peccavi

Thirty years ago…

The Blood Hall was always a place of revelry, politics, and violence, but it was especially so on the evenings of the prince’s parties. Gatherings of san’layn and death knights mingled through the darkened corridors, their faces faintly illuminated by the orbs of blood which they feasted upon. Sinvyrin moved among them with ease -- not as a silver-tongued bastard, but as a shadow that went largely ignored. Everyone knew who Sinvyrin belonged to and everyone knew his purpose.

He pushed his short-shorn hair back away from his eyes as he walked, ears pricked for the conversations that were just loud enough for him to overhear: that is the Beast of the Blood Hall; that is the bloody fang of Lord Chaus Filse. He paid neither their words, nor their eyes staring into his back any mind. The more they thought of him as a means to an end, the easier it was to allow him to do his work.

And his work stood waiting for him: Sin cast his eyes up the staircase where a tall elven man in slim-fighting armor cast his eyes down over the crowds, his pale blue eyes watching nothing and everything. Sin wordlessly moved toward Chaus, stepping into his proper place in the shadow of his commander -- his lover -- without an ounce of acknowledgement. Sinvyrin didn’t require it; he knew his place, his role, and he reveled in being Chaus’ most effective weapon.

It was only when Sin dared to reach out to him that Chaus tipped his head. The sinner’s gloved hand reached to brush the small of Chaus’ back, far from the sight of the rabble below, but one look from his master’s chill blue eyes was enough for Sin to know he’d gone too far in public.

“You were gone shorter than I expected.” Chaus’ voice was low and crisp, soft as silk with steel hidden beneath it. “Are the arrangements settled?”

Sinvyrin pulled his hand back, folding both of his arms behind his back as he looked out over the revelries. This party was more raucous than many before it and the reason why made Sin feel as cold as the wind outside. “Yes,” he replied evenly. “They’re preparing Archerus now. We’ll leave at dawn.”

Chaus looked back over the crowd once more, a few strands of black hair falling past his ear; once Sin would relish setting it back in place and making sure his lover looked picture perfect, but now he didn’t dare to move. “You will ensure that none of ours die. Not a single one, no matter the cost.” Chaus didn’t look at Sinvyrin, but the implication was clear in his whisper-soft voice. “Do you understand, Tohias?”

He felt something pull at him like he always did when Chaus said his name -- undeniable and all-consuming. His gray eyes widened and narrowed again and he felt his chest go tight. “I understand,” he muttered. They were his responsibility, just as Chaus was -- an extension of his will. He would be their protector, their shield; he would not let a single one perish. He would bring them all back to Chaus.

Sinvyrin would not fail.

--

Sin laid in bed awake and staring at the ceiling. Archelaos had done all that he could; his lover reassured him countless ways, fed him, comforted him. They had fucked until Sin was sure he was worn enough to sleep, but instead he listened to the sound of the old stag’s gentle breathing and felt nothing but the rattling anxiety in his brain. 

In a few hours, Archelaos would wake up. They would talk again, maybe fuck; he would feed the dogs while Sin fed the chickens and grabbed fresh eggs; they would shower, Archelaos would dress, Sin would kiss him goodbye at the door. Then there was nothing left to spare Sin from facing the reality of Northrend and what happened there so long ago. 

He startled when he heard Archelaos shift in his sleep, snapping back to the present. Rather than struggle for sleep that would not come, Sin slunk from underneath the pile of blankets and pillows and padded silently across their bedroom. Their hidden house in Surwich was beginning to feel more like a home -- not just a place that belonged to Sin or Archelaos, but something that was theirs. Starlight and moonlight pierced the thin veil of curtains that covered the tall windows, painting patterns across the wooden floor of the repurposed farmhouse. He only paused once to give a soothing pet to Butch and Indiana Bones when they noticed the sinner had roused; it was enough to stop them from following him outside. 

The sound of the ocean that lapped along the tide of the beach was a distant comfort as he sank on the bench, only noticing a pack of cigarettes once he settled in; had Archelaos guessed he would be restless? “Red,” he muttered to himself before he pried a smoke from the pack and set it between his teeth. 

Four days ago he asked Proformu for a favor that terrified him. Three days ago he gave Address a gift that could save or kill him. Two days ago he killed Imon to protect his pack, his family, and lost Ashafael for it. Yesterday a slap to the face from Arthalia drove him over an edge that would have barely phased him a week ago. Today, who knew what hell awaited him.

Only week ago he wasn't so fucking fragile. It never would have phased him before. 

He lit his cigarette, thumping his head against the bench as he looked up toward the night sky. The smoke that spilled from his lips painted shadows against a darkened canvas, making his eyes pick out shapes that were not there. He asked himself the same question he had been asking for days: was it worth it? 

i. 

Sinvyrin stood in front of a tall mirror and found himself surprised at what he saw there. There were years where he would catch his reflection and find someone who he didn't know; a paranoid caricature of a person with a jagged smile and dead eyes that never stopped watching. He grew into that reflection until it became real, as familiar as a second skin, but now the person he saw was different. 

Sin saw a man in a slim cut gray suit that nipped at his waist and a tie around his throat the color of blood. It was a man who was calm in a way that was dangerous, whose smile was tempered, but still sharp; he was less carefully curated and more confident. 

He barely recognized himself. 

“So what's the occasion?” The tailor asked as she finished taking measurements for adjustments, marking faint lines in chalk of where to pull in a hem or adjust a taper. 

“Oh, nothing yet,” Sin replied with a note of amusement, though his eyes stayed rapt on his image in the mirror. 

The tailor only laughed. “Then you better find an occasion, huh?” 

Soon, Sin thought, and touched his pocket where an unfamiliar weight had begun to settle. Soon.