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The first thing he registers is that there’s something really cold pressing against his wrists. The weight there is restraining and tight against his skin, almost uncomfortably so. There’s a cold gust that blows in right after, sharp against his cheeks, making his hair—which he now realises isn’t tied back like usual—fall against his face. Now, he’s never been in this type of situation, but he knows exactly what’s happened to him.
He finds it amusing, the fact that someone thinks that they can just take him hostage without facing any consequences. Surely they’d know better than that, he initially thinks. He supposes that they didn’t think this through fully.
His eyes dart across the room, taking in every detail like he’s trying to memorise the layout of it and determine where exactly on the server he is. There’s no windows that allow light to seep in from outside (he doubts he’s even above the surface), and there aren't any torches placed anywhere either, leaving the room completely dark, which doesn’t make it easier to determine the appearance of the room. The floor under him feels tiled and smooth, so he assumes that the floor is made out of stone bricks. He can’t quite determine what materials are used to make the wall since he’s practically blind and he can’t move his hands around freely, but judging from the harsh and bumpy texture against his back, it’s most likely cobblestone or a variant of it.
Just as he’s about to deduce whether there’s bars in front of him that cage him, he hears the sound of boots clacking against the smooth surface of the ground, echoing through the area. A warm light slowly starts to approach him alongside a tall figure who’s dressed in black and is wearing netherite armour. As they slowly move closer to him, he can see the room a little better. There are in fact iron bars in front of him that split the room into two, and where he’s facing, he can see stairs that lead up.
The person he assumes is holding him hostage is fully geared in netherite armour, and he can see a sword dangling from their hip, the hilt secured by a belt. Their footsteps are loud, so much so that it’s almost the only thing he can hear, echoes bouncing around the room loudly. When they finally stand in front of him, Fluixon manages to get a glimpse of their face. Bright green eyes bore into his own amethyst ones, the lower half of their face shielded by a bandana that’s tied loosely around their head and their hair tied up into a low ponytail. They don’t look like anyone Fluixon remembers seeing or hearing of.
Fluixon eyes the figure carefully as they stoically strut over to his prison. The closer they get to him, the more prominent a slight purple radiating sheen becomes, and soon enough, in the dark of the room, the architect can make out the handle of a sword. He doesn’t have much time to think before the tip of the weapon presses against his throat, not too close as to cut the skin, but close enough to be there, the weight a constant reminder that he can not play by his own cards if he plans on making it out unscathed.
“So… Fluixon Aculon, am I right?” Their voice is low, raspy, and sounds like it really fucking hurts to speak. “Haven’t seen you around this server. I assume you’re from another server, am I right?”
Fluixon’s lips purse. He doesn’t know whether he should respond or not. A response means he’s giving in and submitting, which is something he doesn’t do, but it also means that he might be able to live another day as well. He weighs out the pros and cons internally, and when he does reply, he feels the blade of the sword dig into his skin, not deep enough to draw blood, but just enough to actually be there.
”It’s actually Fluixon of Aculon. The kingdom wasn't named after me.” He corrects.
“Don’t play any games with me. You’re at my mercy.” They remind. Fluixon gulps at the words.
“Mhm. Different server. I like exploring places from time to time.” Fluixon replies. He’s certain that the stranger will press further, maybe ask what he’s doing on here, if he has any relationships with anyone on the server, or maybe even if this is his first time here, but they don’t say anything more, humming instead as they push the blade marginally closer.
“That’s cute.” They muse. “Now, where is Saparata?”
Fuck.
“Where is he?!” Saparata seethes, glaring at the useless guard that hasn’t done anything to try and find his currently missing husband.
“We can’t find him.” The guard’s hands shake a little, evidently terrified by the leader’s sudden outburst. “Nobody has his whereabouts, nor have they seen him. We even tried interrogating his other friends over in their own servers, but none of them recall him going back there after yesterday.”
Saparata sighs irritatedly. It wasn’t possible for nobody, not even his friends, to have seen him after yesterday. His stomach churns slightly at the thought of something having happened to him, Fluixon getting hurt because of someone that isn’t Saparata himself.
Fluixon had gone to meet up with the rest of The Conspiracy like he always did, going to discuss plans with them about whatever new traps he had formed in that despicable little mind of his. He had kissed Saparata goodbye, wished him luck with whatever duties he had to fulfill, and left, just like that.
Saparata expected to find him sitting with his hands folded in his lap politely with something on the table, like he always did whenever Saparata came home. Instead, he was greeted with an empty table, a dark room, a completely silent household, and no sight of his loved one anywhere. As much as he hated to admit it, panic started to bubble up in his chest, almost suffocatingly.
He had searched the entire household, only to come out empty-handed. That same night, he issued a whole group of his soldiers to set out during the night to try and get Fluixon’s whereabouts. He told them not to come back to the palace unless they had Fluixon with them, safe, and preferably unscathed.
So much for a quick search.
“Get out of my office.” He mumbles, pointing at the door as he rubs his temples.
This was his husband’s third time on the server, how did he already manage to get himself in trouble?!
The guard hurriedly shuffles out, shutting the door with care and precaution, before leaving the room completely devoid of anyone excluding the leader. Despite their attempts on each other’s lives, despite the arguments and banters they often found themselves in, despite them telling each other and everyone around them that their marriage was purely for economical purposes and gain, they still (unfortunately) loved each other dearly, so much so that it left them in a place where they could and would be used against each other at the hands of their enemies.
Saparata sighs. As much as he’d hate to admit it, he’s actually worried. He knows that Fluixon can handle himself—hell, he knows Fluixon hates it when people deem him incompetent or too fragile to take care of himself—but he can’t help but be concerned and maybe a little frightened. Every time Saparata thinks of the possibility that Fluixon’s captors have harmed him or even worse killed him already, his stomach churns and something indescribable bubbles up in his chest that he doesn’t want to name. Quietly, he stands up, before moving to the window of the room and looking out.
Fine. If none of the guards he sent off can do their jobs properly, he supposes he has to take matters into his own hands.
There’s a small slit on the right side of Fluixon’s throat, rivulets of blood slowly seeping out and dripping down his skin, staining his attire. The blade that caused the damage still remains in contact with his skin, the coldness of the metal ever so prominent. His captor clearly doesn’t like playing games. Unfortunately for them, Fluixon’s whole thing is about playing games and watching his opponent fall in despair when they realise they’ve lost. Every one of his actions dictate what happens to him next, so he has to tread carefully, almost like choosing which chess piece to place next to protect the king, which in this scenario refers to Fluixon himself.
The captor has repeated the same question multiple times, asking where exactly Saparata is, but Fluixon is nothing if not stubborn, so he refuses to answer properly every time. Each of his cryptic responses has earned him a small injury. The cut on his neck is the most recent one, given to him after he responded with “Why’re you so obsessed with him? He’s taken, you know, and he’s certainly not the type to cheat.”, which evidently pissed off his enemy more than he had intended for it to.
“Just tell me where he fucking is and maybe I won’t slit your throat right here and make your blood paint the walls and my shirt.” They hiss, pressing the heel of their boot against his chest, deliberately grinding it down to prevent as much air as possible from entering.
“You won’t. I’m the only one close enough to him, and if you lose me, you lose him.” Fluixon grins, an almost manic look on his face. “You have me, so by extension, you have him.”
By the way he can see the gears in his captor’s head turn, he can tell he played his pieces right. Not long after, the boot on his chest pulls back, and so does the blade (although not without slashing at his skin once more), before the wielder steps backwards with a click of their tongue, before heading back up the stairs. At the foot of them, he turns around, staring down at Fluixon.
“We’re not done with you just yet.” They warn. “We won’t stop until we get Saparata, even if you have to die for it.”
The light from the torch slowly dissipates as they leave the room, leaving Fluixon in the dark again, however this time, he’s conscious and fully aware of how stifling the lightless room feels. His hands are still tied behind his back with the metal cuffs pressing against pale skin, his hair is sticking against the back of his neck uncomfortably due to the sweat there, and he feels more tired than he did when he first woke up. He slumps against the wall with a small groan, allowing himself a brief moment of vulnerability to catch himself before anyone can hurt him further.
His eyes slowly flutter shut. The last thing that crosses his mind before he blacks out is the sight of him and his husband together at their dinner table, talking with each other so peacefully yet with a hidden venom that they both hide (not one they’d use against each other, though), waiting to see who’d make the first move to try and murder the other on that night. Maybe it’s Saparata with his more direct attempts. Maybe it’s Fluixon with his more discreet approaches. Fluixon’s left pondering before his mind shuts down, and before he knows it, he’s no longer awake.
Saparata’s visibly seething when he heads out of his palace, netherite sword in one hand and a shield in the other, his inventory stacked up with potions and arrows and other weapons. All of the guards that usually swarm around the gates of the palace are now gone, leaving the area completely barren and devoid of any person except Saparata himself in all of his terrifying glory. His anger is practically radiating off of him.
First, he goes to a nearby village up north. With only a few threats and a near death of a villager, he comes to the conclusion that Fluixon hadn’t passed north, and moves to the other village nearby just to make sure that Fluixon hadn’t even stepped foot up north. A few more interrogations later, Saparata heads down south with no trace of his husband and waning patience.
After multiple searches around each and every village that’s close enough to be covered in a day, Saparata finds that allegedly, a merchant had seen Fluixon near the entrance of a dark oak forest, even having sold some torches to him before inquiring on where someone like him was going at such odd times. Fluixon’s answer was supposedly that he was going to grab some flowers and other fruits for their dinner that night. The merchant didn’t know anything further than that, but a vague clue was better than none. Upon hearing that, he mutters a quiet thanks before making haste to get to the forest where his lover was last seen before anything more happens to him or before he can get further.
There’s only a few signs that the forest had even been disturbed by anyone in the past few days, but Saparata’s smart. He isn’t dumb—he had to be clever and know how to make do with what he had at the moment to even get into such a position of power. Just by the way some branches are bent or drooping slightly, he can tell that someone had been picking at the fruits, which is what Fluixon was last doing if the merchant hadn’t lied straight to his face. By following the trails, he reaches a valley, two waterfalls falling from cliffs of high mountains and into a large pond with water so clear it looks nearly crystalline. From there, he doesn’t find any more leads or traces of anyone being there, much to his dismay.
After a few moments of walking around the area, he notices that a certain part of the waterfall that flows from the tallest mountain around is darker than it should be. Curiously, instead of heading there straight away, he takes coverage behind a tree. His eyes watch what he assumes is an opening intently, waiting for a moment where he can confirm something. When he notices someone walking out, their attire nothing like he’s seen at any of the villages, he grins, almost maniacal.
Fluixon rouses from his sleep to the sound of a group of people arguing in hushed whispers. When he cracks an eye open, his prison is far more lit up than it was when only one person came in earlier. He recognises the sound of his first captor’s voice, speaking louder than anyone else. He makes sure to keep his eyes shut, just to keep up the illusion of him being asleep to make sure that he doesn’t get killed instantly, listening with caution.
“We still need him alive to find Saparata.” The voice of his first captor hisses.
“Can’t we find someone less resistant and stubborn? This guy isn’t going to give us shit about Saparata.” Another voice fights back, pitch higher than the other captor.
“Do you think he keeps anyone else as close to him as his husband?” Says the voice he recognises.
“What if we lie to him? Tell him that one of us has his Conspiracy friends right now, and if he doesn’t tell us where Saparata is, then we’ll kill them.” A third voice chirps. Fluixon nearly scowls. Seems this batch really is idiotic.
“Are you stupid? His friends aren’t that easy to catch.”
“Hold on,” the second voice hushes. “I think he’s awake. I saw him twitch.”
Fluixon tenses, not evident through all of the layers of his clothes. How did he even—?
“Oh my lord, you really are stupid.” the third voice. “People twitch even when they’re asleep! Fuck this shit, I genuinely hired idiots.” So the first captor he saw wasn't the one behind it all.
“Excuse me?!” Argues the first person. “I was the one who captured him! Without me, you wouldn’t even have him in your vicinity!”
Their disagreement continues for nearly five minutes, with Fluixon hearing every word that they say. He wonders how long it’ll take before any of them find out that taking him hostage was the worst idea they could ever have had.
It’s colder in the cell than earlier, so he assumes it’s already night, although he can’t be too sure. If he’s done his calculations correctly, he’s been missing for a little over three days, which is far more than Saparata would ever like. The cuffs are still there, the heavy weight more noticeable against his aching skin due to how long they’ve been there. He’s sure that his wrists will bruise when he gets out.
After their argument dies down, they come to the agreement of waiting one more day for Saparata to get here, and if he doesn’t, they’ll change their hostage situation into a ransom situation. One of them suggests trading a life for a life—either Saparata dies or Fluixon dies—and the others agree. Briefly after, another one of them is ordered to guard his cell at the entrance of the cave—so he’s in a cave, Fluixon figures out—just in case anyone tries to get to him before Saparata does. It’s a little dehumanising, he can’t lie, being treated like a valuable to his husband rather than an actual human, but he supposes that this is the consequence of having married someone as dangerous as Saparata. The other had warned him before they had gotten engaged, and he agreed, so he can’t really argue there.
Footsteps shimmy out of the cell, echoes bouncing off of the walls as they do so, before Fluixon is left by himself in the cell. He finally opens his eyes, the previous darkness now back, which only makes him frown a little. They couldn’t even be bothered to keep one torch in here? He scoffs, before adjusting himself as best as he can with his two wrists bound to the wall via the cuffs, leaning back against the wall as comfortably as possible.
He’ll have to wait a little more, he guesses, before his knight in shining armour will come.
When Saparata notices two more people exit, one of them being the person he recognised from earlier, he tracks them down, being sure to remember the location of the cave so he can go back to it later, making sure that the distance between him and the two possibly-captors isn’t too close nor too far. When they finally arrive at another cave, presumably a private one for mining, Saparata follows behind them, hiding behind whatever chunks of ore are big enough to hide him. He watches as they mine out coal and iron, faint snippets of their conversations audible due to the echoing, catching a few seconds of sentences that make it sound like they’re discussing something extremely confidential. Eventually, he hears one of them describe a person that sounds awfully similar to Fluixon, stupidly stubborn and snarky, and that’s when he knows that he’s hit the goldmine.
Slowly, he starts approaching them, intentionally letting the clicking of his heels reverberate through the cave, which instantly draws the attention of the two captors, their faces instantly depleting of blood, fear and determination etched on both of their faces. One of them takes out an enchanted netherite sword, the other pulls out a bow and a stack of instant harming arrows, drawing the string taut and aiming it right at him. It’s almost amusing to him, seeing their feeble attempts at trying to appear intimidating.
“How cute.” He coos, pulling out his own sword and splashing a few potions onto himself. “What was it you guys said about someone earlier, regal attire, purple streak in his hair, amethyst eyes, and an annoying strong resolve? That person seems awfully similar to someone I know.”
“Do you really think we’ll let you take him back without any fight?” The sword wielder barks, their stance defensive rather than offensive. “Either you trade yourself for him, or we’ll kill him ourselves.”
“Oh, I know you won’t let me. Besides, it wouldn't be fun to let you two off without any resistance.” Saparata grins, immediately lunging forward, swinging his sword at the arrow wielder, managing to land a scratch on their arm before they dodge him.
The attack causes both captors to stumble back, the one holding the sword immediately countering his attack by slashing at his side, only for him to dodge at the last second, a faint cut in his armour being the only sign that anything had even dared graze him. Their little song and dance goes on for a while, with attacks being exchanged like trades. Ultimately, Saparata expectedly comes out victorious, the arrow wielder ending up with their own arrows embedded in their torso and the sword wielder with a gaping hole in their stomach. Saparata wipes the blood off of his sword using a portion of their clothing, making sure it’s pristine and crystal-clear before heading out of the cave, having poked at his food enough.
Without further delay, he heads back to the cave in no time.
The sound of items clattering against each other catches Fluixon’s attention quickly, his head snapping up almost instantly. He can barely assume what the sound is coming from before a deafening shriek shatters his ears, making him flinch, hands going down to cover them before being stopped by the cuffs, forcing him to endure the noise. It doesn’t end quickly—instead, it's drawn out for so long that he nearly feels sorry for whoever has to go through whatever caused it (keyword: nearly). When it finally dies down to a few pained whines that resound from the entrance of the cave, he murmurs a curse, relieved that he doesn’t have to listen to whatever banshee that was. He thinks that the rest of the night will pass by quietly, with the captor at the entrance of his cell not bothering to disturb him any more, but he quickly realises that’s most likely not going to happen when he hears the sound of heels clacking against the stone floor. This time though, it’s a different kind of clicking than the sound of his captor’s boots—it’s much lighter, more elegant, and so recognisable that he immediately knows who it is.
“Saps?” He calls out, hoping that the small hint of desperation doesn’t leak out of his words. He’s been so indescribably bored in this cell—he yearns to get back to his office, to see the blueprints laid out and to think about what traps he’ll use next.
“Flux! So it is you.” He hears his husband’s voice chirp from the stairs, footsteps quickened marginally.
“Who else would it be?” He quips, the view of his lover’s snow white hair and glimmering gold-red eyes a sight for sore eyes. “Help me out of here.” He demands.
Saparata’s more than eager to comply, taking out an axe and swinging at the chains of the cuffs carefully enough to avoid Fluixon’s arms yet still careless enough to bubble up a small bit of fear in his lover—he couldn’t help it, the slight flash of nervousness flickering in his eyes as he swung the axe making adrenaline rush up his spine—before taking Fluixon’s arms in his hands to undo the cuffs, using one of his hairpins to unlock them before letting the weights drop to the ground, clanging against the floor. Fluixon twists his wrists for a while to try and make them less stiff, and that’s when Saparata sees it—a faint ring of purple, a sign of bruised skin, right where the cuffs were.
“Did you get hurt?” He instinctively asks, taking Fluixon’s wrists back into his hands to examine the damage. His eyes darken just a small bit, because only Saparata can harm Fluixon and get away with it, and vice-versa.
“The asshole cut my neck a little.” Fluixon responds irritatedly, baring his neck to show where dried blood coats his skin. He feels Saparata’s finger brush through the injuries, a faint sting accompanying the gentle strokes.
“Seems to be fine. We’ll clean you up when we get home. Anywhere else?”
Fluixon shakes his head. “I’m more upset that they lost my hair tie. It was stupidly expensive for a hair tie.” He scoffs, earning a small chuckle from his lover.
“It’s alright, I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You better.” Fluixon replies. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Let’s go.” Saparata agrees, taking Fluixon’s hand into his before they head out.