Tag: Dessy

My body submits to my will.

When it comes to matters of decisions, Pietas is an alpha. The only time in Origin of Pietas that he uses the word submit is when he's refusing to do so. Submits is only used in the ritual.

"Water submits to my presence the way enemies submit to my will."

"My body submits to my will. No pain defeats me. No fear touches me."

It surprised me that in Ring of the Dragon, where Pietas has a romantic partner, that he is more of a switch. He has no issue not being in charge with the right person. In fact, he rather prefers not to be the lead. Who knew?

Excerpt from Ring of the Dragon

In this scene, Pietas is talking to Dark Hair, who has just finished having a bath. He'd hired the Kin female to help him find a missing hynder (horse) for Cyken. When Pietas had dried her afterward, she asked whom he'd served prior to her, and he told her it was a king. It opens with her speaking.

"The one you serve. You love him. Humans call this gay, yes?"

She'd deduced that about him, had she? Except he was not gay, straight, bisexual, or any of those other labels. He was a healthy person with a healthy sexual appetite who loved the finest of everything. If you wanted the utter truth, he was sapiosexual, attracted to intelligent people.

Like Cyken.

Biting his lips, Pietas shook his head. "Not lovers anymore."

She stroked his wet cheeks, drying his face. "Good."

He drew back. "Good? Why?"

"He not deserve you."

Pietas broke into a smile. After taking her hands, he pressed his mouth against each palm in turn. "Thank you. I needed that."

"You welcome. Is truth." She took the towel. "Your turn."

The hot water looked perfect, but he shook his head. "I can't."

"You want clean water?"

"No. I..." He shook his head.

She shifted position and sat on the floor beside him. "What you need?"

"I injured my shoulders." Thousands of years before. "They didn't heal right. Leaning on my arms is--" He turned his head. "I live with pain. Getting in and out of a tub is...."

"How often this pain?"

Constant. Unending. A river of pain he endured every moment. Pietas shared that detail with no one except Uurah, and Tiklaus, whom he could never fool. He couldn't hide it from Joss, whose unblockable telepathy laid bare every secret. Not even Cyken knew it was constant. Why should he trust Dark Hair?

"It never stops."

She brushed back his hair and kissed him on the forehead. "You wait." She stood and left the room.

Pietas struggled to his feet, but as he took a step toward the door, it opened.

Dark Hair dragged a small chair into the room and placed the two back legs into the tub. "Take off clothes. Sit."

"What are you going to do?"

"Help you bath." Still nude herself, she assisted him in undressing and then directed him to sit. Standing behind him in the tub, she wound his hair up and looped it around, making it stay in place. How, he could not fathom, but he'd give anything to have her teach his valet that trick. He'd never manage it himself. He could barely brush it.

Using the sponge, Dark Hair drizzled water over him and then scrubbed his back. "No scars, nahee. How you injure?"

He could not explain without revealing what he was. Mortals who discovered the power of healing in an immortal's blood never let them live in freedom. So the immortals looked out for mankind, protected and cared for them, but never told.

"Torture."

She hissed. "Why you not say?"

Because he'd rather suffer a thousand deaths than let his people think him weak. "I--" No half-truths. Not about this. Not with her. "Ashamed. I should have found a way out. I should have..." No, he could still not, even all these thousands of years later make himself admit he should have called out. As alien to his nature to admit weakness as it was to kindle fire using dirt.

Dark Hair climbed out of the tub, came around and cupped both wet hands around his face. She looked him straight in the eyes. "You not take shame. The ahnahori who did this. They take shame."

Ahnahori. Monster. "Thank you."

She stood straight. "Tomorrow, we not find hynder, we get different room. With shower. You do shower?"

"I love a hot shower. Feels great on my shoulders."

"Good." Dark Hair kissed him. With a knowing smile, she went back to scrubbing. "Now I see why you like female on top."

Water submits to my presence the way enemies submit to my will.

I wanted readers to see Pietas as he was before he met Six and had gone through a transformation. In this snippet, he's aboard ship, in the chamber used for the ritual. Each word and thought is concise, straightforward. There is no misunderstanding his words. Pietas means exactly what he says.

In the bathing area, Pietas took six steps down into a waist-deep pool. "Water submits to my presence the way enemies submit to my will." He cupped water in his hands, lifted it and let it pour down his arms. "The blood of my enemies trickles into the pool of time, is absorbed and forgotten." He pushed wet fingers through his hair and released it.

For Pietas, every thought, every action, every plan wraps around victory. He does not see defeat in any area of his life. His life defines purpose and resolve. He's invincible. Unshakeable.

But all that is about to change.

I own the wind.

Part two of the ritual involves Pietas claiming power over the wind. Part three goes into more detail on how/why.

The reference to power of the elements is not a simple comment. Pietas discovers in this series that one of his latent abilities is actual control of certain weather attributes. In books one and two (Origin of Pietas, Forged in Fire), every time Pietas must deal with his father or confront feelings about the man, a storm blows up. Not a stiff breeze, but a howling gale with lightning and tornadoes. Considering how "well" he and his father get along, the storms speak volumes.

Excerpt from Origin of Pietas

If one must be marooned on an alien world, at least it was with a cheerful companion and not a naysaying obstructionist like his father. Why thoughts of the man evoked such longing Pietas could not imagine. His father was like a hole in the shoe, ever present, ever making one aware of what was lacking, but doing nothing about it. Whereas Six...

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt for Pietas to let down a bit of his guard. A bit. He helped Six clean up. Though it was still morning, the day darkened while they were finishing. By the time they reached camp, the sun was gone.

At first, Pietas thought it might be another flock of birds, but then he spied what had sent the birds fleeing.

Black clouds roiled. Thunder boomed. The sky went white with lightning.

In the north, the mother of all thunderstorms rolled over the horizon.

In this scene from book 1 of the Bringer of Chaos series, Pietas is preparing for a ritual with his twin sister.

While Pietas readied himself, his sister twirled the dagger, showing off her expertise.

"You know, Pietas, you should let our people know you still do this ceremony. They'd be impressed by your devotion."

"I don't do it to impress anyone. I do it to ready myself for-- Stop!" Dessy had been sliding one fingertip along the edge of the dagger. He removed it from her grasp, and examined the blade.

"Honestly, Pietas! I was just testing the sharpness."

"I didn't want you to cut yourself."

"I'm as adept with blades as you. More so, if you ask me."

"Not the point. If you'd cut yourself, I'd have to consecrate it again. It can only have my blood or my enemy's."

"You think I'm witless? As if I haven't performed this ceremony with you a hundred times. And here I thought you were concerned for my well-being."

"Stop playing. I told you, I'm busy."

She let out a harsh sigh. "Fine. Let's complete the ritual."

Dagger in hand, Pietas unfastened the clip in his hair, and let it fall. The wet tail slapped the middle of his back. He tossed the clip aside, placed the dagger on his palms, and offered it.

She poised her hand above it. "Who offers this weapon?"

"First Conqueror, War Leader of the Ultras."

She took it from him. "For whom are you willing to suffer?"

"I suffer for my people." Pietas turned his cheek.

Dessy slid the knife tip gently along his face, from cheekbone to chin, drawing a thin trail of blood. "For whom do you bleed?"

"I bleed for my people." By the time the first drop of blood had risen, the cut had healed, leaving no scar.

"What sacrifice do you offer as proof of devotion?"

He went to his knees, and lowered his head. Here was the true reason he no longer performed this ritual before his people. Pietas abased himself before no one.

Except the one woman who held the tattered remnants of his trust, and what little remained of his heart.

"I surrender my pride."

His sister went behind him, and gathered his hair in her fist. Using the razor-sharp blade, she sawed through the wet tail. She crossed to the table, and moved the hide back in place.

Pietas picked up the pants as he stood, and slipped them on. He ruffled his fingers through his hair. It hung around his jaw line.

Dessy brushed it back from his face, and thumbed away a smear of blood.

He clasped her wrist. "Take it out of your pocket."

"What?"

"Whatever it is you took."

"I don't--"

He tightened his grip, and she grimaced. "Take it out of your pocket."

"Let me go." She glared in defiance, the ice in her emotions fierce as a blizzard.

He released her, and the room warmed. He held out his hand.

Dessy reached into a pocket and withdrew his tail of hair. "I'm not giving it back."

"It's mine. I intend to burn it."

"I know. That's why I took it."

He tried to snatch it from her.

She slipped out of reach. "It's mine now, and I want it."

He regarded her a long moment. "I see. You want my DNA because you think I'll be defeated."

"Can you imagine Father's face if told him I wanted to recreate you? He'd sooner burn his lab to the ground."

Those words bit his pride, but the truth of her emotions, her love for him, assuaged it. He motioned for her to give it to him. "Now, Dess."

She stuffed it back in her pocket. "I have nothing of yours, and I've always loved your hair. Let me keep it." She added, "Please."

The last time she'd said that word to him, they were sixteen. His decision to comply had cost him his relationship with his father, and ruined what he'd had with her. She had never said please again. Not to him. That ought to be warning enough. But back then, he'd still had a heart that could break.

It wasn't breakable any more.

"It's hair. Not important." He set a fist over his heart, and bowed.

Smiling, she pressed her palms together and put her hands before her mouth. "Thank you. Now, are you ready for the peace talks?"

"No." He squared his shoulders. "I'm ready for war."

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