The fire in the hearth crackled, a lone, warm sound in the otherwise profound stillness of the inn room. Outside, a gentle rain whispered against the windowpanes, washing the dust of the road from the sleepy town of Alnus. For the first time in weeks, there were no marching orders, no scouting reports, no imminent threat of battle. There was only this quiet, this warmth, and her. He sat in a sturdy wooden chair, oiling the leather straps of his vambrace, but his attention was not on the task. His eyes, and indeed his entire being, were drawn to the figure curled upon the plush velvet settee near the fire: Rory Mercury.

She was a paradox made flesh, a creature of stunning contradictions. Clad in her formal, gothic lolita apostle's garb—all black silk, crimson ribbons, and delicate lace—she looked like a doll crafted by a master artisan. Her petite frame and the youthful curve of her face belied the nine hundred and sixty-one years she had lived. But it was her eyes that held the truth. Crimson irises, deep and ancient, they held the wisdom of centuries, the weariness of countless battles, and a profound, aching loneliness that she guarded with a razor-sharp wit and a teasing, often cruel, demeanor. He had seen glimpses of it, in the quiet moments after a fight, when she thought no one was watching. It was this hidden vulnerability that had first captured his heart, a heart he now knew was irrevocably hers.

Tonight, the formidable Apostle of Emroy seemed content to be just a girl. She had her massive, fearsome halberd leaning against the wall, a silent sentinel in the corner of the room. Her black boots were neatly placed beside the settee, and her stockinged feet were tucked beneath her. In the flickering firelight, her silver-black hair seemed to drink the shadows, while the warm glow kissed the pale, perfect skin of her face. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way a stray lock of hair fell across her brow. He wanted nothing more than to brush it back, to feel the silk of it against his fingertips. The thought alone made his pulse quicken.

“You are staring,” she said, her voice a low, melodic purr that cut through the quiet. She didn't open her eyes, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “It is impolite to stare so intently at a lady, you know.”

He felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks, caught in his silent admiration. “My apologies, Lady Rory. I was… lost in thought.”

At that, her crimson eyes opened, pinning him with a gaze that was both playful and piercing. “Lost in thoughts of me, I presume? Tell me, what sordid fantasies does a mortal man conjure when he looks upon an apostle of a god of war? Do you imagine me drenched in the blood of our enemies? Or something… else?” The last word was a silken thread, a subtle invitation that sent a shiver down his spine.

He put down his vambrace, giving her his full attention. He had long ago learned that playing coy with Rory Mercury was a fool's errand. She saw through every pretense. Honesty, even when it was difficult, was the only path. “I was thinking,” he began, his voice a little rough, “that you look peaceful. It’s a rare sight.”

Her smile softened slightly, the predatory edge momentarily retreating. “Peace is a luxury, one I have seldom been afforded.” She shifted on the settee, patting the velvet cushion beside her. “Come. The fire is warm. Cease your toil and sit with me.”

His heart hammered against his ribs as he crossed the room. The space felt charged with a palpable energy, a tension that had been building between them for months. It was in the lingering glances across the campfire, the way her hand would sometimes brush his in the heat of battle, the private jokes shared only between them. He sat beside her, careful to leave a respectable distance, though every fiber of his being screamed to close the gap. The warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the heat radiating from her small form. He could smell her scent, a unique and intoxicating blend of roses, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that always seemed to cling to her, a constant reminder of what she was.

“You are still tense,” Rory observed, turning to face him fully. She drew her legs up, her posture impossibly graceful. “Is the war still raging within your mind?”

“It’s not the war,” he admitted, his gaze falling to her hands, which rested in her lap. They were delicate, with long, slender fingers, yet he had seen those same hands wield her halberd with enough force to cleave a man in two. “It’s you, Rory. It’s always you.”

The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken words. Rory Mercury’s playful mask slipped away entirely, replaced by an expression of unguarded curiosity. She tilted her head, her long hair cascading over her shoulder. “And what is it about me that ties a strong warrior like you into such knots?”

He took a breath, summoning his courage. “Everything. Your strength. Your age. Your… beauty. The way you laugh, even when it’s cruel. The sadness in your eyes when you think no one can see. I see it all, Rory. And it’s tearing me apart.”

For a long moment, she was silent. The only sounds were the rain and the fire. Then, she moved. It was a fluid, silent motion, and suddenly she was closer, the space between them gone. Her hand, cool and soft, came up to cup his jaw. Her thumb traced the line of his stubble, sending sparks through his entire system. Her crimson eyes searched his, looking for something, a hint of falsehood or fear. Finding none, her expression softened into something he had never seen before—a raw, open vulnerability.

“No one has ever dared to see all of me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They see the apostle. The demigoddess. The monster. They fear me, or they worship me. But they do not… see me.”

“I see you, Rory Mercury,” he breathed, his own hand rising to cover hers, holding it against his cheek. “And I am not afraid.”

That was all it took. The final wall between them crumbled. She leaned in, and he met her halfway. Their first kiss was not gentle. It was a clash of desperation and longing, a collision of centuries of loneliness with a mortal’s finite, passionate love. Her lips were soft but demanding, and he responded with all the pent-up adoration he had kept locked away. It was a kiss of profound acceptance, a sealing of an unspoken pact. He tasted the faint sweetness of wine on her tongue and something else, something ancient and wild, the essence of Rory Mercury herself.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. Her eyes were dark with a burgeoning desire, a hunger that matched his own. “Show me,” she commanded, her voice husky. “Show me how a man sees a woman, not a monument.”

His hands, which had trembled only moments before, were now steady. He moved from her face to the intricate crimson ribbons at her collar. His fingers worked at the delicate knots, his touch reverent. With each ribbon that came undone, with each layer of her elaborate dress that he carefully peeled back, he felt as though he were unwrapping a sacred gift. The starched black fabric gave way to the soft chemise beneath, and then to the warm, pale skin of her shoulders and collarbone. She shivered under his touch, not from cold, but from a sensation she had long forgotten.

He eased the dress from her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. She wore a simple white chemise, the thin fabric doing little to hide the perfect curves of her small, firm breasts. He leaned in, his lips tracing a path from the base of her throat down to the hollow between her collarbones. He felt her sharp intake of breath, heard the soft sigh that escaped her lips. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, holding him closer, silently urging him on. This was no longer the imposing Rory Mercury, Apostle of Emroy; this was Rory, a woman starved for a touch that was not about worship or violence, but about pure, unadulterated desire.

He lifted her into his arms, surprised as always by how light she was, and carried her to the large, canopied bed. He laid her gently upon the cool linen sheets, her dark dress a stark contrast against the white. The firelight danced across her skin, painting her in hues of orange and gold. Her eyes never left his, watching him with an intensity that stole his breath. He slowly, deliberately, removed the rest of her clothing, and then his own, until there was nothing left between them but the heated air of the room.

Her body was a masterpiece. Though she had the frame of a young girl, her form was that of a woman in her prime, honed by centuries of battle and blessed by a god. Her skin was flawless, like alabaster, and her breasts were full and tipped with delicate, rose-pink nipples that were already hard with anticipation. A soft triangle of dark hair nestled between her thighs, a shadow of promise in the flickering light. He knelt on the bed beside her, his gaze a worshipful caress.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, the words feeling utterly inadequate to describe the sight of Rory Mercury, vulnerable and open before him.

A faint blush colored her cheeks. “Words are easy,” she murmured, her voice a seductive challenge. “Show me.”

He lowered his head, his lips finding hers again in a deep, soul-searing kiss. His hands began a slow, deliberate exploration of her body. He traced the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the smooth, powerful line of her thighs. Every touch was an act of devotion. He wanted to memorize the feel of her, to brand the texture of her skin into his memory. She gasped when his fingers brushed the inside of her thigh, her body arching instinctively towards his touch. He took his time, teasing the sensitive skin there, watching as her eyes fluttered shut and her breath came in ragged pants.

His mouth followed the path his hands had blazed. He kissed her stomach, feeling the muscles there quiver. He moved lower, breathing in her uniquely feminine scent, a scent that was driving him mad with need. He parted her soft folds with his thumbs and his tongue found her, tasting the sweet dew of her arousal. Rory cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that was quickly swallowed by a moan of pure pleasure. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her back arching off the bed. He had never imagined that the great Rory Mercury could sound so utterly undone, so completely lost to sensation. He drank her in, loving the way her body trembled and bucked against his mouth, listening to the breathless litany of pleas and curses she whispered into the pillows. He brought her to her first peak this way, feeling the powerful contractions of her climax against his tongue, swallowing the essence of her release as if it were a divine nectar.

She lay panting, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat, her crimson eyes hazy with ecstasy. She reached for him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him up. “Now,” she demanded, her voice thick with need. “Inside me. I want to feel all of you.”

He positioned himself between her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist as if they were made to be there. He looked down at her, at the incredible woman who had chosen him. He saw the centuries of longing in her eyes, the desperate need for a connection that transcended her divinity. He entered her slowly, reverently. She was hot and tight around him, a welcoming sheath of pure sensation. She gasped, her eyes widening as he filled her completely. For a moment, they both stilled, simply savoring the profound feeling of their bodies being joined as one. He was inside of Rory Mercury. The thought was staggering, humbling.

Then he began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was a silent promise. He would not rush this. This was not a conquest; it was a communion. With every thrust, he poured all of his love, his adoration, his respect for her into the act. Rory met his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his, her movements fluid and sure. Her initial passivity gave way to an active, passionate participation. This was her domain, after all—the realm of passion, of life and death, of war and love. She was a goddess of it all. Her legs locked tighter around him, her nails raking down his back, not with intent to harm, but in the throes of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

“Say my name,” she panted, her forehead pressed against his, their breaths mingling.

“Rory,” he groaned, his rhythm quickening. “Rory… my Rory Mercury.”

Her name was a prayer on his lips. The sound of it seemed to push her further, to unleash something primal within her. Their bodies moved in a frantic, perfect dance. The world outside the bed ceased to exist. There was only the sound of their breathing, the slick slide of their skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the soft, desperate moans that fell from their lips. He watched her face, saw the pleasure building there, her features taut, her eyes squeezed shut. He felt his own release coiling deep in his belly, a rushing tide that was impossible to hold back. He thrust deeper, faster, chasing that ultimate peak with her.

Her crimson eyes snapped open, locking with his. In their depths, he saw not a demigoddess, but a woman on the brink of total surrender. “Now!” she cried out, her voice breaking.

It was all the permission he needed. With a final, deep thrust, he poured himself into her, his own release a guttural roar of her name. At the same moment, he felt her inner muscles clench around him in a series of powerful, ecstatic spasms, her body shuddering violently as her own climax crashed over her. It was a shared oblivion, a moment of perfect, shattering unity where the mortal and the divine became one.

For a long time afterward, they lay tangled together, their sweat-slicked bodies still trembling from the aftershocks. He remained inside her, unwilling to break the connection. His cheek was pressed against her hair, and he could feel the frantic beat of her heart gradually slowing to match his own. The only sounds were the soft whisper of the rain and their own quiet, contented breathing.

“I have lived for nearly a millennium,” Rory whispered against his chest, her voice soft and laced with a new, fragile emotion. “I have known battle, worship, fear, and solitude. But I have never… I have never known this.”

He tightened his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, Rory Mercury,” he said, the words as true and solid as the ground beneath them. “Not the apostle, not the demigoddess. You.”

She was silent for a moment, and he felt a single, hot tear fall onto his skin. She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him. The firelight caught the moisture on her cheek, making it gleam like a tiny diamond. The teasing, cruel mask was gone. The imperious apostle had vanished. In her place was a woman whose ancient eyes were filled with a raw, beautiful, and utterly captivating love.

“Stay with me,” she said, the words both a plea and a command. “Stay with me, and never let me be alone again.”

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. He reached up and gently wiped the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Always,” he promised. As he drew her down for another, softer kiss, he knew this was not just a night of passion. It was the beginning of a new chapter, a new life, intertwined forever with the magnificent, infuriating, and utterly divine woman known as Rory Mercury.