The Book of Rites (Outtakes)

It’s a quiet night, and Brighton isn’t quite sure why he thinks of it, now, looking out over the long plains of the Downside prairie and staring up at the night sky, absent of the Scribe’s stars. Oralech is finishing the last of the preparations for settling the blackwagon down in the night. Erisa is out, likely seeking some method to vent her temper, or searching for food.

Perhaps it is the slow melody that makes it way out through the Blackwagon, the gentle, swaying tune of the Minstrel’s music escaping into the night air.

When Oralech turns at last to the steps where Brighton is sitting, Brighton stands, and with some nervousness, holds out a hand, in offering.

“Would you.... still like to learn how to dance?”

Oralech stares at him strangely for a moment, and Brighton unconsciously shrinks back. He’s never certain of what to say, or how to act around Oralech. Not when it is the two of them alone, as much as he cherishes those moments best.

But Oralech reaches out, and takes Brighton’s hand in his, drawing him close in proper position with a slow tentativeness. His hand rests lightly at the small of Brighton’s back, before looking down at Brighton’s face, intently.

Brighton is lost a few moments, staring into those eyes, before he realizes Oralech is waiting for him to start.

“Ah yes, well...”

There are a few false starts, and Oralech steps on his toes a couple more times than Brighton could honestly say he was comfortable with (Oralech was tall, and broad—if not the size of Erisa—and it /hurt/) but in the end, they were gently moving to the music, a careful three-step traveling around. Brighton had only rarely taken the proper followers part, which worked just as well, since Oralech was only somewhat passable at leading.

Even so, it is nice, and with the titan and sign stars lingering up above, Brighton dares to draw a half-step closer, so their torsos were almost-not-quite touching. The notes of the music draw out to linger in the brisk air, and Oralech slows his steps until they are gently swaying back and forth. Oralech’s hand at the small of his back grows heavier, drawing Brighton inexorably closer still.

Brighton looks up into Oralech’s eyes, and finds them gentle, softened, with a soft upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. He stares a moment longer at that face, and then turns away, to hide his flush, before slowly—daringly—sliding his hand down just a touch and laying a head on Oralech’s shoulder. Oralech’s grip on his hand tightens, and the hand at the small of his back fists, slightly, in the wear-softened fabric of his shirt, but he does not protest.

For all that Soliam cannot forget the physical changes the Downside had wrought upon his body, he forgets, sometimes, what it means, that he is not fully human anymore.  He thinks nothing of it, when he bites into the soft, juicy flesh of some foreign Downside fruit, and finding that it grants no ill effect, passes it on to Gol without hesitation.  But demons and humans are not the same.  It is but two hours since Gol had eaten the fruit, and he is already deep in fever.  Soliam's former general's skin is flushed even darker, and sweat pours down his brow as he shivers.  Gol shifts often, uncomfortable in his clothing, and it takes Soliam far too long to realize that the new smell Gol seems to be emitting is that of a persistent, burning arousal.

Gol reaches for him, lips parted and wide, dilated eyes pleading, and it takes every ounce of Soliam's self restraint to gently turn Gol away towards the collected furs and blankets that are laid out for rest.  He wants, oh does he want, but not like this. As soon as Gol has settled, Soliam heads to the front of their little cave, his back turned solidly against all that lies within.  His fists clench tight; his claws bite into the fleshy heels of his palms, and he tries to shut out the soft sound of moans and pleading noises falling from Gol's lips as the man works to flush the heat out of his system and tend to his needs.

Soliam draws back the thick, waxed leaves they have been using as a cover for the cave, hoping that it might help muffle the echoing sounds of the cave, and grant Gol some slight bit more of privacy.  But all to easily can Soliam still hear the echo of his panting breaths, the way Gol moans and rustling as writhes against the furs, caught up in an unnaturally forced arousal.  He shuts his eyes to shut out the sound, but that is worse, his ears already tuned to each sound, each heaving breath, each soft gasp.  Once, even Soliam could swear he hears the the mangled sound of his name, and his fists clench tighter, the pricking of his claws drawing blood.  It would be so easy to go back, to help, to aid as Gol had entreated with pleading eyes and gasping breath.

But Gol cannot voice truly his desires like this, under the influence of some unknown Downside toxin, and this is not how he would wish it to happen.

He would spread Gol out, slowly, tenderly. Press their lips together, coax Gol's mouth open and explore with his tongue.  Trace the line of this chin down his throat with lips and teeth, press kisses against the jut of his collarbone.  Weave his claws through the thick riot of Gol's curls, drag careful claw-tip scrapes down his chest to tease at pebbling dark nipples, trace over the careful definition of his muscles of his abdomen.  Make his way, with claws and teeth and palms and lips down Gol's torso, along the inside of his thighs.  Take Gol into his mouth, tease him with careful laps and licks, coaxing him until it is all Gol can do to breathe, scream his name as he comes.

Bring him again to full arousal with slow touches, feather-light.  Careful licks.  Ease Gol's hands around his horns as he takes Gol fully into his mouth again, drag teeth along the tender skin at the junction of his inner thigh. Draw Gol carefully to the brink before pulling away to claim his mouth again, wedge his leg between Gol's thighs and coax him to thrust up against him chasing that feeling of euphoria.

To curl up together, after, as they are both spent, tucking Gol's face into his chest and burying his face in Gol's hair to press barely-there kisses along his scalp…

Gol moans, again, loud, a strangled shout half-bitten back by shredded lips and aching heat.  And Soliam releases his fists to bring his hands up to his ears, that he can deny the sound of his name being wrung out from those lips.

.

“Don’t-!”

Gol holds at the aborted shout from Soliam’s mouth, his hand curling back from the small chunk of shining silver and orange crystal he had reached for.  Before Gol can even check the movement, Soliam is at his side, and his large, clawed hands drawn around the hand he had stretch out, gently cupping it with all earnestness, and drawing Gol further away from the crystal chunk and others like it.

“Please be careful what you reach to touch.”  Gol meets his lord’s eyes as Soliam entreats him.  “There are many beautiful things in the Downside, but most of them are terrible.”  He inclines his great horned head towards the crystal growths.  “Those in particular are highly poisonous, made of heavy metals that even on contact can make one become gravely ill.”

His liege draws him father away, and closer to their encampment on a small outcrop above the hot springs shielded away from the elements by the jut of a cliff face and Gol follows, trying to ignore the way his hand is still held so gently in Soliam’s own as the demon speaks.

“Such crystals, in part, worsened my illness, before.” Gol remembers.  He cannot imagine the worst of what Ha’ub had nursed Soliam through, alone, before Gol had encountered them, and fought back the Sisters of the Arch, for a time.  Even towards the end of Soliam’s illness, there were many nights of little sleep, with precious water-soaked rags to cool Soliam’s brow and ease the aching, heated skin around his horns as his liege shook with fevered dreams and frailty.

As Gol draws himself out of such memories, Soliam continues “I could not bear it, should such illness befall you.”  The former emperor’s voice is low and soft, filled with an earnestness that leaves Gol feeling warm from something other than the sulfurous steam of the Bloomingpools.  His face flushes with that heat, muted in the mocking gold-yellow glow of the pools that cannot be bathed in, for all their offered warmth.  Gol moves to take half a step back, and finds his hand even now still caught between his liege’s gentle claws.  They both, as one, turn to look at the joining of their hands, and Soliam traces a careful clawtip over the calloused pads of Gol’s fingers before drawing away.

“Forgive me, for pulling you away, so suddenly.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Gol swallows the sir, yet again, biting it between his teeth, “I am grateful for your concern.”

They had left the Sandfolds for what Ha’ub insisted was known as Downside Prairie, and the imp was determined to urge them ever-forward, towards a series of hot springs to rest.  The prairie was lush, and beautiful, a green more beautiful than all of Soliam’s former riches, even with the storms.  It was strange, being alive and changed, taking such joy in things like the thundering downpour of a surprise tempest, soaking clothing and hair and dripping along the faint grooves of his horns.  Even when Ha’ub and Gol had managed to find them a cave to huddle into, or were able to construct a lean-to with sufficient shelters he would stand out in the roaring rains anyway, to the imp’s amusement and his former general’s resigned chagrin.

That is what Soliam is doing now, standing out amidst the storm and enjoying the feeling of the elements battering against his skin, arms out as if entreating the sky, soaked and glistening and laughing.  Lightning flashes, a little too close for even his recklessness to allow, and he turns back towards the night’s shelter with a sheepish grin.  There is such a look of helpless fondness on Gol’s face, from where he is watching, that Soliam stops, breath caught.  It passes swiftly, however, under Soliam’s eyes, and again he has his exasperated general (former general, and not... not his. Not as he wants it to be).

“My liege, you will catch a cold, and then we will all be sorry.”

Soliam winces, internally, both at the reproof and at the reminder of what they had been.  Of the foolish man he had been, unworthy of such devotion.  It is habit for Gol more likely than not—the practiced respect—but it serves ever-more as a reminder of all that Gol had forfeit for his sake.  (Soliam thinks of a stolen press of lips against Gol’s forehead, and feels ashamed).  He makes his way into their cave-shelter, head down and chastened, and opens his mouth to make an apology.  Before he can speak, Gol hustles him in and settles him down on a low rock to serve as a stool, and takes up the dripping mass of his hair.  

“Hold still.”

The words are unneeded; Soliam is frozen, unmoving, as Gol begins to carefully use the slickness of the rain to tease the tangles out of his hair, using the flashes of lightning as guidance when the careful feeling of his fingers fails.  Soliam has never known how to care for it before, and the addition of the huge horns only make the task a more difficult one.  But Gol has infinite patience, it seems, and a gentle tenderness as his blunt fingers comb carefully through the mess.  As he encounters them, Gol keeps removing pieces of foliage and debris that seem to have logged themselves into his hair—including a twig that is perhaps more accurately a decent-sized branch—and then dropping them to the floor with soft snorts.  Soliam can feel a flush crawling up his neck, and is pathetically grateful for the obstruction of vision that his horns provide.

Eventually Soliam relaxes into it, the feel of Gol’s blunt fingertips dragging along his scalp, the careful way his fingers trace oh so lightly around the tender skin at the base of his horns.  He lets his eyes shut, and rests in the certainty that the forfeit of all the Empire was most certainly worth this.  This moment right here, where he is wet and starting to get a little cold, with a better knowledge of who he was and who he could be, and at the receiving end of boundless gifts of mercy.  This moment with Gol at his back and his fingers in his hair, combing and detangling and patting dry and… braiding?  Neat plaits that keep what is becoming more of a mane than a head of hair tamed and out of the way.  There is such a gentle care, as Gol’s hands linger around his horns as he gently towels them dry, as Gol takes care of him, and with his eyes shut Soliam can pretend that it is instead an act of domestic intimacy, instead of an extension of Gol’s unearned loyalty and service, a gift beyond price.

His eyes are shut, and he thinks back to the look on Gol’s face when he first turned back, that half-flash of what seemed fondness, that look that makes Soliam think that one day, perhaps, it will not be hopeless to believe that this unnamed something in between them could grow to be more.  That his kisses won’t be limited to the brush of lips pressed to a forehead with only the stars to witness.  But he doesn’t know if he can hope for more, doesn’t know that he should.

The wind howls as it whips across the Sandfolds. Gol had not known that the Downside could become so cold.  The Emperor– Soliam, now, he instists upon Soliam, does not seem to feel it; though whether that lie because he had grown so familiar with such discomforts, or the changes wrought upon his form that had granted him such a terrible visage also encompassed a greater tolerance for such things, Gol would not venture to say.  Ha’ub has found them a place for the night, a shelter burrowed into the dunes, still retaining some of the heat from the day.

Gol presses back against the heat of the sand, ignoring the way it begins to shift and slip into his clothing, rubbing up against his skin with an unpleasant grit.  It would be helped, perhaps, were he not ever-so-slightly shivering from the chill, but he did not want to bother his liege with such a trivial discomfort.  It is still strange, to think of him as anything different, even if that word does not, perhaps, properly encompass the depths of his feelings.  This thing between them is still so new, changing.

You gave your freedom, Master Golathanian, so that I may yet have mine.

The words still linger in his head, hidden among a general’s mind for terrain and tactics.  They will need to forage, and supply themselves.  They will need to upkeep their remaining armaments, and—if possible—obtain more.

You gave your freedom.

The flash-memory fear of his liege’s form on first sight blends with the stirring of pity, the deep-rooted loyalty and respect, the strangeness of this new familiarity, and it sends his mind in spirals even as he huddles closer into himself for warmth.  Gol lets his eyes fall shut, seeking rest before the early morning when it will be his turn for watch, and burrows further against the wall, gritting his teeth and flinching forward against the sifting fall of sand.

There is a sudden heavy weight around his shoulders, and it feels like a blanket of heat.  Gol’s eyes crack open to catch his liege’s face, lingering so close to his own.  His liege’s own cloak is in his hands, settled carefully around Gol’s shoulders, and Gol can do nothing but stare, caught, into the yellow-gold glow of those demon eyes.  Their noses could almost touch, and Gol realizes he can feel the phantom touch of his liege’s curling horns brushing against his hair, the tight coils wild and free of his helm in preparation for sleep.

His liege at last begins to draw away, and it seems to break whatever moment had held them suspended. It is not even a thought, as Gol extends out his arm, and shifts so that he is using only half the cloak.

“You will be cold, sire- Soliam.”

There is that almost-wince at the corner of his liege’s eye, the slightest tic of a reluctance to accept the title that Gol so hastily corrects.

“If you insis–”

“I do.”  Gol swallows the sir that lingers on his lips, and doesn’t speak as his liege carefully levers down to settle next to him.  They are close, pressed against each other for warmth, the closest they have ever been since Gol had assisted Ha’ub in the darkest days of his liege’s brush with death.  It is strange, and new, but weariness overtakes even the turmoil of his mind, and Gol slowly drifts to sleep, only half-aware as his head falls to rest upon a broad, warm shoulder.

(A/N: So we're gonna pretend that travel time actually... takes time.)

It had taken some time to realize that when Tariq sang, he most often sang in the old tongue, and not in Sahrian common.  The Reader had grown so used to hearing the Voice of the Archjustice echoing their ears with each rite, that the shift between the languages was one they did not take particular notice of.  It had taken Hedwyn, in fact, asking them what the words meant, after catching the Reader humming and singing snatches of the song under their breath as they foraged for the Reader to realize that while the rest of the Nightwings enjoyed Tariq's playing, they could not understand the meaning of his words.

(It was a pitiful attempt, to be sure, but as they travelled the next slow stretch along the winding roads, the Reader asked that Tariq simply play the tune.  There were a few false starts, humming along, but at last the Reader began to sing—haltingly and quiet, their voice was not up for much more than that—the simple words in basic Sahrian.  The sheer delight on Hedwyn's face, Rukey's wide grin, Fae's dancing, and Jodariel's not-quite-there smile made it all worth it).

As more songs were sung, it became something of a tradition for the Reader to puzzle over the lyrics, before trying to parse them into common Sahrian, for the rest to enjoy fully.  Sometimes, the words became to much and their voice too thin, and the Reader resorted back to simply signing along with the words that Tariq sang, but all the same it was something deeply appreciated by all.  Volfred's entry into the group... somewhat disrupted this dynamic, but soon everyone was glad to welcome another occasional translator into their midst during the time for campfire music.  He had a deep, lyrical tone to his voice, that paired well with Tariq's, though it took some inducement to coax the Sap into singing.

Still, it was one night, on the cold climb up Mt. Alodiel, that Tariq began to strum his way to a new tune.  At the first few unfamiliar bars, the Nightwings quickly wrapped up their remaining tasks, and huddled quickly together around the minstrel, to hear the tune.  Volfred knew it, clearly, from the sudden, slight smile around his lips as he began to meditatively smoke his pipe.  It began slow, almost slightly mournful, and when Tariq opened his mouth, the Reader and all the other Nightwings were caught, waiting to hear what sounds would pour from his mouth.

Beneath Androbeles under-robeles lies a great surprise.  The sight beneath such nobeles robeles would surely scar your eyes.

Volfred took a deliberately long drag of his pipe, and the Reader was suddenly, deeply grateful for the deep shadows of their cowl, as they could feel their face and neck begin to heat.  The rest of the Nightwings were still captivated, hanging on to every foreign syllable.  Perhaps they had misheard.  Overanxious from the trials ahead, still wearied from their last rite, the general aches that came with their body that was not truly well even before they had come to the Downside.

'Tis rude to boast of width or girth or any mark of size.  Yet beneath Androbeles nobeles robeles truly a pittance lies.

Crookedly bent, and easily spent, and possessed of a truly horrendous scent, is the poor Archjustice's particular gent.

The Reader choked, silently.  Hedywn's eyes flickered over to them, and his brow furrowed in concern but the Reader subtly waved him off, instead trying to regain their breath, and with it some semblance of composure.  Volfred continued to serenely smoke his pipe, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes as he occasionally glanced at the Reader when an especially 'juicy' detail was rendered in such a sweet voice and such lovely music.

…And the hirsute globes beneath his robes, perhaps hiding some mold or a newt…

The worst part was that the song truly seemed to go on.  Endlessly.  The Reader simply stopped counting verses, and held themself under an impassive face of stony silence as Tariq's words painted a most vivd picture of things that the Reader, for all their endless seeking of knowledge, quite firmly believed that they'd truly never need know of.

Finally, finally, the song drew to its blessed close, and the Reader was quite ready to sing effusive praises  to the Scribes.  Their fingers ached, and as they glanced down they noticed that their hands had clenched so firmly that the imprints of their nails were dug into their palms.  They were quick to release their hands, and carefully, casually smooth down the edges of their cloak.

"Hey, uh, chum?"  The Reader looked up to see Rukey and several of the other Nightwings, staring at them in mixed curiosity and concern.  "Do you think you'll be able to tell us what it meant, any time soon?"