Archive of Our Own ^beta

Six thousand years after reclaiming her body, Seraphi Abrasax pauses in the middle of breakfast and lifts a hand to her temple.

She's eating with her primaries, a regular occurrence since her decision to keep them all close. They're so entertaining, always fighting for her attention, for every second of physical reassurance or scrap of verbal praise, and yes, the damage they could do throughout the universe if she let them off their leashes is great, no doubt, and always for the benefit of House Abrasax, but there is time. There is all the time in the gyre. This is merely a well-deserved break, long enough to let the other houses stop floundering at her Recurrence and forget that she's returned, long enough for Seraphi to send out tendrils into every corner of every world, long enough for everyone other than those with her to think that perhaps the tersie has changed Seraphi somehow, deep inside.

Foolish people.

"Mother?" Seraphi looks to her right, raises one eyebrow in Balem's direction. He swallows, the action highlighted by the movement of his collar -- ridiculous thing but she'll allow him his affectations. "Is something wrong?" he asks. "Do you need a doctor? Or a bath?"

Across the table, Kalique's eyes have narrowed. She's leaning forward now, studying Seraphi, trying to see what Balem saw. She never will; Balem sees far much more of her than Seraphi is strictly comfortable with, sometimes. He is her weakness, though, her Abrasax, her perfect son, and to allow him this small victory over Kalique and Titus, this small look into what Seraphi's thinking and feeling, won't hurt a thing. It's helped, in the past, for Balem to read her moods off of the cant of her eyebrows, the line of her shoulders, how long she takes to answer a question.

"If mother needs something," Titus drawls, leaning back in his chair, licking powdered sugar off of his thumb, tongue curling around the nail, "she'll take it."

Balem glares at Titus and opens his mouth to respond. He doesn't say anything, though, because Seraphi clears her throat, smiles at her heirs, thinks about the long line of Balem's neck and the glint of Kalique's eyes and the curves of Titus' mouth. It's been too long since they've all been together. Perhaps tonight she'll summon all three of them to her playrooms.

"Make a note, alcazar," Seraphi says, picking up a cup of hot, bitter, and spiced chocolate. "Dinner will not be heavy but it will need to provide some energy." She sips, looks over the rim of her mug, and knows her eyes are glittering as she adds, "We're all going to need it."

Titus lets out a slow laugh and rises, comes over and kisses Seraphi's cheek. "I can't wait," he murmurs, breath warm against the curve of Seraphi's ear. Seraphi chuckles and swats him away, waits for him to leave before looking at Kalique.

Kalique -- her daughter, so beautiful with flushed skin and high cheekbones -- is still watching her. Seraphi raises one eyebrow, flicks her eyes to the side in clear command, and Kalique wipes her mouth before standing slowly, gracefully. She doesn't so much walk to Seraphi as glide, the uselessly thin straps of her dress sliding off her shoulders along the way and baring enough of her pale, perfect flesh to nearly tempt Seraphi into taking what she wants now.

When Kalique bends, kisses Seraphi's cheek, Seraphi can see all the way down Kalique's dress, can feel the tightness of Kalique's nipples against her arm. It's not the clumsiest Kalique's ever been but it's not the best, either; she still sometimes acts like Seraphi's that bumbling and naive tersie.

"I want you to look over the progress on Licandre," Seraphi tells her, tone flat, unamused. "I expect a full report on our operations there this afternoon."

The one saving grace about Kalique is that she knows when she's beaten. She straightens up, smiles at Seraphi, and dips her head as she says, "Yes, mother. I'll get started right away."

Kalique leaves and it's finally quiet, is finally just Seraphi and Balem, alone, doors and windows closed to the outside world. This is the way Seraphi likes it best and she holds out one hand imperiously. Balem moves, jumps at the command, and comes over, settles on his knees by her feet, presses his cheek against her leg. She runs her fingers through his hair, uses nails enough to make him shudder, and when he's loose-limbed and practically panting, Seraphi asks, quietly, "What did you see, my darling Balem?"

"Mother, I," Balem starts before stopping as if he's not sure what to say or, more likely, how to say it without upsetting her.

Seraphi puts one finger under Balem's chin, makes him look up at her, meet her eyes. His pupils are blown wide, black like his hair, like the empty regions of space she tried to give him. "Tell me," she says, still quiet, the tone of voice and the gentle prick of her nail an unspoken promise to remain calm no matter what he says.

Balem's eyes flick to the side, then back to her as he takes a deep breath. "You touched your temple, Mother," he says. "As if you were in pain."

"All of it, Balem, please," Seraphi says when he stops again, though it's clear she's not asking but demanding.

"It's something that Jupiter used to do." Balem swallows, focuses on something other than Seraphi's eyes as she tilts her head in thought. "Most often when she was fighting you, near the end. She said it was an unconscious action, that her head didn't necessarily hurt but there was a -- a feeling of movement."

Seraphi gazes down at Balem, then stands, walks away from him, pacing slowly around the table. "You liked her," she says, bluntly, as she takes a piece of bread and starts shredding it to pieces, putting the smallest fragments in her mouth and letting the rest, the larger chunks and the minute crumbs, drop to the floor. "Liked the tersie who fought me so hard when she should have given in. Liked her even though she held me back from you."

"Of course I liked her," Balem says, and just as Seraphi's rage is reaching a pinnacle of violence she hasn't felt in millennia, he adds, "I could see you inside of her. Even before you started to take your body back, you were inside of her. So yes," he says as he stands, faces Seraphi, "I liked her. But I'm yours, Mother. She could never take me from you. No one can."

The anger transmutes so instantly into lust that Seraphi's moving before she can even think about stopping herself. She takes Balem's wrists, pulls him to the wall and shoves him hard against it, rips off the collar from his neck and digs her teeth into his skin. The noises he makes, gods above, but Seraphi's wet and Balem is hers, so she pushes him down by the shoulders, would be forcing him to his knees if he wasn't already dropping so eagerly.

"I'm yours," Balem whispers before he leans forward, buries his face between her thighs.

Seraphi grips his hair tight, keeps him pressed against her, can only say the same thing over and over again as he licks and sucks and bites: "Mine, mine, only mine."

When she throws her head back and comes, she feels it -- movement in her head, a spark like mute lightning, a plea from far away.