Sins of Lust Filled Love Pt 6

Dios is filled with regret and disgust.

-Betrothed-

Sins of Lust Filled Love

Part 6

Dios sat in front of his vanity mirror, painstakingly trying to perfect his appearance. His brow was scrunched in concentration, and his eyes watered as he plucked his eyebrows free of strays, slowly giving them a uniform appearance. Tweezers pluck, wince, brush, tweezers pluck, wince, brush. Repeat. His mouth was set in a grimace and he bit his upper lip, smearing the light coating of gloss he had put on them to bring out their naturally coloring.

His skin was smooth and moisturized and his red hair was rumpled into a look of styled bad boy. It was funny really, considering he was anything but. But of course that didn't matter right now. Right now he had to be perfect, by any. Means. Necessary. He plucked the last eyebrow with a contented sigh, before putting the tweezers down. The pains he went through for beauty. His fatal flaw, his vanity. He was nothing without his looks, they were the only thing people really cared about anyway. You could be as much of an a*s as you wanted when you were beautiful.

Beautiful people could get away with anything.

Dios shook his head. That wasn't why he was preening himself even more than usual today, oh no, he wasn't doing this for himself. Not really. He didn't order the full body waxing just because he couldn't stand the sight of his body hair, to hell if he'd succumb to that without a greater motive. It hurt much too much to just do willy nilly. He'd take a razor any day.

No he went through all this trouble, buffing and shining his nails, adding drops of water to his eyes to make them shine just a little more, the faint layer of make-up that permeated his face, bringing out its curve and strong jaw, both feminine and masculine at the same time.

He had prominent cheekbones he realized almost as an afterthought, he assumed it was one of the traits that drew others to him, but he didn't care about "others" right now, he cared about what one person in particular thought of him, one blonde haired, amber eyed second son of Thyme to be exact. Epona.

He was surprised, he hadn't expected to actually find anything he liked here in dreary, damp and cold Geata Ifreann., let alone someone to pine after. It was terribly ironic really, he noted to himself. The whole reason he was here in the first place was because his younger brother had fallen in love with the Lost Prince, Ciaran Biard, and kept him hidden from the eyes of everyone in his family... and the world. It was only after Dios contacted Thyme, bringing his armies to the Palace doorstep, that he realized what a mistake he'd made.

He'd let his jealousy get the better of his judgement, he knew that now, and he betrayed his family by doing so, breaking his brothers heart in the process. Dios frowned in the mirror, he felt ugly now, those thoughts always did and no matter how many corrective measures he took he always remained ugly. He knew that to be the case, he knew he was a horrible awful person, it's why he didn't resist when Thyme had told him to get in the carriage, he knew he'd have no place back home to go to when they discovered what he had done. This way he could pretend to have just been killed in the melee, running away like the coward he was.

Dios stood and slammed the vanity closed, he couldn't stand to look at his reflection anymore. All the silks and bright colors, the greens to bring out his red hair the burgundy to bring out his eyes, the sensual walk he had perfected, the flirtatious speaking, none of it meant anything. He was lower than low, understudy of s**t, and had enough conceit to run an army of blondes for a millennium.

The red haired prince made a face and grabbed his notebook and lyre from his desk before storming out the... his...? Room.

Walking down the halls... no rather raging the floor with his footsteps, he made his way through the castle. It was nothing like the one he'd grown up in which had been warm and inviting, this one held darkness and death, a curse of its own. The servants paid him no mind, they knew he wouldn't leave, he had nowhere else to go, he was their prisoner in all but name.

He was allowed free reign of the palace but nothing more. He couldn't leave for any reason, whether he wished to go to the market or see a show or any other manner of mundane things. No, everything he needed was brought to him, and he was more pampered than he had ever been before. But it was an empty kind of luxury, one that had been bought through treachery and now only guilt and revulsion remained.

He hadn't seen much of Geata Ifreann., only brief glimpses he'd stolen on his carriage ride here, though even that he couldn't really enjoy it with the death glare Ciaran had perpetuated in giving him the whole ride over. Dios had been able to ignore it at first, push it to the back of his mind, but slowly he couldn't; it had been an awfully long carriage ride and the malice he had felt from that single gaze slowly began to wear him down. So much so, in fact, that he almost jumped across the seat and strangled Thyme to end it all right then and there, to reunite Ciaran with his younger brother, with Shep, so at least someone could have a happy ending.

But he didn't.

He was too much of a coward.

Dios stopped in a small discreet pavilion nestled between two towers and sat down on the tiny stone bench underneath a large oak. It was his favorite place in the castle, the only spot that seemed to have some green, some semblance of life, the only place that felt truly alive. No one ever seemed to travel to this part of the castle anymore. You could see it in the obvious disrepair it was falling into. A ruin of its old form. Dead and alive. Ironic really.

Dios took a breath and set down his lyre, taking out his notebook, really just a leather bound wad of papers, before opening it to a random blank page. Setting the half full ink well beside him he dipped his quill pen into its depths and waited, eyes closed, breath even, waiting for inspiration to hit. He didn't have to wait long. Opening his eyes he set the pen on the page and wrote.

He wrote furiously, transferring his emotions into words that he'd transfer to voice and lyre, the only therapy he had while he was here. He finished and set the quill to the side before propping the book up against the tree.

Strumming a few chords on the lyre he quickly tuned the instrument and then...

He sang.

-Betrothed-

Author's Note

pt 6 tell me what you think plz