There was terror in Rinoâs look of fear. Not just his own, but Gideonâs as well. Terror that he would be rejected, that it was all a mistake. A terrible lie he had told himself. Or worse, that his magic had somehow influenced this. Had he wished hard enough that he made Rino feel this way? Was his magic truly so powerful? The subject was frightful. He didnât want to question it.
When Rino came back to his embrace all trace of fear vanished. He spun, pushing the other man against the scroll rack. Hardly the most comfortable place to kiss, but somehow fitting. Two men obsessed with knowledge, embracing in passion in a place where knowledge was sacred. No space could be more perfect in his mind.
Yet something felt wrong. How could he give himself, entirely, to Rino if he was lying? How could he open his heart, and share his body, if there was part of him that was hidden? So he broke the kiss, panting and letting his forehead rest against his lovers.Â
âWait,â he whispered, a hand gently tracing the other manâs jaw. âI⌠I need you to know me. Know who I am.â
He stepped back, hand holding Rino for as long as possible. It was time he shared his past, the truth of who he was. Why he knew things no modern man had any right to know. Rino knew of the tale of the Lost Sage of the Blood. The mad king who had nearly destroyed Azlant, until the priests stopped him by locking him away forever.Â
âMore than two thousand years ago, I stood in this room with men and women I trusted, told them I intended to do battle with a corrupt church. I moved into the city,â he stepped to a window, overlooking what was little more than a field of ruined stone, lost to time. âI told the people, my people, that I would defend them to the death. For the next five years, I waged war. A warrior king, though I had long since set aside any notion of a crown.â
He held out his hand, and the air shimmered as a perfect specimen of Azlanti artistry appeared, called from his family vault. The crown of Azlant, more than lost to legend. âThey called me heretic. Foul blooded. An evil king, seeking to unseat the gods. The Lost Sage of the Blood. But I am not that myth! I fought for my people, I sacrificed everything for them.â He was shaking, with rage or sorrow he couldnât know. âThey could not stop me. I died a dozen or more deaths, suffered for my people. And now, I am the last son of Azlant. My kingdom, my people, gone and turned to dust.â
As Gideon pulled away, a soft whine of protest escaped Rinoâs throat. Gods, when did I get so needy? he thought to himself. Because he desperately wanted for this moment to never end. Something deep within him --- some tiny little feeling in that specific part of his gut that never stopped thinking about Ridei --- was terrified there would be a catch, and he didnât want to pause for long enough to find it.Â
And here it came. All his instincts screamed at him to catch Gideonâs hand before it could leave his skin, to pull him back in and silence whatever Gideon was about to say. But his own damned curiosity held him back, or perhaps his terror of commitment.Â
His first thought when Gideon began his speech was one of triumph: that particular, sharp surge of elation that came with being proven right. Heâd known there was something more to Gideonâs knowledge of ancient Azlant than simple scholarly inquiry. It had been foolish of him to set aside that suspicion for even a second.
Then he summoned the crown, and Rinoâs heart grew cold. Somehow he knew, instantly, what Gideon would say next. Gideonâs particular magical skillset, his knowledge of the Azlanti royal dialect... it all pointed to one thing:
The Lost Sage of the Blood. And Gideon admitted it.
How much of the legend was true? How much was propaganda circulated by the victorsâ pen, and how much was warped through retelling over the eons? Worse, with Gideon the self-proclaimed only living witness to that time, how much of his word on the matter could Rino trust?Â
A part of him saw Gideonâs obvious distress and longed to reach out to him, to comfort him, but that part was buried under all the thoughts and questions flying wildly around the inside of his head. He realized suddenly that he hadnât responded, hadnât given so much of a nod or shake of his head.Â
âHow---â He cleared his throat and began again, keeping his voice carefully neutral. âHow did you survive this long?â
Best to stick to purely dispassionate questions while he gathered his emotions together well enough to understand how he felt about this.
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