Red Day(dream)s

After the party though comes the next heavy guillotine overhead. The cleaning.

That…that she's been struggling with a lot more, even with Goldmary's amazing advice on how to handle the situation. But she can only spend so much of her life pretending to be somebody else, and it would be incredibly awkward and embarrassing for her to be caught being Goldmary by someone else.

So! Obvious the only way to deal with this challenge was to face it head on, with everything she's got! And she'll look like a good, responsible professor to boot! That's what she tells herself, at least, when she volunteers to help out with the cleaning efforts.

She lasts about thirty minutes before she has to dart out of the main room.

(Better? Worse? Let's maybe not keep score on that yet.)

There's not much thought put into which room she darts into beyond the idea that it is 1) away from the others and 2) has a door, which she proceeds to quickly pull shut behind her. She tries to take in a deep breath, only to be met with the sharp smell of chemicals that makes her jolt and spin around.

…wait, is that…

"Uh…" She manages with just about as much eloquence, unknown to her. That's…that's the Divine One, right? It sure looks like him, except for the glaringly obvious fact that he is red. Like, really red.

This person doesn't sound hostile - particularly with that odd greeting, which he's not going to try and puzzle out - but surely she will notice his crime. Surely she will be displeased.

Alear was meant to be the best of his father's children. He did not survive this long by failing at duties he was assigned. He did not survive by being clumsy, absent-minded, unsatisfactory. He cannot cast off the standards he was raised with, the brand they've left upon him, simply because the scenery has changed.

She asked for an explanation, didn't she? He provides it. There's no point attempting to hide. "I was ordered to clean this room. I have made a mistake."

The portrait continues to sadly collapse on itself, even though he's no longer touching it. What was once a work of talented realism is now an abstract mess, unrecognisable.

Steeling himself, Alear asks, "What will my punishment be?"

Now, of course, Rafal was no less difficult a lover than he was a difficult man. In love, his tyrannical likes demanded all; in the catmint of Alear's attention, he rolled around joyously without shame; after he was done, he expressed his want for more, more, more. But, this was not to say that he was without weakness to method. There was more than one way to appease the proud beast, but offerings from a reverent lover were especially effective. And Rafal—this Rafal—required no further gesture to transform sullen displeasure into mysteriously restored patience.

He blushed prettily at the rebuttal, studied their joined hands from over his partner's shoulder, then, of all things. . .looked away. "—You've a true contrition about you. I suppose I will forgive you for your crimes of insufficient passion just this once."

Rafal—another Rafal—would have banged his fists on the walls at this kittenish statement. 'Where are your CLAWS? What is the meaning of this, Other Rafal?!'

Then, a step. As always it was the Fell Heir who drew back first; no less a natural and cardinal thing like gravity or inertia. Though he could have stayed interlocked with his Divine Dragon forever, or at least a bit closer to the definition of forever, he was deterred for his desire to see the man's face and not the back of his head. Selfish, truly. That earnest expression was his favorite sight across all the worlds, after all.

"However, I spoke of forgiveness. Now I speak of payment." Promptly, and with brow-raising familiarity, Rafal seated himself on the pristine white dais of a bed where he might gain a better view of his fellow dragon. The nest of a pure sanctum he would have once avoided, but by now had confidently slept in, awoken in, lounged in, chosen to lay in. Been deliberately laid across, disarmed and deflowered and enjoyed and—

Rafal—another Rafal—gripped each side of his head like he might subject the brain to pulverizing pressure.

Fathomless crimson eyes pointed at Alear and lavished him in admiration for all his effects. He was a charming creature - charming on his own, and ever more appreciable because he was Rafal's. With gaze alone, Rafal said so: "Regale me with stories of your travels and spare no detail. Just as you wished, I have kept your kingdom safe in your absence. Such will serve as the beginnings of an appropriate compensation."

An uncomplicated arrangement on more than one front; Rafal treasured what Alear treasured, and could be put to the task of guarding his hoard as any dragon of man's exaggerated legends. He was also easily convinced when told any of the following:

"Your power is respectable."

"Your power is most suited to safeguarding the capital of Elyos."

"Please, Rafal, only you can do this. . .!"

Does Alear also spoil him too much? Maybe, but they're both happy about it; there's no harm, so it isn't going to stop.

"I'll make sure not to re-offend," he says, playing along. The penitent soul, thankful for gracious treatment.

There's a strange jolt when Rafal releases him, internal recoil as if a strained tether had suddenly snapped, rebalancing weight onto those which remain. Regret, but also…a shiver of relief? No, that's silly, why would he be relieved for the end of a loving embrace?

They're just aligned in the wish to gaze at each other, face to face. That's what it is. Alear isn't glad to be separated, but for the chance to rest adoring eyes upon his partner. Obviously.

It's common truth that everyone is biased, to consider their other half the most beautiful person in the world. He's fairly sure Rafal actually is, though. A sight to behold, and looking back at Alear in a manner which speaks poetic volumes: secure in the knowledge they're both exactly where they belong.

"Do you even need to ask? Just give me a moment."

Before his ambush, Alear had been considering the travel chest that was hauled around the continent with him (in spite of the stewards, who thought he should be travelling with twice as much luggage). He steps towards it now, kneels to raise the lid, and retrieves the bundle of carefully-wrapped gifts, each chosen to suit luxurious tastes.

Another jolt, a moment of hesitation. What is he doing, offering trinkets and sweets as if those are remotely acceptable tribute? He should have reports of conquest in the human kingdoms, tokens of slain enemies, priceless rings infused with otherworldly power, bowing his head in mute obedience as he waits for judgement-

What? No. This is a bright, serene sanctuary, not the crushing gloom of those temple halls. The one who holds audience here might wear a facade of lordly tyranny, when it suits him, but he carries Alear's heart with protective zeal. No harm will befall it.

Where are these thoughts intruding from? Alear shakes them off, resumes his task. Gathers the gifts, and takes a seat beside Rafal, intending to interweave the presentation of each item with tales of the region it came from. Understanding that, while 'payment' is in the same line as 'business', lacking appropriate sentiments, it's essential for Rafal to have a sense of pride and purpose. To know that Alear trusts in his strength, and loyalty, and judgement. To feel appreciated for his true worth.

"I mentioned I'd be going to Solm first. That's where I picked up honey candies for you, but I had to run around a few different stalls, because they've got a new trend for putting chilli on them. I thought you'd prefer the classic version." And so he begins, chatting about where exactly he went, who he met there, matters of state and meetings with old comrades.

A daunting idea, attempting to make himself fit in at such a lively, unpredictable event. All things considered, he's better suited to this part. Despite the fact that he's never mopped a floor or polished a table in his life.

They had servants to do that, in Gradlon Temple. They had happier, less downtrodden servants, in Lythos Castle. Is it beneath him, for draconic royalty to be doing the work of a servant? He doesn't care. It's nice to feel useful.

However…this is less straightforward than he'd expected. First, he's ordered to haul a stack of chairs down a long hallway. Then someone else scolds him, and tells him to put them all back again. This is frustrating. Next, they send him to a different room, instruct him to 'scrub every single surface until it shines', and leave him to complete the task.

The floors are not difficult, nor are the windows. He decides that curtains count as laundry, and can be ignored. Mirrors and candlesticks can be made to shine, certainly.

And then, he comes to the painting, a portrait of a stern-looking man in an ornate frame. He should polish the frame, shouldn't he? And…what about the rest?

Well, the paint is already long dried into place, so getting the canvas wet shouldn't matter. Alear was told to scrub every single surface, and maybe the dark, imposing image will look better, once he's done. He dips a cloth into the bucket of water he was given (mixed with some pungent grime-eating chemical, which is starting to sting his hands), and gets to work.

Quickly, he realises this was a mistake.

The colours begin to soften and blur, and the cloth comes away smudged with paint. Alarmed, he tries to dab things back into place, but only succeeds in making it worse, spoiling the artist's precise brushstrokes. Bubbles appear, the chemical smell growing sharper, as if it's reacting to something else. The man's face looks distorted, melting, glowering at him in accusation.

"Oh…" he murmurs, in utter dismay (if not eloquence).

Absorbed in accidental vandalism, he's entirely unaware of anyone else who might be approaching this sorry scene.

Miraculous, because, really, there was no easily conceivable way that someone with the Fell Heir's questionable personality would discover love: "—Divine One. Do you intend to avoid me forever?"

Rafal had always been a dragon of supreme demands, but this time the demand was. . .different. He wrapped his arms around Alear from behind in such a protracted and meaningless way that did not suggest backstabbing or assassination or a return to his fell teachings. He initiated this moment himself; he made no attempt to dislodge; he wore an unseemly, brooding, pouting lip. One hand heavy with golden pact ring.

Miraculous; unexpected; shocking. Before their scene, each descriptor would be found fitting and true. An abject child of fell origins, a reputable son of divinity; in this universe, they who'd once opposed one another and befriended one another had now come to. . .adore one another.

"All week you have kept yourself busy. All week you have toured the whole of Elyos meeting with contacts near and far. Your business is the business of rule over this world, that I understand." The serpent's vicelike embrace tightened, but the man he constricted was never at risk of coming to harm. Rafal pressed his face between the Divine One's shoulder blades as if he might stamp his sullen expression there.

". . .But, do not forget this. I, too, am a business that requires tending."

But that was so long ago, wasn't it? Of course. He can't even remember.

Now he's the Divine Dragon Monarch, blessed and privileged to be the protector of Elyos. Satisfied with his place in this world, secure in bonds of trust and companionship. And so when he feels himself caught in an embrace, he doesn't flinch, or freeze, or question its purpose - why would that even occur to him? Instead a bloom of familiar warmth, a welcoming smile, even if it can't be seen from this angle. Accepting this as natural. Affection poured into the name: "Rafal!"

Genuine joy, to be the target of such attention-seeking behaviour. To recall that once, Rafal would have demanded a dignified distance between them, and offered harsh rebuke if Alear were the one clinging onto him. To understand how those barriers have gradually melted down, because each had enough faith in the other, enough will to make this work.

Most people would point out that a week is barely a blink, in a dragon's lifespan. Especially compared to all the time Rafal has lived. Yet somehow that makes his attitude seem even more endearing, rather than illogical.

"I missed you too, you know. I brought you some gifts back." Just a little something, from each place he visited, to show that Rafal was always on his mind. He also wrote a letter, though it's not certain if the postal service managed to deliver it, before Alear himself returned. It felt nice to do, regardless. All his official, royal correspondence can become a chore, but love letters are still a novelty.

"…But do you really count as business?" Rather than pleasure, is the obvious unspoken alternative. Alear's tone is relaxed, aware he doesn't need to seriously defend himself from accusations of neglect. Leaning back as he speaks, and seeking Rafal's hands, not to loosen their grip but only to cover them with his own. They can stay in place for as long as they want to.

Through the blighted years of Alear's existence, countless people have tried to end it. Impossible to remember them all. But that distinct encounter in Gradlon's snowy terrain, against a dragon who should not exist, that is seared into him. The strange mockery of being struck down by somebody with his own face, the fear that defeat would have him condemned as a defect.

And here that foe stands, in the very place where he'd hoped for a new beginning. There may be superficial differences - this one is a woman, the other was not - but Alear doesn't consider that especially important. The feeling is the same. There must be a connection.

He hadn't brought a weapon, on this exploration. The people of Lythos seemed fractionally less anxious, when he walked around unarmed, and he wanted to show good faith here, too. Suddenly, he is sorry for that. But he is not defenceless, if trouble arises. He echoes the other's tension, yet tries to keep his emotions concealed, as always. A subtle rebalancing of weight upon his feet, in case he needs to move with haste.

Not yet, apparently. Questions first, which is acceptable. He also has those.

"My name is Alear. I am a student of the Black Eagles." A toneless statement of fact. The first time he's been able to say this, to anyone.

He almost wants to add some additional assertion, that he's here by Lumera's will. In the past, he'd justify his actions because they were Sombron's will. But it doesn't feel quite right to invoke her name, in the same manner.

"And what is your purpose here?"