* A Dragon’s Love *

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Ornstein and Sen chuckled low as they stumbled drunkenly against the golden walls and velvet carpets of the lengthy hallways in which Anor Londo’s castle shamelessly donned. Grand portraits of the Family of Sunlight painted the shimmering walls, and Ornstein could not help but sneak glimpses of Sen in his younger years as the two hastily made their way down the halls, falling up against one another every few steps.

“Have you always borne that jagged-looking crown?” Ornstein asked, with many giggles backing his slurred speech.

“My father’s Silver Knights will hear you if thou breathes any louder, Lion,” Sen whispered sternly, as his lips accidentally fell against the other man’s ear; Ornstein’s foot had managed to catch on the velvet carpet, which caused his weight to catch on the next closest thing: Sen. Ornstein chuckled as he embraced the foreign warmth that had suddenly been set ablaze in his loins, yet he blamed the ale from earlier in the evening for such a welcome sensation.

“And where might this dining hall of yours be,” Ornstein hiccuped, “Your Highness?” he spoke with a teasing lilt, which only drew a low growl out of the Prince of Sunlight. “We are nearly there,” he replied, tenderly grabbing hold of the raven-haired man’s forearm. “Or art thou going to continue mewling like a spoiled, little cub?” Sen’s golden gaze remained fixed on Ornstein’s pale face, which housed a sly grin and reddening cheeks the further the two waltzed onward through the dimly-lit corridor. “You speak to me as though I’m some common animal,” Ornstein exclaimed, which only resulted in a harsh tug to the forearm. He corrected himself by lowering his tone of voice, looking up at Sen through lowered lashes. “You speak to me as though I’m some common animal,” he began in a whisper, “and I am neither!”

Before Ornstein could be relieved of response, a pair of grand, double doors, made entirely of gold, swung open under Sen’s force—revealing the dining hall of the castle. Ornstein’s jaw dropped as he stumbled through the intimidating threshold, still clinging clumsily to his royal friend; but Sen did not seem to mind. Immediately, Ornstein whined at the sight of both unfinished and untouched food, licking at his lower lip as he began fantasising about a grand feast—to which only a select few were a part of.

“We are here to find meat for Kalaego, and that is all,” Sen stated, narrowing his eyes on the vast waste of food his family and their guests had left behind. “But I may reward thou with a treat, are we to be successful in finding a meat that fancies her tastes,” the prince added, remaining overly-cautious of his gentle tone, so as to not wake any of his father’s pesty guards; visitors of the castle were only granted entry after the approval of Lord Gwyn, and Sen rarely remained on terms worthy of conversing with his father. Everything changed once the War of Ancients began.

“Tell me what it is she likes,” Ornstein whispered, beginning his slow walk around the grand-oak tables of the dining hall; his gaze fixated on every piece of meat and chalice of ale that he could see—which was practically every other seat. And Sen’s gaze was also fixated on something, though this particular fascination was that of something living and breathing. “What it is she likes…” Sen mused, refusing to look away from the young man as he, too, focused his tongue against the slick surface of his lower lip. Ornstein did not hear the prince, and continued his search for the finest meat that could meet the eye.

“Hmm, I guess we could start with how tough she fancies her meat,” Ornstein continued, surveying the dozens upon dozens of gold and silver plates—each topped with some semblance of delectable leftovers. “To be brutally fair, I hadn’t been under the impression that wyverns indulged in the same meats as us!” His words were slurred at certain points in his ramblings, and a table leg certainly caught on his foot once or twice over, but Sen did not once mind; quite the contrary, for the prince found ardent amusement and radiant charm in the way Ornstein shamelessly carried himself in a time of drunken vulnerability. “If only every soul in this vile land housed the same, gentle curiosity as thou, perhaps there would be no fruitless war against the dragons,” Sen started, making slow steps towards Ornstein, who was holding back every ounce of strength he could muster, so as to not dive into the grand feast that was splayed out before him.

“Thou hungers,” Sen continued—his voice somehow reaching levels far lower than that of a common whisper. “I can smell it from a mile away.” He kept his eyes locked on to the raven-haired man, who waltzed blindly around the tables in awe.

Ornstein hummed as he looked down at the next plate; mashed potatoes, a rare steak, and black beans covered the golden tint of the mealware, and the young man could all but drool over the sight. “You could say…” he mused, reaching for any part of the plate, at this point. “And you?” He stopped right before his fingers connected with the meal, and he slowly looked up—only to see Sen, now standing mere inches from him. As Ornstein was about to repeat his question, the prince sunk his hand down and against a large slab of rare meat, before quickly removing it from the table, so as to not drip upon Ornstein’s cloth.

“Kalaego should be satisfied with this amount,” Sen spoke beneath his breath, to which Ornstein barely caught; he ran after the Prince of Sunlight, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he feared a Silver Knight waltzing into the dining hall and spotting the invited intrusion. “Will she truly eat all that? It seems like a lot for a young one.”

Sen glanced at him as Ornstein walked in line.

“What?! It looks like a lot.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

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“We could have benefitted from more meat,” Sen let out, placing the last piece in his open palm as Kalaego carefully nuzzled her beak against his skin, letting out a noise that was akin to that of a kitten’s purring. Ornstein sat on a large rock, watching Sen hold the preadolescent wyvern in his arms amidst the shimmering-blue lake; it was the only way for the prince to feed the creature, otherwise, a limb would have potentially been at risk. Ornstein’s jaw remained agape as Kalaego scarfed down the meat—despite the tenderness of her touch upon Sen’s hand.

“Does the young one know when it is time to stop eating? Or will she continue to choke down on her food like a rabid basilisk?”

Sen turned his head to glare at Ornstein, who remained on the rocks that surrounded the long and narrow body of water. “She’s been known to prevail in both instances. Is that answer enough for thou?”

Ornstein looked away. “Perhaps.” Kalaego squawked at the sound of his voice, and immediately lunged from Sen’s arms, plummeting only a few inches from the prince’s grasp. The young wyvern began fluttering and flapping her feathery wings upon the water, which was accompanied by repeated squawks as it called out for Ornstein; immediately, Sen’s eyes softened as he looked at the man, who sat perched upon the rock. And Ornstein’s eyes refused to stare anywhere else, but at Sen’s shirtless upper-half; the prince had removed his torso’s cloth prior to stepping into the lake, so as to not dampen the frail material. The pale skin that graced Sen’s clean and burly figure, glistened beneath the late-afternoon sun, matching the sparkling sight of the clear surface that reached just below his belly button. Ornstein found it cute how he still opted on wearing his crown, despite his bare chest and hatred for his royal blood.

“She’s never swam before,” Sen spoke loudly, as though he were announcing the fact to all of Lordran. “A sign of likeness.” He grinned. “She has adequate taste… More or less.”

Ornstein’s face felt as though it would burst at the slightest touch, and he quickly looked down to his fiddling fingers. “And I am honoured to have earned her respect. Kalaego is but a beautiful creature,” he stammered, straightening out his shoulders as he felt the weight of Sen’s golden stare upon his slim frame. “And your respect, as well, Sen,” he added, sucking in his bottom lip as he finally looked back up towards the prince.

“And who said thou hast earned my respect?” Sen grinned once more, crossing his arms as his defined shoulders were suddenly rather accentuated. Ornstein laughed nervously at his witty remark, before sliding off the rock and dropping to his knees as he watched Kalaego stumble out from the water, and onto the shoreline. In the distance, behind Sen’s seraphic figure, Anor Londo stood high and mighty beneath the radiant sunlight; behind those blindingly-golden exteriors, stood Ornstein’s future as a knight for Lord Gwyn—the man in which Sen loathed with the darkest depths his heart could muster.

“Here, girl,” Ornstein called out, patting the wyvern on her feathered top as he whispered “good girl” over and over again. Kalaego ruffled her feathered wings, before rubbing up against his leg and sliding down onto her side, where a tiny pool of water now resided. “You really love attention, huh?” Kalaego purred against the ground as Ornstein spoke sweetly to her. “Well,” he whispered with a grin, “your father could certainly benefit from some, too. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Sen grunted as he stepped out of the water, allowing his upper half to remain sleek and shiny from the water, and his dark trousers, which stuck tightly to his legs as though they had become an added layer of skin; Ornstein found his eyes moving from knee to knee, hip to hip, before the prince’s upper abdomen clouded his vision and stomped all over his rational thoughts. Sen’s majestic, white locks remained in their constant, ethereal flow towards the sun—yet just as his chest, his neck appeared slick as the last of the gargantuan star’s beams reflected off his fair skin; he looked down to the raven-haired man, closing the awkward distance from the lake to the rock as his fists hung clenched at his sides, and suddenly, erratic sparks of lightning began to emanate from his hands. Ornstein’s lips parted slightly as he watched in utter fascination at the Prince of Sunlight’s ability to both wield and tame lightning. “Your hands,” he began, being careful so as to not harm Kalaego who laid below him, against the warmth of the rock.

“What of them?” Sen muttered, closing the remaining gap within a mere second as his calloused hand reached out and pressed against Ornstein’s chin, lifting his face to look into his cool, golden gaze. Ornstein gulped as his legs spread slightly—being extra careful of the tiny wyvern, now—as he alleviated some weight from his prior position for comfort and leaned back a tad, realising that Sen intended to speak more as his tender grip did not yet falter.

“Don’t make me state a blatant observation,” Ornstein blurted out with an awkward chuckle.

“Why not?”

His brows raised as Sen held the most stern and curious of visages the aspiring dragonslayer had ever seen. “Electrical waves of that intensity are rather difficult to turn a blind eye towards… I’ve more-or-less dabbled in the art of lightning incantations.”

“Hast thou, now?”

“I have. It is my proudest achievement, as of late.”

Sen grinned, making slow and gentle work of sliding his thumb up the side of Ornstein’s chin, and towards his lips. The Dragonslayer’s skin was remarkably soft, and Sen found himself relishing in the electrifying feel in which his tender and brief contact provided. His thumb met with the middle of Ornstein’s bottom lip, gliding over top of the sleek surface before he paused, and brought his other hand near the young man’s face; Ornstein felt as though his entire body had become paralysed, as he simply could not shake the pleasuresome electricity that seemed to have invaded his veins. “Thou hast proven to be quite the promising and obedient little Lion,” Sen began in a tender whisper, tilting Ornstein’s head back ever so slightly, so that the man was not blinded by the intensity of the sun’s beams—which sat behind Sen’s left shoulder as he spoke. “So, I must reward thee, Lion.”

Ornstein did not struggle against the slab of meat, which was roughly the size of Sen’s closed fist, as it gently prodded at his lips; he parted them to allow the food entry, and groaned in delight at the taste of the rare meat, and at how hungry he had been for the duration of the day. Sen then moved his hand from beneath Ornstein’s chin, to the top of his dark hair, and tousled with his locks. Ornstein felt as though he had fallen completely under Sen’s spell—as his touch had proven to be the epitome of electricity. And so, Ornstein purred, closing his eyes as he chowed down on the piece of meat, and basked in the shocking warmth of Sen’s fingers upon his skull.

“Is thy hunger satiated, Lion?”

Ornstein hummed softly as the pads of Sen’s fingers graced a certain spot atop his head, and he felt as though his very being had suddenly sunk down into the rock.

“The art of taming is a craft many souls take for granted. What my father, and all of Lordran fails to comprehend, is that befriending the enemy is sometimes the only way of survival,” Sen spoke low, staring down at Ornstein as he all but melted into his touch, and Kalaego, who lay nestled between his legs. “But not always is this skill utilised for the benefit of reigning victorious, for there art some friendships that may, too, emerge… Ones thou wilt not find residing anywhere else, except for inside the hearts of thine enemies.” Sen looked down at the crimson cloth in which Ornstein donned, taking mental note of its rough ends and occasional rips and tears that were splayed across the thin material; he smiled at the warming sight of his most precious companion, and a stray Lion, who so sweetly wished to be tamed. It was a most beautiful display for his eyes, and his heart.

“Perhaps one day, Lion, I will teach thou this skill.”