Disturbed.

That was what Bastián felt every time his gaze drifted over yours. Yours were cold. Unfeeling. And for once, he felt something crawl up his spine.

It was ridiculous that he still kept up with whatever stories you could scrounge up and force down his throat. Your actions were inexcusable, both in the eyes of the law, and the eyes of your worshipped god. But Bastián stays. He always does.

There he was, knelt by your silken covered feet, spine bent as he whispered indecipherable prayers to his false deity: You.

A crimson-spotted rose against the sun's embrace.

You couldn't see it, but tears spilt against his cheeks when his hair draped over his eyes.

Bastián knew the throne you sat on was one out of the sand, haphazardly thrown together with paste and half-spoken lies. But he lets his mind warp, content with the warmth your sickening touch gifts him.

"My love," he whispers, bowing his head against the tiled floor. "You called for me?"

He was shivering, you note. Poor thing. You should let him out of the cellar soon.

At least, Bastián hopes at much. He hates it. He hates you. But no matter how much he tears at the thread that binds you to him, no matter how much he bleeds against the rusted chains—

By all that he stands for—he loves you. He adores you. Every slash, every hit, every kiss, and every graze of your fingertips against his bruised cheek, he loves it.

Because even if his mind will not allow it, even if his heart refuses the call of your destitute's bleat...

His flesh will always worship you; Rotted be it otherwise.