#ardamin

"A-are you even listening to yourse— hmmph..!"

Ardashir's tongue invaded the Endministrator's mouth before he could finish his sentence or protest again. He felt his back pressed against the wall and wished it would swallow him — or, at least, give them better coverage from any possible passerby. They continued to make out for another second, then another and other. The Endministrator felt his chest tightening, desperately needing air, but he couldn't stop.

A soft, barely audible cry escaped their kiss. The Endministrator pushed Ardashir with the little strength he had left and slumped back against the concrete, gasping like an athlete out of a marathon.

"A-Ardashir!" He hissed, the visible parts of his cheeks flushed red. His lips were slightly swollen and he could feel drool dripping down the corner, but feared that Ardashir would latch himself back onto him if he dared to let go of his shoulders. "This is t-too much— ahh, y-you said you just wanted to talk!"

"We were talking," Ardashir hummed, his palms flat against the wall as he battled the urge to hold the Endministrator's body. "But you kissed me. It would be rude to not return your expectations."

"I did not!" The Endministrator hissed and stomped his feet a little. He couldn't really remember how they got in this situation, but he wouldn't start it like this, would he? "A-and this is not 'talking'!"

Since the very start of their mission in Wuling, all Ardashir asked him for was a "proper discussion". It didn't feel like an honest request, nor something that could be trusted. The Endministrator's better judgment told him so, told him to avoid that mysterious and dangerous-looking man, but something about Ardashir was simply too hard to… ignore.

One thing led to the other, and as if he was monitoring the Endministrator's every step, Ardashir made a new offer: past the moon's rise time, away from people's eyes. Taking the risk of putting himself at danger or simply handing himself to Wuling's most wanted enemy, here the Endministrator was. "Properly discussing" whatever matters Ardashir had to discuss with him.

The Endministrator held Ardashir's face by his chin, unable to put as much force as he would like to in his grip. He turned the other man's face away to break the eye contact with him. "Don't start making things up, you dragged me here."

"I thought you wanted to avoid being seen with me," Ardashir smiled as the Endministrator's fingers pressed into his face. "Isn't that why we need 'discreet' locations to meet at?"

The Endministrator clenched his jaw. His grip faltered as soon as Ardashir reached for his hand and pried it off his face, daring to kiss the Endministrator's palm before he stared back into the dark mask that covered his eyes. "Shall we resume? Don't you have any other things to ask me—"

"No," the Endministrator muttered. He tried to pull his hand back, but Ardashir held him by his wrist before he could move it away. Their eyes locked again and silence filled that brief moment. The Endministrator felt Ardashir's tail shifting, pressing their legs together as much as it could. "Ardashir, let me go," he sighed, trying to sound impatient while his heart still drummed against his ribs.

"…You said we didn't talk. I should at least fulfill my word before you depart, no? We can 'just talk' this time, if you wish," he suggested and moved his fingers to stroke down the Endministrator's arm. "Didn't you say you have questions? I can answer them—"

"I-I'm not falling for that twice!" The Endministrator hissed, pulling his hand back and close to his body. It was hard to even look at Ardashir in his eyes and it made him question if this was the same man he met in Jingyu Valley. The way he looked now would make the Endministrator believe he was just a traveler instead of someone plotting a disaster along with Nefarith. "…You are dangerous, I shouldn't be here."

"But you are," Ardashir insisted, his tone more gentle this time. His lips curved into a small pout, his eyes soft as if he feared the fact they were approaching the moment of departure. "You could test for yourself that I mean no harm," Ardashir teased and looked down at the space between their bodies, "why the hurry all of the sudden?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," the Endministrator muttered, hoping that the surging heat around his cheeks would go unnoticed. Just because there was no harm done this time, it didn't mean there wouldn't be in the next and— why was he even thinking about a next time?!

The Endministrator shook his head and pressed one hand against Ardashir's chest. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

Ardashir slowly closed his mouth and pressed his lips together into a thin line, leaving his words stuck in his throat. For a moment, it all felt like that time ten years ago, but the feeling didn't seem to be accompanied by the memory. He sighed, and smiled after a short moment. "And if I hold you here? You can still call for help."

"I'm asking you," the Endministrator insisted, pressing his hand against Ardashir's body, "let me go."

"I'm 'dangerous' and 'evil', no? Why would I listen to you?" Ardashir giggled under his breath and the Endministrator could feel the tip of his tail brushing the underside of his calf, as if it was wagging excitedly. "Isn't it best for you if I play into the role, 'Endmin'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the Endministrator groaned, hitting Ardashir's chest weakly, "I— I have my part of the deal to live up to. I said I could meet you as long as you behaved!"

"And you believed me?" Ardashir's grin grew wider. He wrapped a hand around the Endministrator's waist, pulling him impossibly close and trapping him against the only surface that surrounded them. "I could've lied, as far as it concerns you."

He savored the slightly scared, but mostly shy reaction in the Endministrator's face, it looked like the one of a kid caught doing mischief. Was he worried about his reputation? Or just scared because he couldn't read through Ardashir's words?

"I don't want you to go, 'Endmin'. Stay, a little more, at least."

"I can't do that— ah! W-wait, whahat are you— A-Ardashir! Stohop!"

"Stay a little more, 'Endmin'," Ardashir insisted, hoping that his cheap tactic would make his words more persuasive. He tickled the Endministrator's side with his free hand, sneaking it inside the other's coat and wiggling his fingers over the soft fabric. "Or I will tickle you more."

"T-thihis is nonsehehense!" The Endministrator groaned through his laughter, trying to sound angry despite the forced smile pulling at his lips. He pushed down at Ardashir's arm, putting up his efforts in shielding himself from the 'attack'. "A-Ardahashir! Stohop, thihis is stupid!"

"But it works on you," Ardashir nodded, letting a small chuckle along his 'victim' as the Endministrator pushed him and flailed his hands around, resorting to everything he had at hand in the hopes of making an escape. "You don't look like you can take it for longer."

"S-Shuhut it! It's jujust— ahaha, s-stuhuhupid!"

The sound of his laughter made Ardashir feel a strange, but almost painful warmth inside his chest. Maybe it was one of the things he didn't know he missed until he realized how long it had been since the last time he got to listen it himself. If he really thought about it, the Endministrator was still reacting like he remembered he did, and was still ticklish in the same places as back then.

Maybe he should try tickling him under his arms? That would make him laugh really loud — at least, it used to. The Endministrator also giggled whenever he kissed him behind his ears or near his neck… Ardashir sighed, reminiscing about how cute it sounded and—

"F-FIHINE! AHAhah, d-dahahamn it! A-Ardashir, plehease!" The Endministrator begged, his voice a little ragged. His cheeks looked redder than before and Ardashir could see his skin gleaming a little under his mask. Where those little tears of mirth?

He smiled, knowing it would be hard to stop himself if he dared to push it on. "Is that so? Do we have another deal, 'Endmin'?"

"Y-YEHEhes! I-I wihill stahahay, j-juhust quihihit it!"

"Very well," Ardashir said, back to his polite and tender tone. He moved his hand up and his heart skipped a beat when the Endministrator didn't evade his touch, letting him brush off the little damp spot near his cheek. "Just until the sunrise."

"…and not a second more," the Endministrator added, carrying his defeat in his tone, but still trying to sound as if he had any control over his current situation.

He hesitated and stared at Ardashir again. After seconds that seemed like an eternity, the Endministrator wrapped his arms around the man again, welcoming Ardashir in an awkward hug — both apprehensible and fond. "You hear me?"

“Don’t sound too eager,” said his father dryly.

There was no one else in the world who could interrupt him twice like that. Azulzir gritted his teeth. “Your pardon, sire.”

 “These murderers are waiting on the same thing. My pardon. Do I not owe it to them to consider granting it? ”

“Fifteen hundred,” said Azulzir. “Some innocent. I’ll spare my consideration and sympathy for them, I think. These here are assuredly guilty.”

“So should we kill the guilty lightly? One who can deal out death without seeing it forgets, perhaps, what it is.”

The private audiences with his father had been hard to sit through for as long as he could remember – since he had been a small child and Belzagar the King, even. His father had always transparently wanted to be elsewhere, and Azulzir had always had a hard time sitting still. But they seemed to drag on even longer these days. He’d once aspired to emulate his father’s thoughtfulness. Now it seemed like incompetence and indecisiveness masquerading as wisdom.  Agonizing over your choices didn’t make you wise, his mother liked saying; making the right ones did.

Why had she married him, then?

Because she could make him a King.

  Azulzir’s toes were wearing a groove in the floor. Abattârik was still talking. “In the societies of our ancestors, it is said, tradition held it that the one who pronounced the sentence carried it out as well, or stood in witness.”

“There’s no backing for that. Historically, I mean – there are no recorded executions by the puppet mortal governments during the Age of Elven Servitude, and none among the Free Halethrim either. The gravest penalty was exile. Before that we have no written records, but there are references - in Of Eiodeer to the treason of Breshwa, in Linna Lis Tremin to the fall of Scardol – to executions that’d be closer to vigilante justice, really, and certainly not by any central authority. People know they can get all sorts of nonsense taken seriously if they claim that our forefathers believed it.” He paused for breath. “And why is it that only an execution prompts you to wax poetic about the obligations of the throne? Every tax we support, every law we approve – those are paid in blood too. If the one who pronounces the sentence should carry it out, perhaps we should spend all our time running around in small villages, witnessing the consequences of our policies.”

His father’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you should.” 

That deserved a response, but his mind was elsewhere. “Now that I think of it, in Of Eiodeer there’s a reference to vengeance as ‘crime by tradition and nature’, roughly translated, which suggest that there was a tradition of laws and that it precluded executions. There’s a historian who thinks ‘crimes against custom and spirit’ would be a closer translation-” 

“Azulzir, I am not interested in this,” said his father. 

He swallowed. “I ask your pardon again, sire. If that’s everything -” 

A wave of the King’s wrinkled hand. “Go. Enjoy yourself. The gardens are lovely this time of year.”

If he’d been speaking to his mother that would have been a none-too-gentle reprimand, a stinging reminder that his priorities were too driven by his passions for a man who would be King. But his father spent several hours each day in the gardens, and likely meant it sincerely.

“Thank you. By your leave.” 

It would be unforgivable incompetence to go anywhere, even to the garden. If there was trouble at the execution tonight – and it wasn’t unlikely – someone present to give orders could be the difference between a grieving crowd swiftly quelled and a full-scale riot. What orders those would be –

- but that was a hard question, and he caught himself getting absorbed in the question of legends instead. No evidence that their forefathers had held executions. That did not mean it shouldn’t be done, of course – the early Men had been illiterate, disorganized, and easily overawed, and they had paid for it again and again. The moral legitimacy of his Kingship could not rest on its precedents in ancient history. What he wanted to draw from the legends was something else. A sense of heritage, perhaps, untainted by the interlude of Elf-worship and its attendant willful complacency. ‘Custom and nature’ or ‘tradition and spirit’? You could not translate a history without changing it… 

“Azu!” 

His mother, of course; no one else used the diminutive. 

“My lady Queen. You might wish to stop by court and persuade the King not to pardon tonight’s conspirators, either in a fit of pity or in terror the city will rise up again.” 

“It won’t,” she said coolly. “The opposite, I think; we can’t afford a show of weakness.”

“I probably should have argued that point,” he admitted. “Got distracted by the inconsistency in Father’s justice, instead.” 

“Any decision the King makes is just by definition,” she said.

“Right. And if he changes his mind, physics changes around him so he was right both before and afterwards. Why do we even bother maintaining such an extensive intelligence network, when he cannot choose wrongly?” 

“Azu.”

“Sorry.” 

“If you had as much contempt for your subjects as you have for your superiors, I’d fear you’d make a monster of a King.”

 That stung. “I don’t,” he protested.

“I know,” she said.

 “I’m trying to help them, in a roundabout way, trying not to get caught up in anger over this or that treason, trying to keep in mind that the decisions that matter most aren’t the ones closest to home – if this weren’t happening in Armineleth, we’d be letting the local governor handle it, it wouldn’t even rise to our attention.” He hesitated. “I told Father I’d save my sympathy for the innocent.”

“You have met my great-aunt Khopacha. Belitzir, in our tongue, but she was never called that. Owned forty shares in the Great Southern Fleet and twenty in the consortium that claimed the southern horn. She gave meagre gifts, for a woman with the wealth of kings. Once I asked her why. She was saving, she said, for an expense worthy of her. It became a habit, and no luxury was ever sufficient to justify abandoning it. Then she died.”

“That’s a parable,” he said cautiously. 

An impatient flick of her head. “Technically no, because it actually happened. Guess my meaning anyway.”

“Death is a travesty brought on by Morgoth, and as long as it endures in the world everything is vain and pointless.” 

“Clever. No.”

“If I save my sympathy for people worthy of it I’ll never find them? So I might as well sympathize with people who aren’t worthy of it – no, that doesn’t follow, it might be that always sympathizing is much worse than never sympathizing, even if I accept your premise. Or that I should be assigning sympathy based on some criterion other than worth.” 

“Interesting. Not my intent, though.”

He bit back an exasperated dismissal. This was infantilizing. “Tell me.”

 She must have read the tension in his shoulders and decided he meant it. “Contempt is a habit. So is sympathy. Habits are easy to establish, hard to abandon. Are you choosing them because they will allow you to win an argument and feel clever, or because they are traits you wish to see embodied in Our King?”

He leaned his head against the stonework and closed his eyes. “If I’d said that first,” he said slowly, “you’d have said ‘no, try again’ to see what else I came up with.” 

“It would be a poor mind that could only entertain one understanding of a story at a time.” 

“Right.” He hesitated. “Do you need me around tonight?” 

“There will be no problems,” she said. The King’s word was law but the Queen’s word was fact; he felt the abrupt dissolution of his worries.

“I might go anyway.”

“I think that might be wise.”

She left. He watched her reach her rooms before racing off toward the University to pick someone’s brain on the translation question. Only a few people stared oddly as he made his way through the streets; most of the rest had long since taken his gait for a new court fashion and self-consciously adopted it themselves. 

(The uneasy thought sometimes crept into his mind that, were the revolutionaries to get their way, were there no throne for him to inherit – or had he been born to a different position – the gait would get him mocked and the contempt for authority would get him killed.)