#!late!

That pulled a faint, rueful smile at his lips. "Flattery from a creature who has lived long enough to witness the fall of Myth Drannor and quite possibly the shifting of the divine weave itself," he murmured, voice low enough that it vibrated through the stone between them. "Long enough to have even witnessed gods rise and fall like tides. I'm not sure if that's comfort or condemnation."

Silence stretched, thick and listening, filled only by the soft lap of water and the distant hum of the Feywild beyond the windows. Eryndor dipped beneath the surface entirely, holding his breath until his lungs burned–not from memory this time, but from choice, from the desire to feel something he controlled. Then he reemerged with a quiet gasp, water streaming from his hair in silvered rivulets. He poured a dime‑sized pool of the cinnamon oil into his palm next, rubbing his hands together before working it through his hair, massaging from scalp to ends with slow, careful strokes. The scent bloomed sharp and sweet, wrapping around him like an embrace he didn't know how to accept.

“You’re afraid.” Rualyth said quietly, placing his hands on the tops of his own knees, fingertips digging into the silk trousers that clung close to his legs. “They can’t touch you here. I won’t let them.”

His promise landed like a ward, unbreakable in the way it wrapped around Eryndor's heart with a warmth that terrified him more than any flame. It was safety offered without condition, protection spoken aloud in a place where no one had ever promised him such a thing. The certainty in Rualyth's voice cracked the last of his defenses; something inside him fractured, fragile and aching, leaving him raw and trembling beneath the calm surface of the water.

"I know," Eryndor whispered, refusing to let the threat of tears fall. "Logically, I know."

Another flash came anyway–lungs full of water, throat closing, the world going dark and cold. His hands shook where they tangled in his hair, cinnamon oil clinging to his fingertips. Eyes shut tight, he reached for a steady breath, but it caught halfway, ragged and incomplete, like a yawn strangled before it could finish. He tried again, deeper, a feeble attempt to push air past the imagined pressure crushing his ribs.

"But sometimes I see these memories. Fears, I tell myself... But they feel more like echoes," he managed, voice frayed and thin, a faint wheeze threading through the words, his vocal cords spasming as if his throat still remembered the shock of inhaling water. "They feel more real than fears should. Right now I feel like I'm drowning–like I'm struggling to breathe." The tiefling wanted to look, wanted so desperately to reach out and comfort, but his hands remained anchored to his lap, fidgeting and nervous. Nervous. Rualyth was never nervous - Not around beautiful men with social standing, not around bearers of gold and fame, but Eryndor - This magistrate shattered by the cruelties of man, made him unreasonably nervous.

Rualyth's eyes fluttered closed as he listened to Eryndor speak, each word softer and more broken than the last. "Before you came along… I felt the pyre's flames scorching my ribs in that cell. As if it had already happened. Sometimes it's poison–the taste of bitter almonds blooming on my tongue. Or a blade between the ribs. Always sudden. Always mine, but… not." He paused, voice dropping even lower. "I've never died, Rualyth. Not that I can remember... And yet I carry a dozen deaths that feel as real as this water on my skin." He shifted then, water sloshing softly as he turned toward where Rualyth sat with his back facing him, resting his forearms on the tub's edge, close to where the tiefling sat on the other side. Not touching, but near enough that the heat of the bath radiated toward him, a quiet tether between them.

"I thought they were just nightmares. A magistrate's paranoia–always preparing for the worst." A humorless laugh escaped him, brushing the hairs at Rualyth's crown. "But they've grown sharper since the accusations began–since being thrown into that cell. As if… something is trying to remind me what's coming."

He fell quiet again, listening to Rualyth's breathing through the stone, a steady sound that grounded him to the present, the only anchor in the rising tide of his fear. The cinnamon scent permeated the space between them now, warm and comforting, but it couldn't quite reach the cold knot of dread that had coiled in his chest. He felt small, fragile, mortal in a way he had never allowed himself to feel before.

"I don't want to die," he admitted once more, the words small and raw. That phrase rung through Rualyth's mind with an ache that nearly stole the breath straight from his lungs. Water sloshed in the tub behind him, droplets trickling down the edges of the ornate amethyst basin and onto the polished marble floor, Eryndor's position shifting to face the back of Rualyth's head. There was no hurry to clean up, no rush for a cloth or to move away so he himself didn't get wet. He simply sat and listened and absorbed.

"I'm not brave," Eryndor whispered, voice fraying. "You are brave." Rualyth's voice carried through the steam and smoke. "You continue on through your nightmares, where most men would let them consume their very being." His own nightmares tore him limb from limb when he was given the chance to be alone. Memories from lifetimes upon lifetimes, watching the deaths and births of loved ones hundreds of times over. He'd witnessed war, peace, famine, plague, lived through generations of men that could never seem to get it right. "That. Is bravery."

Eryndor scoffed, though it sounded more like a broken exhale than anything mocking. He did not feel brave."I've spent my life pretending I am. Building wards within wards, controlling everything I could reach because if I stopped… if I let go even for a moment…" Then he was reminded of just how little control he had in his life. He didn't continue. He never finished that thought because he couldn't.

He felt like a frightened child again.

Like the boy who used to run to his mother when she was still whole and still capable of laughter, burying his face in the silk of her skirts while his father's voice thundered through the halls. She would always know exactly where he hid; She would always giggle, soft and conspiratorial, when his father demanded to know where the "little troublemaker" had gone. He missed that simplicity. He missed days when the future felt wide and bright instead of shadowed by visions of his own death. He missed running through the meadows with Reagan and Sariah, playing tag until they collapsed in breathless laughter, whispering secrets down the lane like they were the only three people in the world.

Rualyth thought him brave for continuing despite the nightmares.

But the thing is... they did consume him.

They lived behind his eyes every waking moment, waiting for the quiet to rush in so that they could remind him how easily everything could end.

A smile clung to Rualyth's lips now, faint enough to pass as the simple twitch of the corner of his mouth, lavender eyes focused forward still. "Not everything can be controlled. And not everyone is meant to have control. Some of us," his voiced dropped down to a near whisper, just loud enough to share with the elf "Are meant to simply be. And there is nothing wrong with being, so long as you make something of it."

Eryndor's head settled on the edge of the tub, soft strands of hair hanging over the edge to tickle at the side of Rualyth's neck. The words made Eryndor dare to peek from the cradle of his arms. Long chestnut strands shot through with silver clung wetly to his forehead and cheeks as he lifted his head enough to look. The tiefling froze in his tracks when he heard his voice again. "Stay," Eryndor deflected, not as a command, but a plea. "Just… stay." He didn't move from the self-made cradle. Didn't dare look up again. Instead, he remained half‑hidden in the fold of his arms, hair oil‑slick and heavy with cinnamon he still needed to cleanse, the scent rising between them like an unspoken offering.

Bravery clutched at Rualyth's chest as he moved to his knees and finally turned to face the elf slumped over in the tub, his shimmering form stood out like carved marble against the dark amethyst. He was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Rualyth had ever seen - A work of art crafted by the gods themselves, sent straight to the mortal plane to prove as an example of what perfection looked like. Careful hands moved to Eryndor's hair, nails gently trailing his scalp while Rualyth leaned forward to whisper close to his pointed ear. "May I wash your hair?"

When Eryndor's indigo gaze rose once more and caught sight of hiw Rualyth knelt before him, something inside Eryndor stuttered. Heat surged up his neck in a swift, merciless rush, blooming from the hollow of his throat into a deep strawberry red that claimed his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It wasn't just embarrassment; it was the shock of being seen so completely, so gently, by the one person he had never expected to kneel for him. His fingers curled onto the rim of the amethyst tub, gripping the smooth edge as if anchoring himself against the tremor that threatened to pull him under.

Rualyth was on his knees before him. Gods.

The tiefling was timeless in a way that stole breath. Not just in the flawless violet of his skin or the star-flecked glow that lived beneath it, but in something deeper. Something ancient and sorrowful and achingly wise. Eryndor could picture him in lace and ruffles, in pointed heels and sweeping gowns, still carrying that same regal command, still turning every room with the lift of one elegant finger. But beneath the cheeky banter, the idle flirtations, and the theatrical mischief… there was integrity. Compassion. Mercy. Humility offered in Eryndor's darkest moments without hesitation or expectation of reward.

Rualyth was not simply beautiful. He was good. And that goodness made Eryndor feel smaller than ever.

Rualyth waited. He wouldn't dare move until Eryndor told him it was okay - Until he felt safe enough in Rualyth's company to allow him to touch. Eryndor could only nod stupidly–mutely–his cheeks still blazing, eyes suspiciously wet now. If the tiefling asked, Eryndor would sooner blame the steam. He would always blame the steam.

And when he nodded, the tiefling moved as slow as possible, scrubbing slow circles against his scalp, working the cinnamon oil into every strand to envelop him in the delectable scent curated just for him, whether he knew it or not. He combed through the long tresses with his fingers and worked water through the ends to help detangle, adding oil when needed, mixing scents to create the perfect concoction. Though excitement bubbled through his belly, he kept every action careful, every movement met with permission before advancing.

The motion was tender, reverent even, as though Rualyth were handling something fragile and precious rather than a trembling man in an amethyst bath. Cinnamon and amber bloomed sharper now, the scent unfurling around them in warm, coaxing waves, wrapping Eryndor in a cocoon of comfort he hadn't realized he was starving for. A shiver raced down his spine at the combined assault of touch and scent, his body betraying him with a soft, involuntary whimper before he could bite it back. Heat pooled low in his stomach, his lashes fluttering as his head tipped subtly into Rualyth's palm, drawn helplessly toward the only warmth in the room that didn't come from the water.

He prayed Rualyth hadn't heard.

He prayed Rualyth had.

His cock twitched beneath the water, hardening traitorously at the memory of the previous night–his own hand between his legs, imagining those very fingers, that same careful touch, those plush purple lips, glossed with spit as they mocked him, forcing him to beg, to use his words until he broke apart in shame and pleasure. Now the fantasy lived inches away, real and gentle and devastating.

Another whine slipped free–muffled again against his arm, his only safe harbor.

He felt obscene. Perverse. An old fool lusting after a being who shone like the cosmos itself–full of light and color, nebulae swirling beneath violet skin, constellations caught in the curve of his horns, galaxies living in the depths of those lavender-frost eyes. Rualyth was the stars. Eryndor was… just a man. Lived-in. Lined. Gray threading through his hair like frost on autumn leaves. Crow's feet at his eyes from too many nights spent squinting at ledgers instead of smiling. Yet Rualyth touched him like he was something precious.

Silence fell upon them again, no words needing to be spoken now, only care. Gentleness. Rualyth's hands moved down the back of Eryndor's neck, allowing him to remain bent over the edge of the tub so he could reach his back. He pressed his thumbs into the bulge of his shoulder blades and worked the oil lower, keeping the pressure firm, working the knots from his tense frame. "Relax for me.." He breathed, working a particularly tough muscle beneath the heel of his hand. "I've got you."

The words were barely a whisper, but they undid Eryndor.

The gesture made his shoulders shake as silent tears welled, slipping free before he could steel himself against them. They slid down his cheeks in warm, trembling paths, disappearing into the bathwater and oil as if the water itself were swallowing his shame. Rualyth's thumbs pressed deeper, working through knots Eryndor had carried for years, unraveling tension he'd forgotten how to release. Each slow circle felt like a truth he'd never been allowed to feel–that someone could touch him with care instead of obligation, with reverence instead of pity. The realization cracked something open inside him, and the tears came faster, soundless but fierce, his breath hitching as he leaned ever so slightly into the warmth behind him.

Beneath his palms, Rualyth could feel the heat of Eryndor's skin. Sweltering against his touch. Molten. Alive. It only urged him to move further, to massage deeper muscles, to focus on the spots that seemed especially tense until they gave way to the pressure of his fingertips and knuckles. He noticed the quiet shake and shudder of Eryndor's breath and the way he slumped forward further against the tub, whether it be to give in to the pleasure of the massage, or to crack under the weight of something much heavier, he didn't want to ask.

Instead, he simply continued. To the elf's arms, biceps lean and toned from age and experience. His shoulders, though pushed forward in a limp fashion, still broad and regal in their shape. Rualyth worked his fingers over every expanse of skin that Eryndor would allow, pausing occasionally to add more oil or to check in on his breathing.

How dare he sit here thinking lewd thoughts about the man who had saved him?

How dare he cry when he had been petty, jealous, petulant–when he had no right to any of it?

How dare he pour out his fears to someone whose own chains were forged in celestial blood and fey contracts?

He kept the sobs quiet. Kept them locked behind clenched teeth and trembling lips, swallowing each one as if it were a sin he had no right to voice. His chest tightened painfully with the effort, breath stuttering in uneven bursts he tried to disguise. He prayed to Corellon that Rualyth wouldn't notice the way his breathing hitched, the way his shoulders quivered beneath those careful hands, the way every press of those thumbs made something inside him fracture further. Shame burned beneath his skin, hot and humiliating, warring with the desperate, aching relief of being touched with such gentleness. He felt split open–caught between wanting to shrink away and wanting to lean back fully into the warmth behind him, to let himself be held for the first time in decades. His fingers dug into the rim of the tub, knuckles whitening as he fought to keep himself contained, to keep the sobs from breaking free and betraying just how deeply Rualyth's kindness was undoing him.

"Your knuckles," Rualyth remarked, glancing down at the vice grip Eryndor had on the edge of the tub, his fingertips drained of blood from the pressure against stone. "Relax yourself, magistrate. There's no harm waiting for you here.."

As if on cue by the words, Eryndor's gaze flicked to his own knuckles, gripped bone-pale against the tub's amethyst edge. He eased his hold, fingers uncurling with a pins-and-needles ache as circulation surged back into them, but he kept his gaze averted, body rigid with desperation to conceal the throbbing heat below and the warm trails etching silent sorrow down his face.

A quiet huff escaped Rualyth's nostrils, frustration knitting his eyebrows together only for a moment. Not at Eryndor, but at himself, the effort put forth to relax the elf only seemingly undoing him further. Eryndor caught the tail-end of it escaping Rualyth's lips, a whisper of disappointment that twisted in his stomach like a poisoned blade. A wave of guilt crashed over him upon the sound of it, bitter and churning, for his childish resistance. "M'sorry," he murmured–a rather subdued apology thick with regret, barely loud enough to rise above the water's gentle lap. Pieces fractured away until slivers of shadow shown through the cracks, beckoning, a hue of blue and purple that was unmistakably riddled with a pain that Rualyth couldn't soothe even with the finest of oils and the firmest of hands. The tired tiefling stood and shook the water and oil free from his palms, small droplets decorating the ground and the surface of the water still sloshing about in the basin, his hands moving to carefully undo the coat that clung tight to his figure. Each button took an eternity to free, one by one, as if each movement was meant to elicit an aura of safety - a slowness a beast tamer would show to an owlbear to earn its trust.

Eryndor lifted his head at last to the fading presence, unaware of how his pupils widened like blooming nightflowers, terror clawing icy fingers up his spine at the prospect of solitude. His hand shot out reflexively, fingertips brushing the tiefling's coat before retracting, mouth agape in bewildered panic as he beheld Rualyth undressing.

Fabric shuffled, the coat and silken shirt beneath falling to the wet marble floor to expose the star-speckled chest of the astral tiefling, constellations dancing beneath his skin, mimicking the patterns on his horns. He kicked the pile of clothing to the side, the fine textiles soaking up the puddles that had collected around the tub. Eryndor's breath caught sharp in his throat at the realization that Rualyth wasn't leaving as he had feared as skin like polished midnight unveiled to the room's crisp chill, constellations of stars shimmering under violet undertones as if galaxies swirled alive within. He watched in stunned silence when lean muscles exposed to him, rippled with otherworldly poise as Rualyth gathered his flowing hair into a loose knot, the motion baring the graceful sweep of his neck and the shadowed hollows of collarbones in such a way that invited tender exploration. It was an effortless intimacy, a vulnerability that captivated Eryndor utterly. He bit his lower lip, leaning forward unconsciously, entranced by that celestial radiance like a wanderer lost in the night sky.

The enchantment shattered as Rualyth knelt once more, though. Not because he hadn't felt drawn towards the tiefling's orbit, but out of respect as Rualyth leaned into his space again–a sacred gift laid before a shrine, palms resting flat on the tub's rim, his lavender eyes shadowed with unguarded vulnerability. "What can I do?" He breathed, sharp teeth sunken into his plush bottom lip as he waited for a response. "How can I help?" Trembling fingers reached for the honeyed strands of hair clinging to Eryndor's shoulders, brushing one away with his thumb, the rest of his fingertips resting against soft, oiled skin.

"How do I make it stop hurting?"

Eryndor's lips parted–sealed–then parted anew. For the first time, eloquence deserted him, leaving a void where words should flow. Earlier, the plea had seemed straightforward: beg Rualyth to remain. *Just stay*. But now? Turmoil raged within–gratitude clashing against the shame of his swift dependency, forged in scant hours. It felt wrong, monstrous, to voice it.

Rualyth had asked in earnest, more genuine than he'd allow most others to see him. His life consisted of constant masks, facades of confidence and seduction, anything to get a poor soul to sign their name in blood, to offer their life to a matron he could never free himself from. He'd played games with hearts, stole kisses and long nights away from men and women that deserved the world, only to be shown the cruelties of lies and deceit wrapped in silk and a pretty, star-freckled face. Erydnor deserved more than the world. He deserved safety. Comfort. A moment of peace in his universe of unbridled chaos and hurt. Rualyth leaned in closer, noses barely brushing together with the warmth of his breath coasting along Eryndor's bottom lip. "All you have to do is ask it of me."

The raw plea in Rualyth's voice lanced through him like a spear. Eryndor's mouth moving of its own accord before he realized he was saying it out loud. "Hasn't enough been asked of you? What of your comfort… what of your own hurt?"

The accusation escaped unintended, lingering in the air like incense smoke, heavy and revealing. Even amid his own turmoil, Eryndor glimpsed the mirrors of Rualyth's suffering: the edge of resentment in his earlier tones, the spark of fury when Eryndor presumed affection tethered him to the Matron. This man was bound by invisible fetters, his existence a tapestry of obligations and edicts, yet he lavished Eryndor with soothing waters, healing touches, and compassion that soothed gashes Eryndor hadn't realized gaped open. It was unjust, how it ignited a storm of envy and longing warring within, frustration entwined with desire, the peril of it searing through him like an unrelenting blaze.

Proximity. Rualyth's own aches were always healed with proximity. Comfort. A tight hug, gentle lips pressed to warm skin, a distraction from the flashes of lifetimes unknown and foreign faces. He stepped out of the velvet slippers that warmed his feet and reached for a ribbon to tie his long white hair into a messy bun at the top of his head, waving one hand toward himself to motion to Eryndor. "Move forward." The command was quiet but firm. A pleading expression crossed his lavender eyes for only a moment before he steeled himself again and rose to his feet to move to the opposite end of the tub.

Stunned, Eryndor obeyed–sliding nearer to the tub's wall once more, the shift preserving his hidden arousal beneath folded limbs and swirling currents. A shameful sight he vowed to keep hidden from Rualyth in silence. He wouldn't dare voice his foolish fantasies. Not in this fragile moment. Not ever if he could help keep the tiefling from such disgrace in his own sanctum.

That was... until Rualyth slipped in behind him.

Sleek, exquisitely fluid legs enveloped Eryndor from both sides suddenly, graceful arms encircling his torso and drawing him against the tiefling's chest in a way that evoked the secure embrace of star-woven armor. Eryndor stiffened initially, knuckles whitening anew on the rim, his cheeks blooming with the flush of ripe summer fruit. His hands flew to shield his face in embarrassment as his thighs squeezed in vain concealment of the persistent ache. Gods–Rualyth didn't merit this indignity. But a soft exhale grazed the heated peaks of Eryndor's ears as if unbothered, only making the older appearing man redden further."You don't have to look. Don't have to talk. Just breathe. And cry if you must, because you're terrible at hiding it." Eryndor wasn't safe from Rualyth's teasing, even in vulnerable moments such as this, but he couldn't help the smile that cracked across his lips as the elf's weight settled against his chest and belly.

Eryndor intended a sharp barb in response, but it emerged softened by amusement, the creases of his weathered face easing into reluctant warmth. "M'not crying, idiot. It's simply steam from the bath water," he deflected. Maybe it was Rualyth's playful banter, or the brazen way he bossed and maneuvered Eryndor around… but the tiefling transformed Eryndor's vulnerabilities into fleeting irrelevancies, the present moment a sanctuary rather than a spectecle now. His arousal lingered, unyielding–Eryndor too timid to address it amid such closeness–but he uraveled to the inevitable completely, his head reclining against the steady rhythm of Rualyth's heart. Eyes fixed forward in deference, though his rear settled snugly amid the tiefling's thighs, bare skin meeting the warm, clinging fabric of the man's trousers. His fingers drifted unconsciously, like timeless lovers who'd bathed in each other's comforting embrace before as he traced the firm lines of Rualyth's calves to the knees and back in a soothing rhythm, like waves lapping ancient shores.

At last, Eryndor ventured a question that had been gnawing at him since the two were left alone by the matron, his voice a hushed murmur threaded with the weary yearning of solitary reflections. "Rualyth… what if I wished to witness my fate back home? To see what becomes of my name in the eyes of Evereska… the people I've protected all my life?"

He offered no further detail. The clone woven to catch aflame in his stead–he craved to witness the crowds responses, the clamor of grief or disdain thrown at him. Would they lament the guardian who had bolstered their barriers against shadows and schemes? Or revile him, swayed by Aunglor's poison? Would his mother's gaze hold void as the pyre climbed?

Love.

That was the essence, though left unspoken. It struck him as utterly absurd to speak aloud. But it was love...

He longed to discern if any soul cherished him enough to grieve his absence… or if affection had ever truly graced his path. If voices would rise in his defense while he vanished or if cheers would echo the streets as flesh turned to ash. He couldn't help that ache in his chest, the wonder that accompanied the question–whether his endless offerings had etched meaning into another's heart.

Would anyone miss him?