darkness has always got there first.

.✦ ݁˖ ⸻ Efigenia sat precariously close to the edge of the balcony's precipice. It felt as though if she leaned far enough, she could spill out over the side and the stars would carry her afloat, their essence burning brightly, starkly, madly, within the evening sky. She'd barely spent her time in Heliophra, the golden sands and ivory pillars the complete antithesis to the grayscale of her home within Drakathar. One of her pets was perched upon her knee, the beetle chittering into the quiet buzz of the night. She had tossed everything to the wayside by throwing her name into the battle for Chosen - a losing battle - but one she fought madly to entertain. Her sister had chosen a life within Vexmarsh, a deliberate act of silence against Efigenia for all her recklessness. She was ruling lady of the house and though she had opened the door for Amarei to walk away, a means of refuge against Graveholt, the silence screamed louder than ever before.

Though she heard the other approach, she did not address them directly, speaking to the beetle which was one of the only one's left within the empty embrace of Graveholt; it made sense she would not leave them behind in her journey to Elaris Keep.

" Who will be next to fall ? " Cooed to the creature perched on her leg, her eyes finally wandered to the one who joined her on the balcony. " Who joins the Lady of Sheer Castle in her sacrifice ? " An inappropriate laugh escaped her for if Efigenia was to meet the hands of death before her name was offered vengeance then all would be for naught.

It seems everyone around him is desperate to attach meaning to death these days—find a way to leverage it. Death was nothing but a thief, it took without asking permission, snatching away precious moments, and plans, and people, leaving behind an unavoidable wake of grief.

Perhaps he should be enraged, but even his rage had left him now. He had awaken, disoriented and uneasy, filled with nothing but weariness, and a deep-seethed dread that would not leave him. He risen, and come here looking for respite in his own loneliness, but found her instead: perched at the balcony like a tragic figure, as if baiting someone to push her off, teetering on the verge of insanity; she did not look well. He would know. He had looked neither well nor sane in quite some time. "Lady Velwyrn," the mad rattle she had made of her mouth surely did not meant to catch his ear, did not account for the angular shape of him, morphing into the inky blackness like a wraith coiled in the cold embrace of shadows, but it summoned him all the same, and so he made himself known; dark fabric whispering against the stone, his tall silhouette cut out against the light. "Perhaps this is not the most opportune location for your feverish ramblings... you already put a target on your head, I would suggest you at least make for a challenge for your enemies to drag you into early grave." his tone is dry, absent of warmth as it were, but he comes closer, a hand outstretches to beckon her out of her perch.

Shameless, yes, that is her. Shamelessly sitting in the sun, where he cannot reach. Not that he could, she thinks, even if she stepped into the coolness of the shade. Baeksa is delightful to be sure, and she enjoys deeply the sound of his sighs, the whine of his worn-out voice—but in the wake of such delights comes bitter aftertaste. Not his fault, of course. He is as sweet as sin, and twice as wicked.

Impish little thing. Now, Ruoxi does crack a smile—a whisper of a sharp grin. It is telling that there is nothing to correct. “And be bereft of the sight of you?” Her eyes linger on his bare shoulders, on the shape of his waist. She’s tempted to make him turn on the floor for her, to make him bare his belly for her sharp eyes to pierce. “You ask for too much, but that is how I spoil you.”

With her eyes closed, the grace Ruoxi usually sheds comes easily. It makes her look like the painting of a young woman, one who is not her. Someone you trust. She could think of not a single one. Her siblings had all gone distant, and her mother… her mother. There is a weariness within me that only grows, she thinks. If you’d spent less time in bed and more in battle, perhaps we could have made you earn your spurs, something echoes. “I’m thinking of your tempting skin.” Whip-quick, she reaches past and into the darkness, and pinches his cheek. Then, she retreats. Ha!

Baeksa speaks too plainly and without disguises for once; he needs to shelter to her, for no dark corner could hope to hide him from her assaulting light. "You," he mouths to her, cloying-sweet, mocking—or was it? The crinkles around his eyes are such a rare sight; joyful child, summer child, he was a weed in her garden, but bore all the likeness of a flower in bloom, born to bear the warmth of summer in his bones; the winter of their world did not suit him in the slighest, the winter of his soul was plenty a cold to endure on its own. "You are like the sun, Lady Fenglian... scorching and bright and impossible to get close to. When I am covered in you, every other thought is eclipsed. Even the most grim ones. Even death."

He looks every bit the winter sparrow, sprawled on the floor, wings nestled in snow, abandoned dreams of lazy summer days buried in him. The cold of him will not end but he relentlessly chases her warmth—even as his fingers sizzle against the sun and he watches the smoke twirl in crisp tendrils to heaven, his skin turning grey, wanting to become dust. "Come to me," the young lord coos to her, needy and gentle, as if he wished to pluck dandelions from the ground to decorate her lovely hair with, the meekness of him veiled beneath the soft flutter of his lashes, the gentle rise or his lungs. "Come to me, I'll cover your ears." He smiles, puncuatint the quiet invitation, the honed edges of his mouth smoothing into something tender and submissive, the ache left in his fingers cooling as they are forced to retreat back into these lonely shadows of his. There is nothing to be gained from this—nothing tender in her for his razor teeth to tear through, and yet he makes room for something soft to bloom in him.

There is no surprise where there should be, he can feel nothing but exhaustion these days, the hunch in his shoulders straightened while the weariness of the soul continues to cling to him, bone-deep, where eyes cannot seek him, cannot pick him apart. The Nuwa must stand strong against the horrors of this world, it is what they're for—warriors made of stone, made of steel, but even stones crumble with time under relentless assault. He has overstayed his welcome in this world, he thinks to himself sometimes, longing for the judgement day where the dead would rise and his sword may be put to rest. Perhaps there was longing in his plea, back when the flames engulfed him, a secret wish to be loved by death as much as he has loved it so fiercely, for ao long, holding it inside him through all these years of solitude.

His hands were bloodied and bruised from holding the door shut, from trying to keep the monsters from spilling out—but they had gotten through anyways. All of his efforts, wasted, all of his strength for naught, and now his hands too injured to reach for those he loved. What was he to do now? Maybe Marya was right all along. Maybe they were always meant get through, maybe he was always meant to be defiled, consumed by this ugliness in him—adhere to the monstrous role cast for him. Maybe his insolent refusal to accept the inevitably of their doom was his folly.

"Lian..." his voice is soft, drifting like smoke as he greeted him in faint acknowledgement with a nod; he remembers, of course he remembers. It surprises him, though. That he had come. He hadn't expected him to listen. Lian seldom does what he is told—least of all when it comes from him. He wants to be elated—that he came to him, that some part of him still sought shelter in him, but the suspicion in his eyes would not let him delve into fantasies. It is warranted, he knows, but it hurts all the same. Would he come to think of him some treacherous, foul thing?

"Ah." A quiet, resigned vowel. Then: "I see." Spoken dryly, like sandpaper on the tongue. He was practically ambushed; there is little time to think of a way to dodge his questions or evade his clutches before Lian is upon him, claws unsheated, asking questions he had no answer to—none he wanted to hear. He supposed it was inevitable, for his brother was many things, but stupid was not one of them. But he wished it didn't. He wished he remained an ignorant child, reckless and naive forever, looking at him as though he held all the secrets of the universe. Were they just born to be torn asunder? Sun and moon, eclipsed by the weight of their decisions? He did not want Lian to go, but he did not know if it was right to keep him. Could he hold onto anything good without breaking it?

What is he supposed to say here? The truth? That everything was wrong—everything felt wrong. Even his own skin, these days, felt too tight around his bones, as if something else was trying to claw its way out from within.

How could he? He would leave him too. He would leave him anyways.

Cian seemed less a patient in need of ablation and more a butcher’s carcass, bloodless and drained of the boyish fervor that usually ran so hot it bordered on ferality. She had expected to find a weeping wound, not the absence of one; the absence of anything, really. Lenore watched the hollowed shell of his face while something inside her unwound; it was not concern, but fascination. He bore his sorrow with a kind of hollow dignity, and if the quietude of those cherubic features drew her in, she, whose heart had never been a wellspring of pity, knew others would surely find themselves entranced as well. She held his hand as if cradling a glass-spun reliquary, keeping quiet, both measured in stillness and present in the warmth of her skin where it touched his. There was no need for words; a shelter need not announce its presence to draw in the weary. He would come to her as he always did, lay his head in her lap and ask for her hand to soothe his brow. So when his voice finally broke the silence, her head turned only slightly; midwinter eyes fixed on his face with the slow-moving attention of a swelling stream.

Then came the sound of a door.

Then the boy returned, if only momentarily.

Lenore did not need to turn her head to know whose presence had beckoned life back into Cian’s features; yet she did, for she wanted to see him as well. “Sheng,” she said, and no more; the name rang out as less a greeting and more an acknowledgment. My monster.

Lenore watched the tapestry unfold; a thousand stories were woven in the threads she saw forming between the two men. She knew her suspicions had been right, for they were now so tightly interlinked that separation would mean rupture. There would be no clean cut, unlike the symbolic patricide she would one day excise upon Cian; some bonds ran deeper than blood, especially those rooted in the heart. Watching Sheng’s lips graze the boy’s temple with care bordering on worship, she felt like an interloper; yet shame did not follow. After all, had she not woven this tale, or at least set the spinning wheel in motion? She, who was mistress of weft and loom, held the spindle that kept them all together.

So she rose from her seat in a murmur of skirts and stepped close enough that her presence became less an intrusion and more an addition within this strange tapestry.

Death, maiden, lamb.

“I knew you would come.” Her voice was soft, like velvet cloth drawn across skin. “Such sorrows should not be carried alone, but in the company of those closest to the heart.”

Her eyes moved slowly back to Cian, and her fingers reached out to brush a russet curl from his brow.

“Tell me, dearest,” she murmured, “what do you need of us?”

Cian had shut himself in a birdcage of his own making—golden gilded crystal windows, tall and open to the night sky; distance, from the world outside. A necessity due to his own brittleness, waiting for the craftsmanship of Lenore’s hands to fill the cracks of him with her stalwart silver. But now, here is a man that could break past those walls and shatter him with nothing but a whisper. Cian had gifted him that power as if it were nothing but a common flower, after all, and had done so with glad hands.

Sheng had never been one that Cian had ever feared, not until now. And so the soft words are an absolution, one that he is slow to trust—not due to the man’s own faults, but his own desperate desire for them making him doubt it being so easily got. It is the touch that breaks through the madness. Cian does not stand, but rather turns his head and allows himself to burrow into the safety of Sheng’s arms. He hides there, breathes him in, lets the comfort of it drown him enough until the dam within him overflows and snaps. Cian does not shake nor sob, but his eyes well up with practiced silence, leaving tear-tracks over Sheng’s heart.

He is peeled raw in front of Lenore. That, in itself, is more soothing than their shared quietude had been. If she were to find him wanting now, it would be for the whole of him. There would be no ambiguity to hide behind, and no more to give.

If the world was kinder, he could hide in that safety forever, and yet, it is not. Still, he lingers as he looks up, meeting Sheng’s crimson eyes with his bloody own. “There is nothing to forgive.” Rather than to cut, Sheng had come to mend. This is a bond that Cian would not allow to break.

Already he had prepared himself to cross the boundary and had been interrupted mid-step. Now, they would both be witness. Cian stands—leaving both their affections behind as he walks further into the balcony, now with the background of the nearby stars. “My father has refused to see me.” A pause. “And all I've got are news, twisted as they have passed through countless hands. I am ignorant to what he plans, and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out. When I took to the title of Council Lord, I did so believing that I would turn what is considered a weakness within Braxigar into a strength without. Let my meekness match theirs, so that they would find me an equal, and finally understand.” He turns to them. His voice breaks at the admittance that follows. “I was wrong.”

Weakness, it had remained. No longer. Cian’s gaze hardens.“I am no old fool, set in my ways out of pride and stubbornness. If this method does not work, then I must find another. These killers have furthered their reach, and now they tear into our flesh and render us into nothing. They’ve lit a pyre which they wish to use to drown us in the darkness it casts; for our foes dwell in the shadows, speak in whispers, linger in the walls—but so do you.” He steps forward, towards her. “Lenore.”It had always been her. Cian would learn to walk with the wind of the storm that would follow her. “They have tipped the scales in their favor through blood and fear. Let my weight be the one that brings the balance.”

He bows, deep and supplicant. “Let me be your hands in the light.”

There's nothing to forgive.

Wasn't there? He had failed, he realizes now, as he watches his body grow cold and his posture rigid. Not the boy he loved—but the vestiges of something he had failed to keep safe. That was always the point, wasn't it? Of every compromise, every cruelty, every stain upon his conscience—he had endured them with grace, bowing his head for every lash feasted on nothing but darkness for years—it would all be worth it if people like him, if he should never have to carry such burdens. But now he asks to be a scythe, asks to be yielded. Will that hand reap life too? Will it cast others into damnation? Will it stain red with sins he cannot wash away?

He wants to warn him: once you cross over, there are things in the darkness that can keep your heart from ever feeling the light again.

But he would not heed his warning, would he?

He watches Cian slip away from him little by little, gone, drifting, and he knows he has failed, in every way there was to fail. He lets go, fingers curling reflexively at his side, old scars pull taut beneath pale skin. He is a night that raves and moans, restless, uneasy, filled with dread—the loss of purpose leaves him without aim, floating in the emptiness of himself. He says nothing more, not a word, not a sound, and the way his hand falls feels final, an unspoken relinquishing hope as he surrendered to his own quietude, his head turns from her, from him, a final act of resignation.

The moon paints him in melancholy's image, perched high in the skies, and like Cian, entirely out of his reach; the pale ghost of his face full of woe, absent of mirth. His heart bleeding, aching, pinned to his throat. He can taste bile, in his head a pounding of a drum, and his rage—his rage will not slumber, but it feels deflated as his shoulders curl inward, spine wilted with defeat, his mouth was a smear of seeping sadness. It seemed to invade every part of him, down to his very marrow. He mourns him like wolves mourn their own, standing over their bloodied caress, howling in grief. Where was he when their innocence was torn asunder?

I am ignorant to what he plans, he says. and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the sentiment. Did he not know? How could he not know? He could tell him now.

He'd scorch the earth searching for what he lost. And if he could not find it, he'd scorch it all the same, for daring to deny him. He would have done the same, he almost had. A man driven mad with grief, a man willing to burn the world down for the one person they care about—that's a man he could understand.

He is smiling—but it's a beast's baring teeth, soulless, quiet footsteps leading him to a deserted corner of the opposing side of where the shadows could cloak him in their familiar embrace. He leans there, without speaking, hunched, where bloody eyes can wander off into the darkness, hands gripping at the railing. For the first time he feels tired, alone. That crippling, aching loneliness that had crawled into him during his years of isolation crawls back to him, reminding him it never left. How could he forget it? The dry, sharp exhale is almost laugh, dead too soon, a chill against the warm weather as the wind rustles with the inky blackness of his hair.

Heliophra shone with a beauty that seemed vulgar, like a garish necklace adorning a widow's neck. Its streets were lined in a dazzling array of white marble and gilded stone, curling vines and bright blooms dripping from trellises and balconies, all washed in golden light cast through intricately patterned lanterns and thick flame spilling from doorways, windows, and lamps. As the world teetered on the edge, as its scaffolding threatened to collapse atop their heads, the people sang and drank as if naught were amiss.

Lenore had watched the display through her carriage window, loose curls escaping from her pinned locks and clinging to her dampened forehead. Though her heart beat faster than usual, it was the warmth blanketing her that now cast her from cold effigy to mortal flesh. A fan brought some small reprieve, the only indulgence she allowed herself. The rest of her had been girded for war; her skirts pooled around her like a wine-dark sea, the maroon silk light enough to breathe, yet vivid enough to be remembered.

The time for hiding was past. The time had come for ablation—to cut away the vestiges of youth.

Lenore politely refused the refreshments offered upon their arrival, sidestepped greetings without giving offense, and let Morella accompany their aging parents to their assigned quarters. She made her way to her destination swiftly, her steps whispering across the stone, her composure so tightly strung beforehand no seam showed. When she arrived, she whispered only her given name—no titles, no ornamentation. She would take on whatever shape Cian required of her, whether that be close friend or distant Madonna; her name mattered only insofar as he called for it.

Lenore entered the room quietly, slipping through the doors. She spotted him immediately.

“Cian,” she said softly, lifting a hand, her unblemished palm upturned for him to take. “I am here.”

Cian had been placed as high as Elaris’ Keep’s quarters would go, as one does with priceless porcelain on a wobbly cabinet top. Moonless nights brought out the shine of countless other stars, precious and blinking. Ignorance had been a misspent gift on Cian’s hands—he had not been able to rejoice on the marble upon marble, nor the hanging gardens or the lush walls of moss, not with his pettiness, not with the bitterness brought by his own childishness that followed him like his own personal rain cloud. That, too, had left quickly when grief arrived.

Now, looking down from the balcony was to look into that which was rare for being barren in Heliophra’s lands: miles of glass and gold, and underneath, past the clouds, harsh and merciless ground. The stardust was reaped from it like a farmer does spring crops and then turned deadly weapon, unbroken carapace. A good use for a fallen star.

At least if someone attempts to climb, it will take them a long while. And if someone attempted to listen, the wind would greet them. So it must be the walls. There is nowhere for me to go.

Estrella is in a golden cage and placed beside him. She chirps, desperate, when Lenore enters. The balcony has countless potted plants brought from beneath, both tall and low. Cian sits on one of the carved marble chairs laden with gold-threaded cushions, a blanket around his shoulders like a widow’s shroud. He does not turn to look at her as she arrives, not until she takes her place beside him. “Leonie.” He breathes, more than says. There are no tear-streaks nor obvious wounds, and his eyes are no longer the blood-pools of red they could be when he wept. It takes a moment for him to grasp her right hand with his left. An attempt of a smile follows, yet that falls back into stiffness, into the nothingness of his face. “Sit.” He turns back.

There is no more said for a long time. Silence beside her has a way to lack any soothing, but neither was it calm before her. When he finally speaks, it feels as if stepping off the edge. “I had wondered at when you would arrive.” He was waiting, despite there not being enough time. “There is something I must ask of you.” Cian opens his mouth again, only to stop. The sound of the door to his quarters opening then closing once more breaks past his words. The only betrayal of perplexity to his face is a flicker of a look, and then he seems as if haunted. The list of those he would allow is few, and those without notice, only two. It does not include his father.

He looks down, swallows, clutching the blanket like a lost child. The bled-through bandaged palm of his right hand pulls the thick cloth tighter.

The thunderous heartbeat of a stomping giant permeates the halls with restlessness and unease, and Heliophra, in all of its beauty, turns to a funeral pyre in the wake of him; heads snapping, fingers clutching, eyes wide with the fresh bloom of dread he evokes. He stops for none, faces and bodies blending into gray, dull masses, gasps and whispers blending into a cacophony of noise without meaning and without aim. He does not stop, makes no effort to linger, makes no effort to justify the death omen of his presence or cushion the apprehension it brings.

He meant to come earlier, but time would not stop for him.

Time, as it were, selfish and unkind, stopped for none.

He walks straight through the guards like an arrow, hand already gripping the door, disallowing any pleasantries; and when they threaten to come in his way, the look in the Nuwa's blood-red eyes suffice as a warning of what would happen to anything that tried.

The door opens—and the loud thumping comes to an abrupt end as it closes behind the straightness of his spine. The tall, terrifying thing stands there, rigid and unyielding, crimson eyes piercing through the inky blackness. "Lenore." he greets, the heaviness of it unsettling, the thick rasp of his cadence like bone against bone, meat scraped raw, dry and chilling; his eyes find her first—whispering, already, surely. Whispering, weaving, scheming in the dark. Then, they find him. Those large, familiar hands are on his shoulders before he can rise of his throne of sorrow, gripping, clutching. "Young Lord," the voice softens so, then, and all of his rage dies in his throat, all of those harsh demands of the night prior turn to ash on his tongue. Guilt flickers briefly, his mouth close to his temple with the desperate urge to soothe. Why have you done this? Why didn't you tell me? What are you doing? This cannot end well. "Forgive me." it is a fond, gentle whisper; a quiet supplication muffled against his skin, for him, to him; because all desire to be right had disappeared, exorcised out of his body as he was possessed with the urge to love him instead.

Sunlight streams through the open window. Ruoxi had been spoiled rotten from birth, as oft was the case with well-loved children, more-so the ones whose merry scurrying could turn sudden stumbling, who would smile widely until they would worryingly not. And so in her room there had been built a seating alcove, protruding enough from the marble and stone that when the sun rose it would light up only than spot, and leave the rest in safer shadows. Ruoxi enjoyed napping there often, like a joyfully fat cat.

She is wide awake, now. Looking out, into the way the world looks when the brightstar is out. An oddity few can comprehend; distant and untouchable. But there were new traces of someone's touch on her again now. It did not comfort as it should've.

Sheets rustle and then the sound is followed by that of soft steps. She does not truly turn, not really, and cannot even muster a smile—even if she tries, and delivers a rather rueful curl to the corner of her bitten lips. “Does the little fairy desire round four? You really wish to boast to be the ruin of any mortal, do you not?”

"You're such a shameless girl..." there is a longing he will not name in him, an envy he will not recognize as he folds into himself, lounging by the edge of the shadows where the light nearly kisses, where the sun threatens to scrape the flimsy sheets loosely draped over his thin silhouette.

"Noona, close your eyes," the boy sing-songs, languid shape outstretched, unspooling in a small ripple of ivory on the floor of her bedroom like a discarded porcelain doll, much too delicate for such violent delights. "Pretend I'm somebody you trust," his voice floats to her like a white satin moth, gauzy soft, hoarse from all the involuntary noises she'd wrung from his pale throat. "Won't you tell me what's on your mind?"

Cian wishes he could bottle his laughter, wishes he could cradle it to his ear and hear it again and again, like the seashells that echo the sound of the sea waves. “I shall take that as the compliment it must be.” Proud, nose upturned. Such happiness made him feel giddy, foolish, almost as if drunk despite not having a single drop of liquor on his tongue.

The smile that follows is mischievous, like a rather pleased cat that had gotten away with a pint of cream. “I must find my diversions somewhere, don’t I? Times refuse to be dull when you are with me, and so when you are not, it has to be corrected somehow.” He shrugs. “I suppose I could visit some of my other acquaintances, though they seem to be… Well. Some are missing, as of late.” He winces, both from the pain at the thought and at even bringing it up. It is enough to distract him, make him realize the implications of Sheng’s words almost too late. “Wait, do you mean—”

But there is little time to continue, even if the glint in Cian’s eyes betrays the fact that he would not let it go as easily as it seems. “I do not know what you mean.” He looks away, sheepishly, but the little flicker does not escape him. Cian feels himself dim like a candle against the wind; it is so easy to forget when with him. It is a blessing that Sheng changes the subject itself, for Cian had already found himself with the words stuck in his throat, and fear at being more trouble than it is worth lingering. He rushes to follow, almost stammers. “I shall hold you to it.” Just like many other things. Cian could be obedient or at least play at being it, if it made Sheng happy and relieved; can tilt his head, so that Sheng’s touch lingers for longer.

Cian waves the thought away, bites his lower lip and looks elsewhere. “Perhaps.” It would be good were that to be true. There are enemies everywhere, and with what was to come.. Cian fears for Nocturnia. To be able to turn many to his side through their esteem of him would be a great tool indeed. Yet Sheng’s displeasure with such matters was not one that he wants to evoke again. Losing himself in the pleasures of his company and shutting the rest of the world away used to be something Cian wished for with shame and greed, but now, he grasps at it greedily. There was softness only here, and only with him.

“You can be my assistant!” Cian perks up, suddenly as full of life as Sheng accuses him of being. “The greatest repositories of knowledge lay in Vallarion, of course, which is the whole other way, but Crownreach is a trader’s city—I’ll admit the hustle and bustle does not truly attract me much.” Cian flushes. “But there would be many-a-book there, that would rarely be found elsewhere. I shall teach you all that I know. I should’ve brought my own drawings—or even my own collection of dried blooms.” He stops, politely embarrassed from his own rantings, but notably relents before he apologizes. “You will regret giving me such liberties.” It is softly but surely said, and Cian hopes such eventuality takes many years to come yet.

“But do not worry,” He laughs. “There is much to do to allow myself to stay there. Plus you would have to stay with me, were I to go, wouldn’t you?” There is a pause, then, as Cian looks away and into the darkness outside the kitchen’s windows. Pitch black, a moonless night. “The distance seems endless from here.” Cian was too shy to ask if Sheng would feel the same, though his eyes peered curiously for an answer all the same.

“Yes, it would be great!” The enthusiasm was so easy to muster. Not so easy was the following words—Cian had shared his thoughts with Sheng many times unbidden, without notice of it; it was much harder to speak one’s mind purposefully and be entirely truthful. The meaning of truth even seemed to escape him, now, most days, easily malleable as it could be. “Sheer Castle doesn’t feel… It is… My mother is of great comfort to me.” He must sound so childish. “I mean, because of the way things loom these nights. The Castle is meant to be home, yet it has not felt as welcoming, nor as warm, despite her efforts.” Her soft touches, her gentle words. Encouragements and warnings both. “To have you there would lighten my heart a great deal. But—as I said.” The corner of his lips tilts, the grin rueful. “Only if you have time, and only if you are sure it will not bring you undue attention.” Cian could make concessions for greater gain, after all.

There is honest confusion in his features, a sort of perplexity in his voice. “Of course I would stay.” He shakes his head. It is this time that his touch reaches out—passivity versus action, the effort not to flush or flinch against the one to not shy away, to not let his own hand tremble as it extends—, fingers closing around Sheng’s hand. Squeezes. “You are more than reason enough. It goes both ways, you know.” Slowly, he lets go. “Maybe.” These lands, not being entirely cursed? Cian looks into Sheng’s eyes. “It brought you, after all.”

“They’re fools.” He shrugs. But all the better for me, he thinks treacherously. “You need not waste your time with them if they cannot see the gold of you for themselves.” Truly, Cian disliked Sheng being lonely, but he was there himself to aid with that. Lian was back as well, and though the thought of Lenore brought some odd irksome feel that usually did not accompany her good name, but he knew that she herself had her own paramour that she refused to name but had assured was not Sheng, so they could spend their own time together. That would be enough. Cian refused to think of more people—Even with Sheng’s constant reassurances, it was better to err on the side of caution. Not that Cian would do anything foul, just… Just… The thought of having even less time smarted, made him ill.

The memory of the bite is fresh still, just as the phantom feel of teeth on skin, stopped only by cloth bandages. But Cian’s hands are bare, now, and—and there is the grief again, the wish unfulfilled, when he is left bereft of any mark. It lingers longer than it did before, makes Cian’s cheeks redden again with the unspoken desire of it. “I already have.” Cian reminds him. He feels shy and obviously so. “But I’ll take another one. I brought a lot. Hopefully you can eat them thorough the time spent here, you won’t be lacking for a bit.” He takes another wedge to stop his own rambling, bites it and attempts to still the juice that wishes to spill. His own fingertips, where Sheng’s mouth had come so close, graze his lips—The tips of Cian’s ears turn red. He cleans some of stray drops off his fingers with kitten-licks, and then afterwards with a handkerchief. Surely a successful attempt at nonchalance.

He was a monstrous thing, meant to do monstrous things—you could not fight monsters being less than. But here, now, he did not feel monstrous at all. Not when Cian held his hand with such an unguarded devotion, not when he rambled on and on about the most innocent, foolish things. He deserved all that, to roam freely, and explore, and indulge in his books without the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was no harm in pretending it could be that simple, if only for a moment, was there?

His mother, he say—but speaks not of his father. And why was that? He wants to ask, but not yet; it is too delicate of a subject to be mishandled, he thinks. Perhaps later, during the tour. Does he not feel safe? Does he not feel loved? That can't be right, can it? Cian had been loved, every step of the way, this love had taken root into his very foundations, he couldn't be born of anything of love, with how warm, how gentle he was. Why was he feeling like this? What was troubling him? The urge to assuage scratches at the back of his skull again.

"You are our future ruling lord, young Garramoth. Your own survival is something of a priority," he leaned onto his elbows, letting the hint of a smile touch his lips. "Surely you do not think me so arrogant as to claim there would be a better use of my time than you?" well, he probably was; were said future lord anyone but Cian. His time was his to do as he wished.

So he nods, he nods and he smiles, and he escapes into those fantasies for a moment, and he agrees to every demand he makes, however gentle or unreasonable as they are, because isn't he entitled to this much? He could not justify denying him, not after all he's done for him.

"What they think of me is inconsequential," he admits, perhaps too candidly, to one who sits beside them. "If and when I am needed, I will do what I must do... council, or no council. It makes no difference to me." All that matters if what what you think of me, he does not say out loud for their improprieties already border on dangerous as they are, with the taste of him still on his tongue, imbibed in the sweetness of ripe peaches. He is no such a tame animal as to answer to a single owner, to be trained and lashed; and yet he'd allow for this boy's hand to make a makeshift collar around his throat, invisible as it were, he could feel it as tangibly as the thick texture of rope scratching against his throat, and he does not rash, does not ache for freedom.

If there was no threat, no undead, nothing to unravel or conceal, he does wonder, sometimes... if he could do nothing all day but sit here and watch him, would he? If he were to be honest with himself, he couldn't think of a better way to spend his time. If he had a will of his own, if he was more man than weapon, this is what he'd wish for.

When was the last time anyone had broken his composure like this? He's almost impressed, and embarrassed by how little it took him to do it. If he channeled this energy into their training, he'd be in big trouble. But he will not give him the satisfaction of admitting to it.

Valkan watched the delight spread across baeksa’s face with something quieter than amusement settling briefly at the edge of his own expression. faint. fleeting. “careful,” he replied dryly, the low cadence of his voice carrying easily beneath the wind. “you’ll start sounding proud of yourself.” at the mention of spectacle, the corner of valkan’s mouth curved again, this time sharper. “ah, of course,” he murmured. “how selfish of me not to consider the public disappointment my death would cause.” the untouched wine shifted lightly in his hand before he finally set the glass aside altogether, forgotten against the stone railing. “i’ll be sure to arrange something suitably tragic if the mood ever takes me.” then came the guessing. valkan’s attention settled fully on him again, more deliberate as baeksa built story after story from thin air and moonlight. he let him speak uninterrupted, though the faint narrowing of his eyes betrayed interest rather than how close he had been at first. by the time the other leaned forward expectantly, something almost resembling genuine amusement had finally surfaced beneath the exhaustion lingering around him. “terrible,” valkan answered at last, voice calm, though warmer now with restrained humor. “dramatic. wildly inaccurate. entirely too invested in my emotional state.” a small pause followed before his gaze flicked briefly toward the sea again. “though i admire the servant poisoning. at least that one had ambition.”

It's how adamant denial that had him pondering weather his forked tongue had stumbled upon a truth he wished would stay buried beneath the heath—it is like so for most, isn't it? What they hold most dear, they hold at a distance; if you wish to find it, search not for the thing their eyes chase after in a crowded, but the one they actively, relentlessly avoid looking at. He opts not to actively pursue, at least for the time being, gracefully admitting defeat.

"Aw... you're no fun. Won't you even pretend so I think I've won?" he jests with a doll-like tilt of his hair, shrinking beneath the curtain of his hair like a sparrow buried in a mound of snow. "What else should I be invested in when you're so openly gloomy, mm? Gloomy eyes, gloomy eyebrows... even your hair looks gloomy," a smile sprinkles some docility over his delicate features. "Beautiful people shouldn't be so sad, Valkan... it's a crime against nature, don't you know that?"

that his reputation preceded him amongst peers of his age, was hardly surprising -- cai did not seek his fun in inns thronged with commoners, where one might indulge and just as easily forget whoever had warmed his bed the night before. no, he preferred to let his gaze wander when he should be on his very best behaviour -- representing his house, at the courts of nocturnia. that bakesa would paint him a deviant as a result, sparked passing amusement. "they? who do i have to thank for spreading the word of my perversions, then?" he hummed, pressing a finger to where the pebble had hit him squarely, and narrowing emerald hues. "it doesn't take much coaxing, usually. but if you prefer to play coy, i will be sure to accommodate -- i shan't suffer a single complaint from my companions." a wry grin, donned with habitual nonchalance. "i'd prefer to be only partially soaked on my return. were i truly as unabashed as you claim, i would have disrobed entirely. but you see, i do care not to offend common decency."

the other rose to the challenge, and cai inferred from his reluctance, that it was more so to prove a point. "holding your own in the water doesn't require my physical vigour." spoken matter-of-factly as he quirked a brow at baeksa. "you can't swim, can you?" he did not object to the clasp of hands, since he had offered his assistance. "considering your life is to depend on my goodwill not to let you drown, i would refrain from threatening me. or aiming pebbles my way." they inched into the lake, and cai chose to take one bold stride forwards -- not breaking their link, but not dragging the chae along with him, either. "we don't have to wade all the way out, baeksa." it was a softly-spoken concession, kind -- almost. and then, his roguish grin returned. "not if you're too scared."

The gauzy softness of his lashes descends, feathering over the rosy kiss of color of his cheeks in gentle sweeps. "Who hasn't..." he hums, words flowing along with a long sigh, soft but loud, as if he wished to make his displeasure known. "My pointy ears are not just for show, you know..." pointed ears on display now, as his clawed fingers carefully tucks some of his hair away, in an effort to keep it from veiling his cheeks again.

"Tch..." he clicks his tongue in disdain at the thought, tempted to fold his arms like a petulant child. "Of course I can. Everyone can swim... you just move your arms and legs around like an idiot... how hard can it be?" Surely if he could feign interest in the well-being of others for so long, he could manage to do something as simple as swimming, no? And yet despite the confidence lacing his words, Baeksa dares not to let go—squeezing his hand reflexively. "I just... haven't had the opportunity before, is all..." a bold-faced lie, but what did he care? Truthfully, he's had plenty of time to learn, but never trusted himself not to flail and sink. He avoided deep bodies of water like the plague, and yet here he stood, in fear of injury to his pride.

How childish...

It was hardly fair. Everything looks harmless when your feet can touch the bottom.

"You gave me your word... I trust you will be a gentleman and keep it, won't you?" soft-spoken then, the young Chae tests him as much as he tests the water beneath his feet, wet, and cold, and utterly unreliable; he hopes the young Elarion will prove less treacherous than that, and him, for that matter. There is a subtle twitch of irritation he cannot contain, his pale brow creasing in betrayal of his passive nature. "I'm not scared..." he must refrain from snarling, urges himself not to as the corner of his mouth threatens to lift, flashing just a glimpse of a canine before it is once more hidden beneath the plush softness of his mouth. "Very well," he unties his sash unceremoniously, and the fabric ripples down the length of his body like a ripple of cold snow; he steps over it, the moonlight crowning him in its glow as he walks into the water with bated breath. He bristles, tugging at the Elarion with all a child's demanding, the silk his hair unspooling down the length of his narrow shoulders, floating at the surface in long, pale swirls that wrap around his sylph-like form.