Page 36 of Sereis
"You're trembling," he observed, his hand coming up to trace one of the frost patterns on my arm. The touch sent sparks through every nerve, aurora light flaring brighter where his fingers passed.
"So are you," I pointed out, catching the minute shake in his hand, the careful control that couldn't quite hide his own vulnerability.
We stood there in the chamber he'd prepared with such obsessive care, both of us trembling on the edge of something more permanent than human marriage, more binding than any earth-law. The contract waited on its table of eternal ice, patient as winter. Through the clear ceiling, the twin moons crept toward their dark appointment, when void would reign and bonds could be sealed that would reshape our very existence around each other.
"When the moons go dark," he said, his hand still on my arm, thumb tracing patterns that made me shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with cold, "everything changes."
"Everything already has," I replied, and felt the truth of it in my bones, in the frost patterns that marked me as his, in the way my body leaned toward him without conscious thought.
The first moon began to dim, its edge eaten by shadow. We didn’t have long to wait.
His hand moved from my arm to my hair, fingers tangling gently in the dark strands. "I've waited so long," he murmured, and I heard centuries of loneliness in those four words.
"The waiting ends tonight," I promised, and felt the chamber itself hold its breath in anticipation.
We sat facing each other across the black ice table, close enough that our knees touched through silk and wool, and the contact sent heat straight through me despite the chamber's chill. The moons continued their slow dance toward darkness above us, casting strange shadows through the dragon vellum that seemed to move independently of the light causing them.
Sereis withdrew a second document from his robes—regular paper this time, covered in his precise handwriting that looked like frost patterns themselves. The normalcy of it, after the ancient vellum, made me realize this was perhaps more important. The Pact would bind us in magic and law, but this—
"This defines us in practice," he said, spreading the papers between us with careful fingers. "In daily life, in all the small moments between crises. The Pact makes you mine. This determines what that means when we wake each morning, when you push boundaries, when you need structure or I need control."
This was the document he’d been working on for centuries.
My cheeks heated as I read the first section. Rules, spelled out with meticulous detail. Bedtime by the turn of the ice-clock unless otherwise permitted—my bedtime, he'd specified, not his. Three meals daily, no skipping regardless of stress or distraction. Regular sleep, adequate water, limits on how long I could push myself without rest.
"You've thought about this," I said, tracing one line with my finger. The rule about meals had subclauses about nutritional balance, about treats earned through good behavior, about never using food withdrawal as punishment.
"I've had plenty of time to consider what I would need, if I ever found someone." His knee pressed slightly harder against mine, deliberate contact. "These aren't arbitrary rules, Mira. Your body is mine to care for now. That means ensuring it's properly maintained."
The possessiveness in his voice made my stomach twist in complicated ways—part arousal, part trepidation, part deep relief that someone wanted to take responsibility for the things I so often neglected in myself.
"And discipline?" I asked, moving to that section though my cheeks burned hotter.
"Disobedience, primarily. But also—" his finger traced down the list, "—endangering yourself through action or inaction. Self-harm, whether deliberate or through neglect. Lying to me about your needs or your health. Pushing yourself past limits without communication."
Each circumstance had been considered, detailed. The types of discipline varied too—impact play for deliberate disobedience, corner time for emotional dysregulation, writing lines for lying, restriction of privileges for repeated infractions. But throughout, notes about assessment first, about understanding the why before determining the how.
"My limits," I said, finding that section. He'd already filled in what he'd observed or assumed, but left space for my corrections.
"Tell me," he commanded gently.
My throat felt tight as I read through his assumptions, most of them startlingly accurate. "Impact play—I can take it, want it even, but I need—" I paused, searching for words that felt too vulnerable to speak.
"Aftercare," he supplied. "Intensive aftercare. The vulnerability that comes after requires as much attention as the discipline itself."
I nodded, grateful he understood. "Temperature play can overwhelm me. Since the transformation, every sensation is so much more—"
"We'll explore that carefully. Small increments." His hand moved across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough I felt his cold. "What else?"
"Praise." The word came out barely audible. "When it's too intense, too genuine, I—"
"Cry," he finished. "I've noticed. We'll balance that, build your tolerance slowly. And your hard limits?"
These were easier to voice, oddly. "No public humiliation. Ever. No sharing—I belong to you alone. No marks where clothing won't cover, not because I'm ashamed but because what we are to each other is private, sacred."
He was already writing, adding my words to his document in that precise script. "Mine align with yours," he said. "I don't share what's mine. Public submission would require subtlety, small gestures only we understand. And marks—" he looked up, meeting my eyes, "—will be for our pleasure, hidden treasures only we know exist."
We moved through more sections. Safe words—Aurora for full stop, Frost for slow down, Snow for pause to communicate. Daily protocols—how I would greet him each morning, how we would reconnect each evening. The requirement that I wear something of his choosing each day, even if just a small token hidden beneath my clothes.
