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For the Dark Urge Tavs | Zevlor x Reader

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, very tender. Durge-centric. Yes I am supposed to rest. But the genius struck. I want to write more angst, more gore, more fights…

(Painting by Antoine Wiertz - The Greeks and the Trojans Fighting over the Body of Patroclus)

You had to tell him, and you had to tell him now. Too great would be the betrayal of a lie so profound, too radical the risk of shedding blood—or worse. You took a deep breath and faced him, glance cast downward, averting his questioning eyes as you spoke.

“Zevlor. I have been hiding something, something of great importance. And though I cannot promise this bond between us eternity, I know that I will regret endlessly if I keep this secret.”

You felt your blood thrumming in your skull, bone aching and stinging. A silent threat to you, issued by the parasite that isn’t the worry of your companions. Another. Not one with a physical form, not one you could possibly simply pull out of there if you wanted to. Something deeper, darker. An urge. An instinct. A trait. A trait so terrifyingly deadly and hungry.

“I was born of gore, raised in blood—fed on it. I was born a lesser being you could ever come to be. I was born not a devil, but worse. I was born not disfigured, but worse. I was born beautiful, tragically, without asking for it. I was nursed by mistakes, I blossomed from the guilt grown from it. And there were times when guilt had no care left for me, there were times when regret is not a feeling I knew. And sometimes, there are still times where I don’t know who I am, where I don’t know what to do with these hands of mine. Because no matter what I do, no matter what I touch. It will rot. It will wither. It will die. Death is my constant companion. Where I go, he goes. Where I act, he reaps. And I am afraid.”

You hesitated to place your hand against his cheek, but you did so anyway, your eyes finally meeting his. The flames within them seemed to flicker, hazy with a kind of understanding, a kind of acceptance, but also, fear.

“I don’t want you to be the next, I cannot have you be the next. Anyone but you. I am afraid. I can’t lose you, not you of all people.”

Your cheeks were flush from emotions, fear of loss, anger at yourself. Embarrassment that the thought of killing the one you loved so dearly could even dare to cross your mind. You almost flinched when he reached out to cup your face with one clawed hand, but melted into his embrace when his thumb stroked gently beneath your eye. You felt it now, your skin was damp, and his as well now. You hadn’t realised it but you were crying, your vision blurry from the tears that still welled up in your eyes, and your hands trembled, one at the side of Zevlor’s neck and the other one tense, in a fist, at your side.

“Please, don’t cry, my dear.” His hand moved from your cheek behind your head to pull you closer, his forehead settling against yours as both of your eyes closed. His other hand found your tense one and wrapped around it, silently pleading you to loosen your fist, and so you did. As his fingers threaded through yours and held your hand firmly, you let out a shaky breath and felt your body relax a little. The tremble was still there, though not quite as intense as before.

“I trust in you, I trust that this is something that can be resolved. Eventually. And I will wait centuries for you if I have to. I will not distance myself from you. Not now, nor ever. You are strong. Resilient. We can work through this. I will not leave your side.”

“When I close my eyes. I see blood on my hands. I taste it on my tongue. I can smell it, all I can smell is metallic blood and rotting, sweet decay. I’ve seen you in front of me before, so lifeless and silent. I didn’t sleep that night, I thought about tying myself to a tree.”

Your lips felt dry, skin cracked. Your tongue darted out to wet them, forehead still resting against Zevlor’s.

“You know what I’ve done. You know that I killed Alfira. And you know she won’t be my last victim. I bear no memory of that kill, but I remember a faint feeling. A hunger within satisfied, I remember a content smile on my lips, mere seconds before I realised what I had done. And I couldn’t get the blood off my hands that night. I couldn’t sleep. But I did not need to sleep for the nightmares to find me.”

Zevlor’s hand tightened around yours at the mention of Alfira’s death. You knew it did not leave him unaffected. She was under his care. And it was your fault that he felt guilty. He couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t protect her from you. You were the monster here, and he refused to budge, refused to condemn you for what you are.

As though he didn’t see. As though he saw something else in you, something brighter, something you were too tainted to see.

“You helped my people, you got rid of Kagha and the goblins, you could have sided against us at any moment—but you didn’t. And that says more about you than any blood on your hands ever will. Not as long as it is caused by something that isn’t entirely you.”

Soft lips found your cracked ones, mending the sores and chasing away the sorrows. You knew they would come back, the sorrows. But you wanted to try for him. Be good for him. To him.

“If I ever lose control. If I attack you. Strike me down. Play unfair. I need you to end me then. Before I can end you. Promise me. That is my only request.”

His flaming eyes looked deeply into yours. Unwavering. Lacking the hatred and fear you should be finding in them.

He stayed silent. He did not promise.

He could not.