Hey, guys!
I've been getting asks lately about that one Manerkol interview I did for Patreon in the early days of TSSW.
It's not available anywhere right now, but people are asking for it, so I figured, why not gift it to all of you? 🤩✨
Warning, this features an MC who is into Manerkol choking them, so tread with caution 🤣
Hope you enjoy your little Manerkol dose, folks!
~*~
What was the experience of the aftermath of losing the MC at the end of the first book and knowing that your soul mate is working against the destiny you've pursued for so long. How do you reconcile that emotionally?
A razor-sharp red gaze pins you to the spot, the full weight of Manerkol's attention pushing against your shoulders, making you swallow thickly to dispel the silently menacing atmosphere. The Lord of all sits elegantly on his throne, but he is not speaking at all.
He sits entirely still—except from the steady tapping of a lone finger against the armrest of his throne, the claw-like ornament he wears making an ominous clicking sound against the cold marble. The temperature drops more and more with every second that passes until you are shivering as you stand before his statuesque form.
When he finally opens his mouth to speak, you are so shaken that you're ready to beg for forgiveness for daring to question him in this manner.
"I need reconcile nothing. Having a soulmate is unexpected—but it changes nothing in the grand scheme of my design. They will yield to me in the end like everyone else did before them—and they will be glad for the opportunity to do so."
What starts as an emotionless tone soon turns to menacing, then settles at smug. A dark smirk pulls at the Lord's full lips, his mercurial attention suddenly not as suffocating as before.
"You amuse me," he praises you in a condescending tone. "You may continue."
Do you have a fave ice cream flavor? What about favorite color? Did you ever have a pet crow? How would you react to his soulmate showing you their pet rock/marimo and calling it your child?
The figure sitting upon his imposing throne listens patiently as you unleash a slew of questions upon him, his face an expressionless mask that gives no indication of what he thinks of about your queries. As soon as you're done asking, a moment passes in silence.
Nothing moves, Manerkol appearing like a pale, cold statue, not breathing, not shifting in the slightest. Then he slowly tilts his head at you, and his lips thin—the stare of absolute pity and disgust he gives you could not be faked in a million years.
"I do not enjoy ice cream. Black. I have an entire country full of animal familiars. And…" He enunciates these answers with deliberate slowness as if he's addressing a toddler not quick on the uptake—or something else equally insulting. And yet he pauses for a moment on the last question.
He slowly blinks, and a barely-there sigh leaves his lips, his expression growing pinched—except for the softening of his red eyes, a softness he does not bother to hide. Whether it's because he is unashamed of it or because he thinks you so inferior that your opinion doesn't matter, no one but the Gods can tell.
"My soulmate can claim whatever they please—rocks, creatures, anything that strikes their fancy. The world is theirs to play with." A tiny smirk pulls at his lips, and you can breathe more easily now that he appears more entertained than disgusted with you.
You do note, however, that he didn't answer the child part of the question and consider whether to press the issue. You open your mouth—only to promptly close it when the room temperature plummets abruptly, and black, misty tendrils start blooming at the edges of the room.
"You may continue. Or is this perhaps your last question?" The emphasis put on "last" is barely noticeable—and yet the meaning it conveys is as clear as a bell's toll. Time to move on!
Do you still have feelings for Ithilmir? If you do, how would you react to seeing them again now that you're bonded with the MC?
"…Feelings. For Ithilmir?" The words are breathed out so softly that you barely heard them, and Manerkol remains as passive on his throne as ever. There is nothing to warn you of the danger you have put yourself in, no change in tone; no tell that could prepare for what's to come.
One minute you're looking at the High King and asking your question, and the next… The next, you are flung across the room by a backhanded slap you couldn't have seen coming if your life depended on it. Manerkol stepped through time and space with more speed than your human eyes could ever hope to track, his wrath burning out the oxygen in the room.
Or maybe that's just the black tendrils that seize your flying body before you hit the opposite wall, the shadowy vines wrapping around your throat and squeezing. You gasp, and you thrash, your cheek a field on fire—but then you grow suddenly still as Manerkol materializes in front of you.
Your only consolation is that he could have killed you if he wanted—but he didn't, and that means you may still have a chance. So you stay absolutely still, curbing down the impulse to claw at the tendrils, scream and plead. Or even worse, fight.
The tendrils around your throat dissolve only to be replaced by his cold, merciless hand, his long fingers wrapping around the defenseless column as his thumb digs cruelly into your pulse point. His red eyes are two points of icy wrath, and yet the rest of him seems weirdly tranquil.
"If I ever had the misfortune of seeing Ithilmir in the flesh again, I would react in the only way possible. I would grind their bones to dust under my boot, pluck out their eyes, feed them their own tongue. And if they ever thought of even looking at my soulmate, I'd make sure that their experience lasts for centuries."
His voice is neutral, with no inflection, no emotion. Or at least until he gets to the part about his soulmate. Then it turns ice cold, murderous to the point when each word feels like a spear of ice dragged along your skin, every rise and fall slicing strips of agonizing sensation into your flesh.
You gasp as the statue-like hand squeezes your throat one last time—and then Manerkol's wrath breaks, a sly grin breaking out as he takes in your shuddering form. He lets you go without preamble, and you crumple to the floor in a heap, coughs wracking your body.
"Hmm, why don't you ask me about Ithilmir again? I enjoyed your last question," he prompts in a light tone, far too cordial to be anything but a mockery, a threat. His fangs peek out of his full lips with his smile, and he pets your head with one hand as if you were an animal he is rewarding for amusing him.
Within the next second, he is back at his throne, lounging elegantly, that sickening grin of amusement still pulling at his lips as he watches you struggle to your feet. Welp. You should be grateful you're still alive, you guess.
What happened to Ithilmir? How did you manage to escape the god of death?
He does not look surprised that you persist in this line of questioning. Instead, he tilts his head and lets his chin rest on the palm of his hand as he balances it against the armrest of his imperial throne. He is still smiling, his red eyes glimmering, and you feel like a mouse caught in a cat's cruel game.
The High King's amusement suddenly feels ten times more dangerous than his anger, and you get the dreadful feeling that once your questions end, you may end alongside them. You struggle to stay upright, your legs shaking with your terror, your hands fists at your sides.
Manerkol watches it all with that same gleeful smile. It's not often that one can see him like this—taking pleasure from the suffering of creatures inferior to him is not something he usually does. But you must have gotten under his skin pretty bad if he's taking such perverse pleasure at your suffering.
And the High King, in all his magnanimous generosity, deigns to answer one more Ithilmir question for you.
"Ithilmir got exactly what they deserved. The plans they had—thwarted. Their shrines—destroyed. Their worship—ended. The fate they had planned for me, I enforced upon them instead. And now? Now all that's left of them is their impotent tears."
The satisfaction he takes from this declaration is apparent for all to see, the recollection of how he utterly crushed Ithilmir. If you needed any more evidence of how dangerous this man is, you now have it before you. He defeated a God. And then went on to eradicate most of them from the face of Talhamsyn.
The same man staring down at you with twisted amusement playing in the red depths of his eyes has made an entire country bow to his will. Your presence here is tolerated—so long as you prove more entertaining than annoying. A chill runs down your spine as the Lord of All licks his top lip slowly, his eyes tracking the way you swallow thickly.
His fangs peek out once more, and you're 100% percent sure that the move is calculated.
"Continue, pet," he urges in a smooth tone, deep and sensual. You're moments away from getting your throat ripped out, you just know it.
How do you maintain your hair to stay so fabulous?
A lilting chuckle bursts forth from his lips, yet despite the mirth behind the sound, it's not pleasant. Or maybe it is if one enjoys being mocked and looked down upon. The High King moves his hand and trails it over his ebony hair in an entirely enticing, ridiculing manner.
Taunting you with the perfection that will never be yours.
"Is that truly a serious question? Are you looking for beauty tips, perhaps?" he asks in a dulcet tone, his lips quirked, his gaze pitying. He runs his fingers through the ebony locks, and you think you can smell the scent of jasmine wafting through the air.
"My excuses, pet. I'm afraid no amount of tips could ever help you with…that." He waves with his hand in the general direction of your head, and if not for the entirely patronizing tone, one might think that the sympathy reflected in his red gaze was genuine.
As things stand, however, the sinister smirk leveled your way eradicates any hope of getting an answer out of him. And it makes you wonder… Has he sincerely answered any of your questions until now? Aside from saying that his favorite color is black…
What would break your heart? What would mend it whole again?
An imperious eyebrow raised in disbelief is the only answer you get for a moment as Manerkol's red gaze sweeps over you, probably gauging if you're being serious or not. For a fraction of a second, his lips thin, and his fingers grip the armrest tightly.
But the reaction is gone so fast that you wonder if maybe you imagined it altogether.
"You are assuming I have one—and based on that assumption, you speculate further that I'd care about its workings. My heart, existing or not, is inconsequential. All that matters is my will, my design for this world. Everything else is of little import."
The emotionless response is delivered in a dead tone, emphasizing the King's point. You would have no doubt whatsoever that this heartless man means every word he said—if not for the way his gaze shifts to the left for a moment, focusing in a memory or thought that only he can see.
There's a flash of loss, but it's wiped away within the blink of an eye, leaving behind nothing but impenetrable stone, an icy veneer that no warmth can ever hope to penetrate. Except perhaps for the person who had him looking away in the first place.
"You are treading on thin ice, creature. I'm growing bored with your inanity. Choose your next words wisely." The threat is delivered in so casual a tone that it sends needles of apprehension pricking down your spine, and you swallow thickly as you prepare for your next question.
What would have been the plan of action, had the wielders not torn you away from your soulmate?
This time the vampire obviously grits his teeth, his patience for you growing thin exponentially. The glare he throws your way is feral, a savage hunger hiding behind it—if it's merely for your blood or your demise, you cannot be sure.
His gorgeous features turn sharp, bestial, his cheekbones becoming more prominent, the jut of his jaw even more pronounced. You don't know if he's using magic to create this illusion of if it's a product of his vampirism, but as two unnaturally big red eyes pin you to the spot, you very much feel ready to wet your pants.
"You'd presume to know my plans, creature? Should I perhaps draw you a diagram with every decision I've ever made in my 2000 years, every single choice that led to this point? Or perhaps you'd prefer a bullet point list with the most important points summarized?"
If not for his now wildly unsettling aura and appearance, one might assume that he's genuinely offering to do these things for you. He's obviously being sarcastic, but his tone is so deadpan that it messes with your brain, even more so than your perception of his distorted face.
"And never mention that day to me again." This time, the quiet menace is not concealed—you blink in desperation to dispel the sweat that has fallen into your eyes, making them sting. But as your vision clears, so does Manerkol's visage.
He is sitting opposite you, as regal and gorgeous as ever, his expression a mask of carefully cultivated disinterest. And yet the heaviness of the moment lingers, warning you of what is going on beneath his glacial surface. You are moments away from being disposed of—and when the Lord of All elegantly rises from his throne and starts walking towards you with exaggerated care, you know that your moment of death might just be upon you.
But you just can't stop asking questions.
Can you use magic, and if so, would you teach it to your soulmate?
The answer this time is instant, no deliberation, almost as if Manerkol has decided that the time to play around is over, and he'll grant you whatever questions you manage to get out before he reaches you. Each step closer is one step further into your own doom. And yet you can't help but watch helplessly the deadly elegance that is his movements.
"I am the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived, and there is no power or knowledge that I'd deny my soulmate. Not as long as they don't intend to use it against me." The answer is matter-of-fact, sterile. As if he's answering what should be obvious.
You realize that maybe you should start walking backward to create as much distance between you and him as possible—and to your surprise, he allows it. He doesn't fasten his gait, his long legs eating up the space between you in unhurried steps.
He knows that there's nowhere for you to go, and so do you. Your only chance of survival is either an act of the Gods, or another mercurial swing of his mood, changing his intentions from deadly to tolerating. But as he stalks you across the room, silent, his sleek muscles moving under the fabric of his form-fitting robes, a predator in all but name…
You can't see how you might be saved, and so you do the only thing left for you to do. As your back hits a wall behind you, signaling that your time is up, you shoot another question at him. Your last one.
What's your ideal date?
The question is ludicrous, especially considering the situation. But your mind is drawing a blank, terror stealing away your higher thinking, and this is the only thing that popped up in your brain. But by some stroke of unimaginable luck, it makes Manerkol pause in his pursuit of you.
He stops moving a mere couple paces away from you—then he raises one elegant hand and presses it to his eyes as a deep chuckle rumbles in the frigid air between you. You suddenly realize that the temperature in the room has fallen significantly, drugging you, slowing down your reactions.
Not that you believe that Manerkol needs another edge over you—there is no competition here. You watch, scared out of your wits as his shoulders shake with his mirth, his upper face hidden behind his hand. Then that hand moves to swipe his hair from over his shoulder and back down his back, making another explosion of jasmine scent saturate your senses.
"My soulmate and I in one of the deep or high places of the world, safe, unreachable, feasting on the blood of whatever poor fool happened to cross our way." The words have a teasing quality to them, like he's joking with you—only, you're at the butt of the joke.
His gaze sharpens on you, glimmering and beautiful, arrogant and pitying—but you can see that he's amused, even as he threatens to feast upon your blood. Because that's exactly what his answer was. Or maybe he honestly thinks that what he described is the ideal, the undoubtedly perfect, the mother of all dates.
Who are you to judge a Vampire Lord's taste in dates, after all? And yet you can't shake the feeling that every single answer he gave you is not what it seems, not what he truly means—nothing but a game he played to entertain himself for a while. There are kernels of truth in every response, but what goes unspoken is far more important.
But alas, you will never get to figure out this game of riddles the High King played with you—he steps up to you languidly, breaching the last of the distance between you, and his tall form looms over you, imposing and deadly. He reaches out with one fine-boned hand, cupping your cheek.
The chill of his touch seeps into you, putting you under, freezing your blood, and the Lord leans down, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. Then he smiles.
"Time's up," he murmurs in a drugging voice, the timbre turning your mind into a hazy fog. There's nothing sexual about his touch or the situation in general—the quality is more that of a benevolent parent, lulling their tired child to sleep,
You amused him, after all. You have earned yourself the privilege of death without pain. It's time for you to sleep. The room around you dissolves into a barren landscape, grey and lifeless, with mist swirling around your feet. You realize suddenly that this is nothing but a dream.
And yet the realization is a faraway thing, nothing that affects you now. You know all too well about Manerkol's ability to kill people in their sleep. You hazily wonder what information he meant to take from you, what his mind was searching for as your brain conjured up this scenario of your interviewing the High King, probably to protect itself from the real danger going on in the background.
You watch, enraptured, as his mouth gets ever closer, his hand on your cheek tilting your head to the side to make room for his bite. A frozen exhale bathes the skin of your neck as he gets into position. And then—! The dreamscape roils and bubbles up next to you, shifting and opening up.
The mist pulls back, and a new form materializes next to you, a form you know to be the High King's Consort, his soulmate. They take one look around the place and sniff in disdain before their focus turns entirely to Manerkol. They take in the tableau you and he make, and they sigh in exasperation.
"Must you really, mate of mine? What has this poor person done to earn the capital punishment?" they ask in irritated fondness, and Manerkol promptly moves away from you, letting you crumple to your knees, forgotten. It feels like he sucked the air away with his departure, and you gasp as you watch him walk up to his mate and sweep them in his arms.
But the Consort is not done voicing their displeasure.
And you're always making the dreamspace so dire! Even when it is for me! I'm your soulmate! I'd think you'd pick a more pleasant place for us to meet." The complain ends in a high whine when Manerkol weaves his hand into his mate's hair, grabbing onto the strands and pulling until his beloved's neck is arched beautifully for him.
He noses at the stretched column of flesh in front of him, placing a soft kiss to the Consort's pulse point as a low chuckle vibrates the world around them. This time, the Lord's amusement is not mocking or dangerous in any way. It's full of fondness, teasing anticipation—you are watching the High King and his soulmate flirt.
"This place was not created with you in mind, ulaidh. You chose to barge in by yourself. And if you may recall, the dreamscape was barren and unpleasant before I knew what you are to me. Yet you know all these things, don't you? You're simply trying to earn yourself my undivided attention, hmm?"
The Consort's eyes flash in a challenge, and they open their mouth to reply—only for the hand buried in their hair to swiftly move to their neck. Their mate grabs them and lifts, making them tiptoe to keep their balance, gasping as his thumb presses against their pulse point strong enough to bruise.
"It's not the setting you crave; it's the violence. Isn't that so, my precious one?" The tone is dripping with suggestion, the voice delivering the mind-melting threat low and husky, making the Consort obviously shudder from its headiness.
If they mean to say something in response, you're not sure—all you can hear is their broken-off gasps and moans, all you can see is the way Manerkol bobs their head up and down in imitation of a puppet, a cruel grin curving his full lips. He leans down, and these same lips press a feather-light kiss to the Consort's gasping mouth, the deliberate gentleness exacerbating the violence that is watching him choke his own mate.
And yet you get the impression that this is precisely what the Consort craves—then Manerkol's whisper is the last thing you hear before the dream breaks.
"Let's see if I can't make you beg for what you want, ulaidh." A choking sound echoes all around, and then you are hurtled away from the entwined duo. You wake up in your own bed, gasping, clawing at your throat, bathed in a cold sweat.
And as you sit there, shivering apart on your bed, you contemplate…
You may have just gotten more out of Manerkol than anyone else has in eons—and the only reason why you have lived to tell the tale is because of one perfectly timed, horny intervention by his Majesty's soulmate. If you have escaped death or just delayed it remains to be seen.
And may the Gods take pity on your soul…
2024-09-08 16:36:04 +0000 UTC
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