last regarded him with such contempt, now stare flat and empty at him, waiting. The scars on her forehead and across the sides of her lips are perfectly healed, each mark ugly and dark violet. The burble of magic in her is gone, the song no longer tugging against his soul.

Lena's greatest fear. And a very large part of him wishes he hadn't been the one to press the sealing talisman to her flesh—to watch the life and joy, even the hatred, fade into nothing.

She'd screamed, swearing and crying, making promises they both knew she'd never keep, if only he would help her, let her go, let her die, anything but this. His final words to his sister were a promise to kill her as soon as he was able.

A promise they both knew he would never keep.

But she is safe now, and as soon as the seal set, she stopped pleading. Stopped crying. As if she doesn't desire to die anymore. As if she is content.

He shoves aside the memory of the woman she once was, the way she lashed out in desperation for a fate other than this.

Besides, a small part of him liked the terror in her voice, the fear in her eyes. A small part that is linked directly to his cock, twitching even now at the memory. The Knights Templar cast no shadows, at least not the kind he fears. Whatever his sister may have become, he will never trail along in her footsteps again.

"Come, sister."

She follows with no hesitation, a delight he will never get used to. When he takes her hand, she doesn't pull it away, even when he tugs hard enough that she loses her balance, staggering against him. Wrapping his arm around her waist protectively, he holds her steady, whispering in soft tones, even if she has no need for soothing.

[She shoves hard against his shoulder, righting herself. Haughty, she glares at him. "Keep your hands to yourself, brother." A sniff of disdain. "I don't need your help."]

Reaching the door to her cell, he opens it for her, guiding her through with the slightest press of his palm to her lower back, fingers just grazing the swell of her arse.

[She scowls as she shoves him aside, pushing open the door. She turns to face him, frustrated and angry, and looking to blame someone.]

Gently, he directs her to the bed, unbuckling straps and discarding armor. She watches, and there is no protest.

[Once in their shared room in the small cottage, she points to the floor, and he goes to his knees, long years of obedience making a habit of it. He still fumbles as he rucks up her skirt, want and shame making his fingers tremble.]

Soft but insistent, he pushes down on her shoulders, easing her to kneel between his spread legs, throbbing with an intensity he has never felt. "Suck me, Lena." Pulling himself free of his trousers, he positions her mouth over him. "Open your pretty mouth and suck my cock, sister."

["Eat my cunt, brother. It's the only thing you're good at besides being a meat shield." Sneering, she stands over him, shoving his face into her sex.]

She'd used him, taking and taking, never showing an ounce of love. Never being the sister he wanted to adore, but only the sister he needed to fuck. It figures it takes being an Erased for her to be able to give.

["Mmm. Lick me harder." Although she is groaning, it comes out as a command, her fingers curling into his hair. "What will your fellow Knights Templar say if they knew their new apprentice spends his leave time between his sister's legs?"]

The heat of her mouth burns him, a clash of guilt and glee. "Relax your throat, sweetheart, or you'll choke." Her compliance is instant, and he slides deeper, until she has taken his entire length, and all that he is. "That's it, darling. Just like that."

He rubs his thumb over the jagged scar on her forehead, minutely flexing his hips as she holds him. He pulls her off just enough to let her breath before sinking back into the tight embrace of her throat.

[She snarls out her release, one foot to his shoulder to kick him away, onto his back. Long practice has taught him to let her take, or she will happily leave him wanting. She drops down to straddle him, sheathing his straining cock in one swift, slick movement.]

"Stand for me, Lena, and take off your robe." She is methodical and efficient as she follows his command, each clasp falling in its turn. "I want to do all the things you never let me do, sister. Touch you in all the places you never let me touch." Sliding a caressing hand down her flank, he nudges her thighs apart with a knee. "Bend over and put your hands on the bed, love."

["God, you're a sick fuck, brother. Why you want to touch me there is beyond me." She slaps at his shoulder, smirking until he moves his hands back to her hips, riding him fast and brutal.]

Dribbling the thick fluid of a warmth balm between the cheeks of her arse, he marvels at the lack of protest, not the slightest whimper, as he presses his finger slickly into the tight pucker.

She doesn't fight him when he adds a second finger, so slowly easing into the dark heat of her body, curling and stroking, and taking his time.

He is burning alive, the cold bitter hate that has eaten at him for years lifting like a morning haze. His sister's slack stance, so calmly accepting of his touch, so docile under the loving assault of his flesh into hers... it soothes him, smoothing edges she has honed to razor sharpness since they were youths.

It has been a longing of years, to be able to love her instead of use her and be used. To be able to make love to her instead of fuck her and forever be fucked.

He leans against her, chest to back, bare skin warm and smooth, to whisper, "Tell me that you want me."

"I do not want, brother." Toneless, the bite of anger nowhere to be found. "It is better to want nothing, than it was to be ruled by such overwhelming desire." She doesn't even turn her head to look at him, his fingers still moving deep within her arse, his other hand stroking her sex, bringing a flush to her skin, but no heat to her eyes.

There is no condemnation when she asks, "Do you want me to lie to you?" but there is a world of guilt in his reply of, "Yes."

It isn't the inflectionless quality of her voice that matters, nor the fact that she wants nothing, feels nothing. It is that she says those words, to him, with no hesitation. "I want you, brother." No venom.

Reverently, he lays her down, and she allows him to. He positions her limbs as he will, and she holds them where he puts her, spread open and vulnerable before him.

Entering her, he knows he is deluding himself to think he sees the ghost of her smirk, as her lips part on an outward breath. But she is just as tight as ever, scorching him with her flesh, with his guilt, with his pleasure.

[His body clenches, and he fights to hold her in place as his cum shoots straight into her, long jets of desire and shame. She goes still over him and watches his face with hard, fevered eyes.]

He doesn't last, and she doesn't care. She lies so quiet and still as he shudders to completion, bright sunbursts painting the blackness behind his eyelids.

[Those eyes show such wicked delight as she lifts herself away from him. He flushes at the sight of the cooling seed dripping down between her thighs. Wordlessly, she crawls into her bed, shutting him out completely.]

Those eyes show nothing at all as he gathers her tightly in his arms, the refuse of their joining slippery and damp between them, his mouth to her sweaty dark hair.

Erased sorceress or not, she had never loved him in any capacity.

And he would spend the rest of his life convincing himself it was better this way.