Omni's Story Bin

Glancing down at the table, Rook noticed a slight change made to the map since his last visit. The Silverite dagger had moved further up, planted in an island away from the Marches. Surrounded by many sea monsters and an impressive fleet of ships lay the dagger's glittering resting spot: Llomerryn, jewel of the Eastern Seas. As far as Rook knew, it was a lawless haven. A short stopover for smugglers to trade some Incaensori to make space for unfortunate living stock. Otherwise, a debaucherous feast-day destination for Altus looking to sate their appetites or find yet another rare bauble to flaunt back home.

"Good. That's about everyone," Harding began, rising from her seat. "Settle down, this is important."

All fell silent, except for Magpie, who asked, "What's this about, Nightingale? Good news, I hope?"

"That depends. There's been a change of plans. Our next stop will be Llomerryn."

Immediately, Dagna jumped forth from her seat, "Llomerryn? Don't they sell just about everything there?"

"Everything your heart could desire," Captain Isabela said. Then cautiously, noting the Arcanist's growing smile, "Erhem— Within reason."

"Can we stop by at their markets? I could use some rare materials..."

Harding cleared her throat, "We can arrange for that, however we aren't stopping for a shopping trip."

"Not even for a pleasure pilgrimage?" Magpie quipped, much to the ire of some of his companions.

"No," Harding answered. "Our role is of great importance. I will not tolerate any distractions that puts our mission into jeopardy. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Magpie's head was bowed, hand on heart, but Rook could see the faintest trace of a smile.

"As for what this mission entails, our task is to procure a magical artifact. We have a few days to retrieve it before anyone else does."

"You mean, we're stealing it?" Ashkatari tensed.

"Is stealing so bad if it's for the greater good?" Magpie chimed, to which the Qunari grumbled.

"Finally. Some action," Ptarmigan yawned, "I thought I'd go mad in this sea. All this time since the last raid and I've still yet to fight a single sea monster."

BANG!

Rook almost leapt out of his own body. Then came another odd bang. And then another. A metallic, smoky scent filled the air. He traced the noise to Dagna’s room.

Rook charged in. The door gave easily. He almost tumbled headlong into open crates, filled with metals and other deadly materials. Almost.

Quickly recovered, he whipped around for any sign of fire or danger. His worry was misplaced; all was well within, save for a small figure hammering active lyrium into a tiny runestone. With another resounding BANG, the whole room was aflash with bright red, catching Rook in a daze.

When the light subsided, Rook saw the figure looking up at him from her crafting table, lifting her welding mask up; she was a dwarf, red-haired and floating sparks from her work reflected in her green eyes. Her every movement produced overlapping afterimages that made his head spin.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there! Are you okay?”

“Mnn…” Dagna’s voice helped pull Rook out of his bedazzled state. He shook the lingering effects out of his head.

“What just happened?” Rook groaned, clutching his head.

“You just experienced a side effect from a rune I’m crafting. I didn’t expect anyone to come running in.”

“I thought you were in danger.”

“Oh, no I’m totally fine. It’s just this new lyrium infusion I’m trying out. Has some kick to it,” she chuckled. “Maybe I should put up another sign.”

“No. The fault is mine. I should have… knocked.”

As if she would have heard that over the loud noise!

Embarassed and still slightly bewildered, Rook’s next words came off much too curt than he intended, “Saabraks needs his staff fixed.”

“Again?” she said, not a hint of disappointment in her tone, but rather surprise.

Rook handed her the staff. When she looked it over she looked more excited than angry.

The dwarf cracked her knuckles, “’Guess that strikes Ironwood off the list. Hmm… Dragonthorn could work. Does it have to be wood? I suppose I could make it entirely out of metal for him…”

She trailed off into theorem and musings that Rook could hardly make head or tails over.

“You don’t sound very upset about this.”

“Upset? Why would I be upset? I love a challenge! Why? Did Saabraks say he needed to apologise or something? He has nothing to apologise for,” she sighed.

“What else do you know of me?”

“Besides your name and that you work for the Tenebris, nothing else. And if I’m not mistaken, you’d prefer to keep things that way, right?”

“I’d rather no one knew anything about me.”

“With your skills, you could have disappeared altogether and escaped South. Yet, you remained in Tevinter and kept putting yourself at risk of capture.”

“What would you have me do? I couldn’t live with myself knowing that others were still suffering in slavery.”

Gaule, Leuice, 1921

The city of lights fought back against the encroaching night. It was a fine evening for a gathering, and many venues were brimming with activity. La Ruche was no exception to this. Party-goers buzzed around the honey-glow of the domed hall. Few hung around outside long; those that did were dressed in heavy furs that were too warm for early Autumn.

A taxi joined the line of street cars. Out stepped two men, both finely dressed for the occasion. The taller one fidgeted with his tie.

“You look fine, Ben,” came the thick-accented voice of the other. “I mean it. The people here could care less about what’s on the outside.”

“But they still care a little, right?” Benjamin sighed. At last, he relented and held out his arms.

“How do I look?”

“Dressed.”

“Very funny, Mirka.”

They made their way to the entrance, joining the small trickle of the fashionably late. Most had already retreated from the cold. Dragomir could feel its bite through his thin overcoat, yet he was in no hurry. He was sure that he could handle attending a party. And yet, each step closer drained him of all the confidence he had mustered up to this point. 

His brother, Christianus, made it sound so simple. All he had asked of him was to loosen up and find his very own amant - Dragomir couldn’t make any promises on that last part, but at the very least he did agree to the former. Dear Cristi, ever the smooth talker, left out the part about representing all of the Popescus that night.

Dragomir wondered if this was his punishment - he had missed last year’s L’essaim Dansant , and the one before that. It felt like a lifetime since he last attended with his brother and their other relatives. Would anyone recognize him? Without the usual entourage, perhaps not. Saints, he hoped not.

“You seem tense.”

He answered first with a half-nod, “I’ve never gone to a Swarm alone.”

“Alone? But you’re with me.”

Dragomir gave him a dead look. His lips were pursed into a thin line, one of his ‘hairs’ twitching irritably. 

“Look, I get it. I felt the same way at my brother’s bachelor party. Saints above, I’m feeling it now.”

Tension eased its grip on Dragomir’s body.

“Come on,” Benjamin nudged him, “It can’t be all that bad without the rest of your folks.”

Dragomir sighed, “I suppose you’re right.”

Close to the entrance, the pair took a spot by the railings. Benjamin reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, only to remember he hadn’t packed none specifically for this occasion. Vampires hated the smell. He kissed his teeth sharply, slumping over the railing.

“You sure they won’t mind someone like me around?”

“Why not? The Peace is respected here.”

“It’s not just that, it’s… It’s a lot bougier than my usual digs,” Benjamin gestured vaguely. “I don’t exactly look like the usual clientele.”

“We don’t usually look like this either, Ben. Don’t worry, we typically don’t go around judging people because of their skin.”

“Hmm… Fair point. But, then again I’m still human.”

“No one will trouble you. I promise.”

“Thanks, Mirka. I hope I make a good impression.” 

“Of course. You’re a natural at it.”

Benjamin took a deep breath of the humid Leucian air, then exhaled a faint cloud of steam. “Well, we can’t stay out here all night. You must be freezing your ass off in that.”

“I misjudged the weather.”

“All the more reason to go in. Come on.”

As they neared the doorway, Dragomir’s whole body seized up - he was overcome with the instinct to lay down deathly still. Benjamin stopped a step ahead of him only to double back over to his side.

“Mirka, you good?”

“Sfinților, ajută-mă…” Dragomir cursed at himself.

Nothing had made him seize up this badly. Not since he was a larva.  He felt ridiculous for it - after all, this was hardly worse than anything he had dealt with before. Benjamin put a hand on his shoulder, wearing his tense “briefing face” but with a slight smile.

“Okay, Mirka. Our mission is to have a good time. We’ll dance, catch a few drinks, mingle with the ladies, and we’ll be out before you can say fais do-do. You can do that. I know you can.”

Benjamin gave him a firm pat on his shoulder. As his body came back to life, Dragomir managed a nod. He shook off the stiffness and willed his limbs forward.

“That’s the spirit,” Benjamin slicked back his hair, “Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

They pushed through the open doors and greeted the receptionist at the front. Guarding the entrances were men in white and grey evening gowns that blended with the pillars; they were built like beetles and were still as mantises. Unblinking, their large eyes saw everyone coming and going. But Dragomir sensed recognition from one of them - a past associate from Megyeri.

The agency had sent Dragomir and Benjamin to investigate Karabasan cases across the Megyeri countryside. Vampires were among the first to be blamed. The duo discovered that the night terrors were caused by an anomalous event that tainted the water supply. They handled the situation, curing the afflicted upon its defeat. They gave the locals a convincing half-truth: an industrial spillage poisoned the river. But the rumours had done their work; it just had to be the vampires. The duo had helped the Megyeri and other vampires from the region move in with the prominent clans. If they hadn’t left they’d be-

“Invitations please,” the Receptionist said in plain Gaulish.

Dragomir shook the memory off. He was here now - he could leave the memories for tomorrow. 

They reached for their invitations. Benjamin took his out and handed it to the receptionist to inspect. But Dragomir was left checking and patting every pocket on his person. They exchanged a look. Dragomir remembered it being buried in a pile of files in his suitcase - agency work that he had snuck along with him right under Benjamin’s nose. So much for keeping Cristi’s promise.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have it.”

“Your name?”

“Dragomir Popescu.”

The receptionist flicked through the pages of a record. Dragomir sensed a faint note of hesitance in the air. But then the Megyeri guard made a low clicking noise at the receptionist; he had put a good word in for the pair. The receptionist responded with a nod. 

“Right. Just sign the guest book and you’ll be free to go. Enjoy your night, gentlemen.”

The guards checked them briskly before they were cleared for entry. Then, they were let into the main hall by the guard. He gave them a short nod of thanks and wished them well. He didn’t smile, but a floral scent wafted from him.

La Ruche lived up to its name - even in this tumultuous year the ballroom was bright and buzzing with guests. Those from major clans, smaller families, solitary types and a few humans from the world over had gathered. The reception was strong as Dragomir remembered, though several of the usual families were missing. So few representing the clans of Romania attended, and even fewer from Gothia and elsewhere.

The tragedies and fears of the day could not snuff out the joys of the hive. For one night of every year, those worries were left in the cold. Since the aftermath of the purges, this was a night of resistance.

It had been long since Dragomir had been amongst his people, he had forgotten how to drop his facade. There was no need for pretense in La Ruche. Here, they could be their natural selves; they could speak through percussion and fragrance, sup on the blood of animals in public, and dance on the walls and ceilings. The only exception: they couldn’t walk around au naturale - they still had to accommodate the few humans amongst them.

In parties like these, one couldn’t stay alone for long. As much as Dragomir wanted to beeline towards the bar, he and Benjamin had quickly caught the attention of a twelve-person swarm of men and women. One of many things vampires shared with humans was the necessity to commune - loneliness was death. And like most, vampires were too stubborn to let death take them. Dragomir mused, perhaps it was by his very nature that he let himself be dragged along by this swarm.

But, if there was one thing Dragomir had grown most unused to, it was being amongst so many of his own; his senses were overwhelmed by all the conversation carried by vibrations and scents. He stayed silent, hands in pockets and feelers out for the most part whilst the others got to know each other. The crowd that had taken them were a mix from different clans; most were Gaulish, some from the Sovereign Isles, others as far as Serica.  

“I swear I’ve seen you before. Which clan do you belong to, mon bon monsieur?” one of the men asked Dragomir; he was wasp-thin and adorned in bright yellow and black.

“Popescu,” Dragomir mumbled. “Of Romania.”

“Oh, so you must be Christianus’ brother. How is he and the rest of the family?”

“They’re… busy of late.”

They waited patiently, expecting Dragomir to go on. Before anyone else could ask him anything more, Dragomir cleared his throat.

“This is my friend, Benjamin.”

“And you, mon cheri,” the man turned to Benjamin, “Where are you from?”

“Er, well- I come from Louisianne.” 

“Ah, you’re Asteropian?”

“That’s right.” Benjamin then sang, a tinge of irony in his voice, “Land of the free and home of the brave.”

“Of course, that’s what our forefathers helped you fight for, no? Ah, no offense, Reginald.”

The Sovereignite in speckled clothing spoke, “None taken. In fact, dear granpapa wanted nothing to do with that sordid war but… Oh, you know how it is.”

He turned to Benjamin, “I applaud your grandfathers. They had every right to fight for their freedom.”

They all shared a knowing look - as if they all knew that the fight was far from over. Benjamin smiled, “I’m honored. But I hope we can do them proud. Saints, I’m sure they’re happy enough seeing you all keeping the spirit of La Ruche alive. Isn’t that right, Mirka?”

Dragomir nodded once, “Indeed...”

“Tell me,” said a woman in black and yellow. “Are you together?”

There was a great pause, neither quite catching her meaning.

“I mean, as a mating pair.”

“Ah, right,” Dragomir clicked. “No.”

“Oh, no. We’re just friends,” Benjamin followed with a laugh. “That’s allowed here?”

“Of course!” she giggled, ”This is Frankia, my dear. Why should it matter if we lay with humans or the same sex?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose I can agree with that.”

Dragomir nodded.

“So,” she began again, “I see you’re both looking for someone to woo this evening, hmm?”

“Bachelors?” her friend, a man in moth patterned petticoat perked up, “At your age?”

Two of Dragomir’s ‘hairs’ drooped flat at that. Benjamin stepped in for him, “You see, our line of work is rather demanding, mon cher.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to offend,” the man stammered. 

“That’s quite alright,” Dragomir followed with a sheepish click.

“Not to worry,” one woman spoke up, “That’s what L’essaim is for, no? Many of us have yet to find someone to dance with.”

“A dance would be nice,” Benjamin perked up, laughing politely. “Count me in.”

The others looked at him, intrigued, “Certainly. Would you like to join us?”

“We’d be happy to, mon chéri,” Benjamin said. “I’m quite the dancer myself you see.”

A few of the bachelorettes hummed, black and yellow dresses shimmering with a subtle waggle of their hips.

“I like your confidence,” said one, “But are you familiar with La Danse des Abeilles?”

“Uh, no. But I’d be down for a lesson.”

He realised he had been too quick to agree to it. Thinking deeply on the meaning of her words and her body language, he learned she was suggesting more than a dance.

She chuckled, her next words mostly unclear Gaulish but translated literally: “If you’re a good student, perhaps we’ll take a trip pollinating roses tonight.”

Benjamin nudged Dragomir with his elbow. But no other words or signals followed - Dragomir simply just didn’t have the words to save his friend.

So he used his family’s greatest strength. The scent of orchids filled the air around him; it was loud enough to draw the attention of the swarm and pleasing enough to quieten them down, “Uh, shall we go to the bar first? My friend and I haven’t drank anything since this morning.”

“I don’t see why not,” the wasp shrugged, “Alright. Let’s go.”

Benjamin gave a small sigh of relief. The pair let the group lead them through the ballroom past other swarms, the conversation passing from dancing to preferred drinks - all with the cheeky slip of innuendo that would go over most humans’ heads. Despite differences in language, Benjamin had grown comfortable enough amongst their group that he had become the life of the party once again, telling them greatly abridged versions of his and Dragomir’s escapades. The bees and wasps were most explicit in their approval, wagging their hips with his every word.

Dragomir was content to simply listen, silently observing his surroundings as they walked. He caught a smaller swarm in passing - all perhaps few decades older from himself as signified from their movements and the quality of their human skins. They conversed solely through quieter scents and touch. Out of habit, he caught a few snippets of their grim conversation. Despite the rules of La Ruche, it seemed a few couldn’t help but speak of looming war. And despite his promises, neither Dragomir could completely drown out his troubles for a brief night. Not without a drink.

The bar was relatively empty until their swarm had moved in. All ordered light drinks to get themselves into the groove of things. Dragomir put his focus into their conversations whilst nursing his drink. All the singles marked their dancers, but Dragomir placed himself well out of range and had practically made himself forgotten and invisible to the rest of the swarm. Unbeknownst to his partner in crime, two of the honey-dressed bees fought over the human. Naturally, Benjamin wasn’t one to turn down multiple dance partners, much to the women’s delight. When the next song was announced, a few couples grew restless and urged their other halves for that long awaited dance.

“You coming, Mirka?” asked Benjamin.

Dragomir shook his head, “Later. You go on ahead.”

“Alright. Don’t wait around too long, you hear?”

Dragomir watched them all clear out of the bar and pass into the ballroom floor. When he turned back to his drink, he froze as he sensed the patron next to him. Staring at him with piercing sapphires was a face he had hoped he’d never see again.

“Răzvan,” he uttered.

“Domnule Popescu.”

Neither Angehelecu or Popescu spoke a word after that, nor did they show any of their pain or resentment for each other. The longer they lingered close, drinking and waiting for the other to speak, the more unpleasant memories and heartbreaks resurfaced in their minds. The events early that year was a fresh wound, one that Dragomir had hoped to patch up that night. He came close to speaking once more, only to stop himself. When did his words ever make things better?

After several more agonizing moments, Răzvan finally rose from his seat and left. Alone, he receded into the crowds. Alone, Dragomir was left regretting he had not taken this chance to mend things between them. He downed the rest of his drink.

Who was he kidding?

Still, Dragomir wasn’t truly alone. Several seats’ distance away, there sat a porcelain figure with one leg folded over the other. His heart-shaped head rested upon one hand. It reminded Dragomir of a movie poster he’d seen on the way. So convincing was the man’s human skin that Dragomir had to arch an antennae closer. Thankfully, he didn’t seem interested in chatter, at least for the moment - perfect for Dragomir, who was feeling averse to conversation for now. He needed a few drinks in his system.

“I'll take another,” he said to the bartender.

Fine red replenished his crystal, its scent heavy and floral. His proboscis unfurled from his false tongue, stirring then taking up the wine; it was smooth and nectar-sweet. As he drank, he let his mind meditate on the lively music and the conversations. Midway into his second glass, that awful feeling in his thorax had numbed.

“Not in the mood for a dance?”

Dragomir looked up, dumbfounded. The other man had closed the gap between them, nesting himself right next to him. Once he shook off his confusion, he answered with the slight shake of his head.

“No,” Dragomir cleared his throat, “Sorry. My Gaulish isn’t very good.”

“Nonsense. You speak it beautifully.”

The stranger pushed his empty glass aside.

“Your accent. Are you Ruthenian?”

“No. Romanian.”

“Ah. Forgive me.”

“None taken. Human matters of birthplace do not offend me.”

“That’s refreshing to hear,” the man smiled first before the smell of flowers came, “Too many let human feuds bleed into their own affairs.”

Dragomir nodded, a distant look upon his face, “Then they’ve forgotten what matters.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil the mood. And I don’t believe we’ve even been formally introduced yet!”

He held out his hand, “Philémon Lapointe.”

The other received it firmly, “None taken. Dragomir Popescu.”

Their fingertips stuck together as their tiny hairs intertwined. Philémon struggled to release the other, but Dragomir unstuck himself with ease.

“Is this your first time at La Ruche? I haven’t seen you before.”

“I used to come here every year. But lately…” he didn’t know how to finish that.

“Things have been difficult for your family?”

“No,” he lied, “My line of work keeps me busy. My brother, Christianus - he’s the one that usually attends these occasions.”

“Ah, yes. I must have seen him in passing. Where is he?”

“Duty calls him to other matters.”

He didn’t need to go any further than that, and Philémon did not press him. Instead, Dragomir asked, “What of yourself? Are you new to the Lapointe family?”

Philémon raised both antennae, “That’s right. What gave it away?”

“I’m sure I would have seen you before. We Popescus are quite familiar with the Lapointes.”

Philémon flitted about his pleasantries; smile wider, yet the scent was fainter.

“I was recently adopted into the family. Three years ago, to be exact.”

“Ah,” Dragomir nodded slightly, his antennae lowering. When the other reacted with slight discomfort, he exhaled through his spiracles, continuing, “How are they treating you?”

“Quite well, actually. I might not have been born from their clutch, but it feels that way. And, as the youngest, they spoil me rotten every chance they get. I can galavant around Gaule as I please.”

“I know how that feels,” Dragomir chuckled. “But, only Gaule? What of the rest of the world?”

Philémon shrugged, “Why would I want to be anywhere else? People travel the world over to come here. Fine blood and finer wine. I can’t imagine wanting more. I fear I'll get homesick.”

“I understand. But, surely- are you not even a little curious? Even the luckiest of us tire of home enough to want to travel.”

“Traveling? In these times?”

“There are peaceful places yet.”

Philémon rolled his glass around the table, the shallow puddle of wine swirled around at the bottom, “Such as?”

"There are quiet islands south of Trireann where it is warmer and drier.”

“Drier? Trireann?”

“I know. I was surprised too,” Dragomir smiled. “It’s a good place to settle. No noise. The cider’s good too.”

“Forgive me, but that honestly sounds too plain.”

“Then you might like Perlasang. The weather’s best all year around. The people are just as warm, even to us. And nothing quite compares to the fruit and flowers that grow there.”

“Not even Gaule compares?” Philémon chuffed, “I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

“You should when you get the chance.”

“I’ll definitely consider it now.”

They had their glasses refilled but this time they nursed their drinks.

“You’re well traveled. It must be fun holidaying this often.”

Dragomir shook his head, “Not when it’s your job. I hardly have the time to appreciate those places.”

“Must be one interesting job. So what are you? A businessman?” he paused, he pointed one finger and both antennae at him, “Or a spy?”

“It’s nothing that exciting…”

Philémon laughed, “You’re lying.”

“How do you know?”

He answered with the wave of one antennae, “I have a sense for these kinds of things.”

“Now I’m starting to think that you’re an agent.”

Philémon laughed again, much longer, “No, I’m not allowed.”

“That’s a shame. With that kind of gift, you’d make a valuable one.”

“Oh, you really think so?”

“Naturally.”

When they’d come down from their laughter, their gazes lingered over each other. They nursed their next round of drinks, this time choosing something lighter. Sweeter. They drank in the moment. The music shifted back into an upbeat tempo and couples gathered back to the dance floors on every corner of the room.

Then, Dragomir leaned forward to the other. He drummed his fingers against the back of his drinking partner’s hand.

Philémon smiled.

“I thought you weren’t in the mood.”

“I am now.”

He stood up, offering his hand. Philémon took it without hesitation, leaving behind a glass half-full. Hand-in-hand, they passed crowds of dancers, continuing up the walls until they were on the ceiling. Wine-quenched, their ardour was carried through the air, turning heads as they passed. Amidst all the flowery scents, theirs was distinctly of water lilies.

They joined the dancers, first with simple steps before letting the vibrant stream of brass and percussion carry their movements. Other couples joined their tempo. It was as if they let themselves be possessed by the vibrations that ran deep into their bodies. Fueled by alcohol, they grew bolder. Philémon pulled Dragomir into him first. The brief contact repelled them. He didn’t have to wait long, for Dragomir quickly closed the distance. Over and over. In and out. Marked - clear enough to scent. Their slight touches whispered salacious intimations.

They lost themselves to their instincts. Though they were strangers, they danced with the synchronicity of long-lived lovers. But this wasn’t love. Was it? That, they were unsure of. In that moment, the only sure thing was that they wanted each other.

When the music calmed all into a slow sway, Dragomir held his partner. Their breaths whistled from their pores until they steadied into silence.

“You’re quite the dancer,” Philémon’s voice was still breathless. “They teach you that in Romania?”

“The steps aren’t that much different, but no. I learned all of that in Asterope.”

Dragomir caught a faint twitch of displeasure before it was quickly masked with a coy chuckle.

“Oh really? Then how does one typically dance in your homeland?”

“We dance in circles to folk songs,” he said just as they spun around, “We’re quite old fashioned. Well, at least in my town.”

Philémon laughed - a sound that was music in of itself. Pleasure-scent wafted through Dragomir’s antennae like the same fine wine they had drunk not long ago.

“I’m intrigued. Maybe you should teach me those moves someday.”

“You’d want that?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Dragomir looked into Philémon’s eyes. How they shimmered like myriad gems with autumnal hues. Their pheromones mingled together. Wanting. A deep desire within themselves drummed against the walls of their false skins. Their truest, most primal selves longed to spring out from this place and take flight.

Their scent did not go unnoticed. Those around them stared and whispered as they danced in their slow embrace.

“Ignore them,” Philémon said through gentle taps against the back of his partner’s neck. “The night is still young. Let's go…”

Dragomir took a moment, looking upward - or rather down towards the crowds below.

“What’s wrong?”

It wasn’t long before he found Benjamin surrounded by that same fine company of men and women from earlier. Even though Dragomir was all the way up on the ceiling, he could sense that his friend was quite past succeeding in their mission - though, he perhaps could have warned him how deceiving those ‘light’ cocktails could be. Though inebriated, he could trust Benjamin to take care of himself.

“Nothing,” Dragomir answered.

He finally gave his signal, drumming it on a particular spot upon his dance partner’s back. Each sharing a smile, they disappeared from the ceiling dance floor, away from prying eyes and the buzz of voices. They slipped past the crowds, forgetting their coats in the lounge. Only, at the lobby did they stop.

Dragomir spoke to the receptionist in clicks, leaving a message for Benjamin should he come looking for him.

After that, the pair hastened their steps, hurrying past the doorway. Ignoring the cold night air, Dragomir paced himself, not too fast nor too slow. It was just enough for Philémon to catch his pace. The growing distance enticed them further. Before long, well paced steps erupted into a full blown chase.

They wove across the streets, zig-zagging past stragglers and drunkards. Hastened footsteps upon pavement produced a beat. Every spiracle sung whistling breaths. Their music rang out through the streets. Where they could, they added to their song, running hands through gates and rushing through piles of fallen leaves. One tried to outrun the other, in and out, over and over - the lover’s chase.

No matter how far and fast Dragomir ran, Philémon was always close behind. Several times, he had almost caught Dragomir. Fingertips brushed against the fibres of clothing and sensitive hairs. Under skin, a phantom melody, heard only at the closest proximities.

The gap closed. Their chase came to an end; Philémon had caught Dragomir by his coattails. They were left breathlessly gasping from every pore. The victor pulled his catch closer.

“Looks like you’re coming to my apartment tonight,” Philémon smiled.

“Is it private?”

Philémon answered with a nod.

Dragomir laughed noiselessly in turn, “Thank Sol. The hotel I’m staying in has little privacy.”

“Oh? Then did you let me catch you on purpose?”

“You do yourself a disservice,” Dragomir let him pull him closer, “No. You caught me fair and square.”

“But that was too easy.”

“I was never fast on my legs.”

They lingered closer, sheltered from the cold within each other’s arms. Under the lamp light they stared into each other’s eyes again. Philémon’s emeralds reflected Dragomir’s rubies. They sidestepped an abrasive drunkard, his Gaulish insults falling into the background noise - only understood by one. Eventually, Philémon began to shiver, his discomfort felt.

“Is something wrong?” Dragomir clicked, one of his ‘hairs’ perking up in search for the drunk.

“It’s not that,” Philémon shook his head, feigning a laugh. He reached up, gently combing through his partner’s antennae. “It’s cold, isn’t it? Shall we?”

Philémon led him by the hand to his apartment - a humble building on a quiet street. The Lapointes had shelter for all in their family dotted across Gaule and its colonies. This particular section consisted of a flower shop at its base - closed, as with most places across Gaule for the night - with several residential floors stacked on top. The windows were darkened; according to Philémon, the rest had lodged much closer to La Ruche so they needn’t travel far whilst drunk.

Outside and within, the building was filled with all manner of floral scents. The pair went up the swirling stairs until they had reached the final floor. Philémon entered first, flicking a switch that filled his home with amber light.

“Do watch your step.”

Dragomir awkwardly slid past the vases lined across the narrowed hallway. Large orchids stood tall and healthy, arranged in colours of white, yellow and pink. As he passed, he couldn’t resist brushing the back of his hand against the petals. Loose pollen caught on his hairs. Beyond the leaves and flowers, he noticed a small note nestled in one of the pots.

‘... keep them watered and warm. ~Sidonie’ he read to himself, in his approximate understanding of Gaulish.

“My sister’s endeavors,” Philémon sighed in embarrassment, “She must have forgotten to move them down before the party.”

“She’s quite the horticulturist.”

“Mhmm,” Philémon scratched the back of his head, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. They’re wonderful,” Dragomir said.

Philémon paused as Dragomir tentatively avoided the flowers. He almost tripped as he avoided another vase, falling into his partner. Philémon chuckled, guiding him. They shrugged off their suit jackets, letting them fall in a pile, discarded. Chests pressed together, they shimmied through the apartment in another dance. Their antennae emerged in full, tapping all over each other’s forms. Lips brushed, ever close to meeting.

They pushed through a door, knocking into a vase. The clashing of clay stopped them in their tracks. Soil and large pink lily petals spread upon the bedroom floor. Pollen drifted across the dimly-lit room, catching in the lamp light outside the window.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Philémon hushed him as he led him to his bed. “I’ll tell her I was drunk.”

Dragomir’s back vibrated from under his thin, pale skin - the faint outline of wings and the contours of his true self begging to be revealed. Philémon’s fingers drew lines over his lover before stopping at his abdomen. He could feel the vibrations of his heart dance with increasing tempo under his fingertips. His antennae unfurled, taking in every sensation of the man under him. Love scents mingled with the overwhelming fragrance of perfume and flowers.

They spread their legs apart, making tentative touches. Secret messages drummed lightly upon each other and caught in pheromones and movements. A back and forth of teasing.

“I am,” Philémon finally whispered within a kiss.

And so, like a gift, he peeled off his lover’s soiree. Then his skin. Like tissue paper, it tore easily, revealing a dark patterned exoskeleton underneath. Dragomir shook slightly and stretched out as Philemon freed him from his tight human guise. His second pair of arms unfolded and twitched with sensation. Wings, like stained glass, quivered with the rhythms of sweet rapture.

Dragomir’s eyes, no longer constrained by human shape, were large, rubied orbs. They beheld all of Philémon and all his angles. With hands outstretched, Dragomir offered to free him too.

But Philémon retracted from his touch. He shook his head. His expression, embarrassed. Scared. Dragomir stopped.

Philémon mustered the strength to look back. In awe of his beautiful lover, he saw what he could not have. Dragomir’s antennae searched the air for an answer. He clicked low to soothe him - it still hurt.

Philémon took off his own clothes, revealing his dark truth. Marked upon his gossamer confines were many scars. Dragomir could see the indentations of his misshapen thorax - it looked stunted from being unable to molt, or rather, from being forced not to. It was hollow where his second pair of arms should have been folded. Where there should have been visible traces of wings, only faint stubs remained, unmoving. Dragomir gently pushed the tears from his emerald eyes and reassured him with gentle clicks.

“I’m sorry,” Philémon whispered. He repeated it with shaking taps of his fingers. Sorrow and an old fear lingered on his scent.

And yet, Dragomir reached out his hand. When Philémon took it, he gently tapped.

“Don’t apologise.”

“I should have told you. But I…” Philémon’s words and rhythms faltered, “You must find me repulsive.”

Dragomir pulled him closer, placing his lover’s hand along the length of his abdomen: “Nonsense. I still want you.”

There were no lies in his vibrations. No deceit in his tender movements. The pulse that ran through his length sang more sincerely than words could ever hope. Philémon shook. Tears of hemolymph cascaded from his eyes.

Dragomir began to push himself up and away the moment he scented pain. He had done it again, he thought - all he was ever good for was hurting others. But Philémon grasped his arm tightly and pulled him back in.

“I still want you too,” Philémon whispered throughout his body. “Stay.”

Their antennae tapped light against each other once more. Desperation and arousal hung in the air. They exchanged a few low, intimate clicks. Dragomir’s touch was careful, but Philémon pulled him, wanting to be handled as he would be handled in his own true skin. And so Dragomir did. They resumed their touches. Tentative at first but they grew into confident kicks. Dragomir’s limbs finally secured themselves around his lover, and Philemon did the same in turn, intertwined.

Philémon pulled Dragomir downwards. The latter’s wings beat harmonised with the weak fluttering of his own broken wings. He lunged forward, crawling up to meet Dragomir’s face. Their abdomens met. Their love tips touched.

The song continued throughout the night. Dragomir’s wingbeats lifted the couple upward. They hovered just slightly over the bed. Philémon held on, embraced. The pair continued to soar. Their passions coalesced

They were brought down to the soil and pollen-strewn sheets.

Whistling spiracles calmed to faint breaths. Like vines upon branches, their limbs remained interwoven imperfectly. Their embrace and scent, a constant reminder that they weren’t alone in this place. Philémon’s glistening green orbs lingered on his lover. He drummed a word of thanks faintly upon one of Dragomir’s wing joints. They spent the rest of the night in silence, exhausted from their dance, until finally, sleep took them.

When morning came, Philémon awoke alone after what seemed to be a pleasant dream. But there was a space next to him with the indentations of another - the space his lover left still held his scent. The broken plant pot was tidied and mended as best as one could do with Propolis and a broom. A few flowers survived, standing with the support of a long branch stuck through the middle of the soil pile. A few stray petals lingered around the room, just like the memories of last night.

Philémon found himself feeling quite alone. Longing filled his being. It’s not love. He readily accepted it to be just one rare Swarming to forget his troubles.

As he made his way through his apartment, the memories grew weightier. He went to the kitchen, pouring himself some cow’s blood and table wine. His own worries returned in full, immune to even his morning wine’s usual numbing effect. He could wallow in his troubles behind his curtains for days on end. But whilst sober, he found the darkness unbearably suffocating. He wrenched them open much stronger than he intended; a force that almost tore them off the rail.

Philémon let the light pour into the orchid-filled room. With a deep breath let it soak his bare form. That’s when he noticed a small piece of napkin from La Rouche on his wooden table. He pulled it from under the pen that held it down. Like a letter, his name was embellished upon it. Unfolding the napkin, he braced for the worst.

The worst did not come. 

Several Livres fluttered out onto the kitchen floor like leaves; they were ignored in favour of the note itself. The words within were small and written in readable cursive, every loop and tail drawn long and wide. A trace scent of water lilies lingered. Though the Gaulish was imperfect, he understood every word.

‘I’m sorry for leaving without a word. I hope this note can make up for that. 

Thank you for your company. I must confess, last night I did not think I would dance, but I’m glad you changed my mind. I came to La Ruche to forget, but since waking I know I’ll never forget this moment.

Next year, if you still need a dance partner or just someone to talk to, I’ll be sitting in the same spot in the bar.

Until then, Mirka

P.S. I’m sorry about the lilies. I know it won’t bring them back, but I hope the money in this note is enough to reimburse your sister.’

Philémon was left with a terrible hope thereafter. He pressed the napkin to his chest and sighed. Years of being burned by empty wishes had taught him to lower his expectations. It was a brief affair. Nothing more, he reassured himself. Yet, he found himself praying to the Saints from deep in his abdomen. For once, he wished to be wrong.

And so, Philémon awaited the next L’essaim , holding Dragomir Popescu to his promise.