#dubcon touching

Konstantin swallowed, unsure what words to summon to a dry tongue. Last night—the Capture game. He’d kept playing, paying Victor’s forfeits to win back the necessary pieces, because it would have been a waste to give up after the first few. You have nerve. Those pleasant, pale eyes had glimmered in approval. And at some point, Konstantin just wanted to win the fucking game. He felt nearly certain he had, less sure if Victor had allowed it.

Ausric’s lord lifted a hand in invitation. “Well?”

If Konstantin had won, he realized then, it had been fair. Victor wouldn’t let as much as a game slip past him.

Konstantin got to his feet. He followed Victor through winding corridors, up a staircase that not only coiled but arched like a bridge over a lower passage, to a room lined with chests and bookshelves. Papers lay across the table at its center, and even on the floor. Konstantin walked around them carefully. As he passed the large window, he glanced out.

He glimpsed one of the courtyards below, and a shine of armor—a row of garrison soldiers, drilling—before darkness covered his eyes. An arm went around his waist and hauled him back a step.

“Honor forbids spying while you’re my guest here, after all,” Victor murmured in his ear. Then laughed, a sound as glimmering as the sunlight and steel he’d just blocked from Konstantin’s view, trickling down his spine. The moment of tension when he’d seized him melted into a mulled-wine warmth.

“Right. Sorry,” Konstantin said, though he didn’t manage a laugh. A little too breathless for that.

“Here.” It was almost a dance, the way Victor turned him, and then he’d taken his hand away and Konstantin was looking down at the table. The sun touched his back as the heat of Victor’s chest had a moment before.

The lord pulled an inkwell and, after some sorting through sheafs of paper, a blank page toward himself. “We need to send word to Eadinford about your circumstances.”

“Right.” Konstantin came around the table and leaned against it beside Victor.

He trimmed off the inkstained, worn-down end of the quill. “Your father, of course… Some years since he’s been on the field, but we respected him when he was.”

“Feel free to convey your respects, I suppose.”

Victor laughed as if it had been a joke. Maybe it had. “I imagine no amount of compliments will sweeten this news. Though it’s not all bad, you know.”

“I’m well aware,” Konstantin said. “And glad to be alive, and”—feeling his lips curve in a thin smile to mirror Victor’s—“in such good company.”

“Courtesy’s going to get you somewhere in time,” he said. “I look forward to seeing where. Aside from your admirable father, should we remember others in this letter?”

He caught himself before drumming his fingertips on the table’s edge. “My sister. Maerlis.”

“Pretty name. Older or younger?”

“Older.” This was always fun to inform people of. “By about a narrow candlemark.”

“Twins, then!”

Once Konstantin tried to convince Maerlis to join him in telling strangers there was also a third sibling born that winter day, but she never committed to the game. He didn’t bother with it now.

“Do you look much alike?” Victor asked.

“Just like family. It’s only twins of the same gender who are identical, and not all of those.” Victor seemed disappointed by this, enough that Konstantin found himself adding, “Our hair’s almost the same. The eyes in some light. I probably look more like Damion even with a few years between us.”

Victor’s mouth opened, then shut, before the smile returned as if it had never faltered. “Too bad for her. Anyone else?”

He thought of her then. “Catilyn. She’d like to know I’m safe.”

“Another sister?”

“My wife.”

Victor was speechless a second time. A dark, elegant brow climbed. “Young to be married, for a second son.”

“Our families have a connection they were pleased to formalize.” A slender one, between the Wardlows on the far western coast and Eadinford near the middle-north of Loredon, begun when Richard traveled as a young man thirty years before. Konstantin wouldn’t bore Victor with his kingdom’s internal politics—or risk informing him of something he didn’t already know, however little two distant baronies mattered to the war. He also found something uneasy about Victor’s expression. He’d rather not keep Catilyn on his mind. “And of course, there was a good dowry.”

Victor nodded, lip quirking. “Useful.”

Konstantin watched in silence as he finished the brief letter and found the jar of sand to sprinkle over the ink to dry it. “Could I also write a letter to my brother? Please.”

Those pale eyes—somewhere between silver and blue—moved over him, leaving Konstantin aware he’d started sitting on the edge of the table, the kind of louche posture his father and Calister would lose their patience at, though he hadn’t spotted a second chair in the room. Victor didn’t really seem concerned about propriety. He’d almost said something earlier, at the mention of Damion; now his mouth opened again, and again didn’t voice it.

“What is it?” Konstantin asked.

“I was thinking Richard Eadinford is a lucky man to have two sons. Perhaps I’m just envious…” He shook his head. “Less lucky to have both sons captured, of course.”

“There’s something else.” He tried to keep his tone soft instead of as demanding as part of him wanted it to be.

“You’re observant.” Victor briefly reached up to touch Konstantin’s knee on the table beside him. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He swallowed. “Now I’m afraid you have.”

Laughing, Victor shook his head. “I’m sure he’s fine. He was injured, though. When I talked to Retzgar, negotiating”—he shrugged eloquently—“he had Damion in his own carriage. Luxurious accommodations. But I suppose he needed them. He’ll be all right, I’m sure.”

The repetition was comforting—Konstantin made it comforting, closing his eyes and nodding, trying to absorb some of Victor’s calm.

Paper rustled. “You can certainly write to him. I’ll need to read the letter before sending it on …”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Victor clapped him on the arm. “No doubt he’d be glad to hear from you.”

He had nothing to read for or worry about; Konstantin was hardly in a position to divulge sensitive secrets about Koltas, nor was Damion in a state to receive them. As for what state he was in…worrying wouldn’t help.

But what did one write an injured, imprisoned brother from the castle where one was confined? However pleasant the confinement. He decided to put in a few words about that pleasantness, both to ease Damion’s mind and because, after all, Victor Ausric would be reading them. Then he considered what, if anything, to say about the battle. He wasn’t sure how much of it Damion had seen or if he might be better informed than Konstantin himself. And then…should he apologize? For letting them be cut off, for giving up too soon? Had he given up too soon? In the moment, it hadn’t felt that way, but people didn’t make their best decisions when desperately afraid.

Hard to imagine Damion afraid. No wonder they hadn’t captured him without wounding him first. Disappointing him didn’t make for a comfortable prospect, not because of fear—by two or three years after their mother’s death, his sullen anger had vanished, subsumed under a god’s own discipline—but because he was a good man, too good to let down.

“Do you need that sharpened?” Victor offered. It was how Konstantin realized he’d been fussing with the quill without writing a word for too much of the morning. Afternoon, by now. “He likely only needs to know you’re well and where you are. You can always tell more about the rest later.”

“Thanks. That helps.”

He let Victor sharpen the quill, and wrote what he’d suggested, then watched him melt gilt-flecked wax onto the two folded letters and mark each with his seal. His signet ring held a circle of polished green agate incised with the lion of Ausric.

Konstantin had kissed that ring the night before, as his second forfeit.

Next chapter

Rosa hunched over the toilet once again as the nausea overpowered her will to keep her breakfast down. She let it all out, and, once her stomach was emptied, she shuddered, leaning back against the bathroom wall, heaving a ragged sigh. She blearily cast her eyes to the little plastic test strip above her, on the bathroom counter. It surely had enough time to develop by now.

I don’t want to read it.

A little piece of piss-soaked plastic shouldn’t scare you, girl, Rosa scolded herself. There’s only two possible things it could be–if it’s negative, great! She didn’t even want to think about if the test strip was positive, but being this late for her period, along with all the other changes she’d noticed the last six weeks, made it more likely than not.

With a deep breath and a little prayer, Rosa reached for the test strip and brought it down to the floor with her. She breathed a disappointed yet not surprised sigh through her nose. Two bright magenta lines glowed back at her. Positive.

She thought back to that time she ran out of birth control pills about six weeks back, and how neither she nor Martin were willing to wait for her prescription to refill before getting frisky again.

A knock sounded at the door. Rosa tossed the test strip into the trash can next to the toilet, got off the bathroom floor, and took off her bonnet, placing it in the drawer beside the sink. She fluffed out her short curls by combing her fingers through her hair before she made her way to the entrance. She put her eye to the keyhole before answering, as Martin had drilled into her time and time again.

And speak of the devil, there he was, in his usual polo shirt and khaki pants, with a bouquet of red roses cradled in the crook of his elbow and his hands holding a box from their favorite bakery. Rosa gulped. It’s not that I don’t love to see him, but how am I gonna tell him the news? Her hand reached for the deadbolt and she opened the door to him before she could answer her own silent question.

“Happy Birthday, Rosalie!” His exuberant greeting preceded him as he waltzed through the door, making a beeline for the linoleum kitchen counter so he could set down all the things he’d brought. “Eighteen years old–congratulations, you’re an adult now!” He looked back at her, his sunny grin waning but his blue-green eyes still twinkling. “You’re still in your pjs?” he asked innocently.

Rosa shrugged. “Lazy morning.” It was a terrible excuse, but Martin didn’t seem to notice.

“Go on and get dressed, it’s nearly 10:00,” he scolded lightly. He reached up above him to take a couple plates out from the cupboard. “I’ll get this ready for you.”

“You do know my mornings used to start much later than 10:00, right?” Rosa called over her shoulder, walking to her bedroom.

“Yeah, but you haven’t been working in over a year! I’d have thought you’d be on normal people time by now,” Martin shouted back, although his naturally pronounced voice carried well enough over the small space of the condo even without him yelling.

Rosa rolled her eyes. “Old habits die hard, honey!” She entered her room and threw open her walk-in closet. Stuffed wall to wall with colorful clothing, a shelf on the opposing wall bursting with accessories, and with pairs of shoes lined up like blossoms in a flower bed, Rosa was impressed with how much she had accumulated in only a year’s time. To think that, once upon a time, she only had a threadbare shirt, dirt-caked jeans, and a salvaged hoodie a size too big to cover her. (She didn’t have much in the ways of clothes before that either, considering her mother’s dependence on church charity boxes.) Now those days were behind her, where they belonged. Rosa happily chose a loose-fitting floral top, then those panties Martin adored seeing her wear, and leggings she was determined to make the most of before…well, before…

You’ve got to tell him. She ignored that sensible inner voice, chose ankle-length socks the same color as her top, and came back out to the living room. A custom-made birthday cake with a lit candle and a pair of plates and forks awaited her on the coffee table, alongside a crystal vase full of roses.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” Martin noticed.

“In my house, why should I?” In all honesty, it was because her breasts had been feeling a little sensitive over the past six weeks. Probably another sign she should’ve picked up on earlier.

Martin shrugged. “Fair enough, but if you want me to behave myself when I take you out to see Traverse the Wind in an hour, then you’d better rein them in, girl.”

Rosa forgot about her swelling breasts. “Wait, we’re seeing Traverse the Wind?!” She squealed. Martin smiled as he cut a perfect wedge out of the cake. “I’ve been following them on Insta for months! I love them!” she cried. Martin already knew; she had blabbed on and on about this contemporary dance troupe to Martin before and even showed him a few of their videos. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t even mention it,” he replied, handing her a slice of cake and a plastic fork, “just eat your cake, change into something decent, and we can go see them.”

-

Traverse the Wind was every bit as amazing in real life as Rosa imagined them being. The hibachi lunch and outlet mall shopping trip that followed were equally as fun, distracting enough that Rosa didn’t even think once about the implication of Martin placing his hand on her thigh as he drove them back to the condo, or about how handsy he got when helping her hang up her newest acquisitions in her even fuller closet. No, it was when he unhooked her bra and reached underneath her top that Rosa remembered how her morning began.

“Martin, sweetie…” Could they? Wouldn’t it hurt the baby? Then again, at six-ish weeks, it would probably only be the size of a jelly bean, so maybe they’d be fine? “I don’t know,” she murmured, but by then his hands had begun to knead her breasts. She moaned, though out of pain or pleasure, she wasn’t sure.

“Come on, birthday girl,” he cooed. His hands retreated from her chest only to peel off her top and help her out of her bra. Her bare back prickled in goosebumps as his sensuous breath brushed her ear. “After the amazing day I’ve given you, isn’t it only fair to ask for a little something in return?”

He doesn’t know, she remembered as his fingers dipped under her leggings’ waistband, and he won’t know unless I tell him! The fried rice and shrimp churned uneasily in her stomach, making her wonder if she was going to throw up again. Rosa spoke up. “I-I’ve got something to tell you, Martin…”

He nuzzled the crook of her neck, then kissed at that spot behind her ear that he knew she couldn’t resist. Rosa’s knees trembled. She moaned happily this time as he gently mouthed at her earlobe, skillfully gnawing around her earrings. “Can’t it wait, precious?” he asked sultrily. His fingers dipped lower, slipping under the waistband of her leggings until they reached the area that had Rosa’s mind go blank with pleasure. “We’ve had such a good day, can’t it wait?”

TELL HIM!

“Y-yeah…okay… yeah, yeah, later…”

At first, and slowly, ever so slowly, Morwë starts to relax. Esteldur wasn’t sure what to make of Itarata allowing the nér to call the two of them “sir,” but it seems to make Morwë more comfortable, if nothing else. He flinches less, offers his opinion more, and then eventually, agonizingly slowly, he begins to ask questions.

Questions about the Orontdrim. Nothing big at first, at least not to Esteldur— Morwë starts by spending too long looking at Esteldur’s outfit, the details of the embroidery on it, before tentatively asking while the four of them ride, as if the words themselves are a dangerous weapon, what the floral designs were. If they meant something in particular.

But one thing leads to another, and soon enough, that night in camp, Esteldur is promising to introduce Morwë to Anairissë, who can teach him to make the special traveling bread. To Amuntiel, who can show him elven looms the likes of which he can’t have seen since his youth. Esteldur finds himself letting his own guard down as Morwë slowly reveals a fascination with the feminine crafts— he almost off handedly references Nariel at one point, which leaves him with the strangest feeling of grief.

He hasn’t thought about her in years. She isn’t dead, as far as Esteldur knows, so he shouldn’t mourn her. There’s every chance they’ll reunite some very distant day.

He asks about their holidays. About their practices. He even volunteers a few memories of Rethyarin traditions from his youth, carried on despite the yoke of slavery his people have labored under for hundreds of years, although it’s clear going anywhere near those recollections triggers his brand. It seems like he’s working himself up to asking something much bigger, something complicated, and Esteldur wants to encourage him to just ask, to put whatever’s been so clearly eating at him into words, but Itarata reminds him over and over again to let Morwë go at his own pace.

Morwë never does ask that final, most important, question, though.

There’s a moment one morning, after he’d taken a swim in a lake while keeping watch, where he seems closer than ever to just saying it, whatever it is, but then it’s gone. And following that point… it’s almost like Morwë starts to disappear, despite being right in front of them.

Esteldur doesn’t know what to make of it. Itarata doesn’t either, as much as the nér wants to worry over the younger elf instead of taking care of himself. In their limited, carefully rationed alone time, away from both Morwë and Mikhail, the two of them try to make sense of the shift. Had they pushed him too far, too fast? Or is this disappearance, this returned shadow state, a sign that he’s making progress, as painful as it looks?

Itarata and Esteldur expect things to get much worse when they run out of reasons to keep Mikhail in a trance state, as the party closes in on , but it changes surprisingly little. If anything, Mikhail being awake seems to make Morwë more perky, not less. The nervous energy, which was starting to be masked by the fog of depression, starts to return. The questions don’t, though.

They’d almost started to get grating, especially when Morwë kept asking things that Esteldur didn’t know the answer to, but now they’re gone, Esteldur misses them. He misses telling Morwë he doesn’t know but having the consolation of being able to say he knows someone that does— he’ll introduce them. And he misses the brief glimpse of light on Morwë’s face, even if it was so quickly followed by a shadow.

Morwë doesn’t ask things of Mikhail at all. He answers. He rushes to fulfill every order Mikhail gives him, and Mikhail does give him orders. 

Sometimes it’s unthinking. It’s Mikhail telling Morwë to take care of the horses, to bring him whatever item from Morwë’s own pack even when the bag is closer to Mikhail than Morwë. Morwë barely even seems to notice it— it’s the sort of small tasks he’s been trying to do for Esteldur and Itarata this entire time. That, at least, contextualizes a minor frustration Esteldur had earlier, before the rescue— the way Morwë would deny him even the opportunity to take care of the animals if Esteldur wasn’t quick enough in doing it himself, no matter how many times he told Morwë that he enjoyed doing it.

Instinctive. Maybe indicative of a power dynamic between the two, but Morwë seems comfortable with it in a way he hasn’t been with Esteldur this entire time. In a way he’s only started to border on with Itarata. Esteldur wants it to stop, wants to grab Morwë and make him at least consider what he’s doing, but he knows it’s not helpful, and this doesn’t seem… harmful.

But it’s not always just a matter of course.

“Morwë,” Mikhail says, as the group finishes their meal one night, not too many more days away from Varnandë. Mikhail says the name coldly, almost sharply, and Morwë snaps his head around. Esteldur notes that Morwë had been staring almost longingly at Itarata again. That’s something that hasn’t changed now Mikhail’s woken up— if anything, it’s more pronounced. Mikhail must’ve noticed, because he’s looking at Itarata too now.

Itarata matches Mikhail’s gaze, as if the name uttered had been his instead. Steady. Just as dark.

“Yes, sir?” Morwë asks, looking at Mikhail with those dark eyes of his so wide. So full of something Esteldur can’t even begin to comprehend. Terror? Awe?

“Sit on my lap,” Mikhail tells Morwë, with his own eyes still very much set on Itarata’s. There’s something hungry in the set of his jaw, something predatory.

Morwë is sitting closer to Itarata, maybe for the first time, but he obeys without a second thought. Slower than he is to grab Mikhail’s things, though. Slower than he is to attend to the horses. There’s a hesitancy to his step, and he glances at Esteldur as if looking for reassurance. Esteldur is about to open his mouth and say “you don’t have to,” but Mikhail preempts him.

“Now,” Mikhail instructs him, and Esteldur looks to Itarata, trying to figure out a way to communicate without words. His heart is pounding. Would telling Mikhail to stop this only drive a wedge between the two duos? Pushing back on this relationship has only gotten Esteldur into trouble before, but what was that look if not a cry for help? What’s the point of being here if not to help when Morwë finally asks for it?

Itarata doesn’t even seem to parse that Esteldur is trying to get his attention. He’s too focused on Mikhail, as Morwë uncomfortably settles on the man’s lap. He faces out at the fire at first, but Mikhail taps him on the back. Morwë turns his head up at Mikhail, a gesture that’s only possible because of how dramatically slouched Morwë’s back is.

Mikhail tilts his head, and something passes between the two. There’s a moment of almost resistance from Morwë that has Esteldur screaming on the inside, but it melts quickly, from some signal Esteldur can’t make out, and Morwë turns around, practically straddling the man. Mikhail wraps his arms around Morwë’s back, tight enough that Esteldur feels his own breath struggling to escape his lungs.

Mikhail rests his chin on Morwë’s shoulder, and throughout this, he’s not broken eye contact with Itarata.

It’s like Esteldur’s been hit. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing here, can’t understand the language that Morwë, Mikhail, and Itarata all speak that he doesn’t. A language that goes so much further than just Revkian.

Then, Mikhail moves one of his legs ever so slightly, and that must be some sort of signal, because Morwë whimpers. Esteldur wants to jump up and scream, wants to grab Morwë away from Mikhail, but he’s frozen in place. And how would he even tear Morwë away with the two of them so closely entangled?

Mikhail turns his head, careful not to lose sight of Itarata, and lets his tongue escape his mouth. He reaches it out, running the end of it up against Morwë ear, and Morwë squirms in response, not pulling away from the touch but writhing within the snakelike grip. His cheeks are badly flushed, and Esteldur thinks back to one of what feels like an endless number of times, asking Morwë why he wanted to rescue Mikhail so badly.

”I love him,” Morwë had told him. ”He’s protected me for so long. I have to protect him now.”

For a moment, seeing that flush, Esteldur wonders if he’s reading the situation all wrong. If maybe this is something the two of them both want. He doesn’t look like he’s happy there, exactly, but Esteldur knows that such things don’t always look happy in the moment. Morwë isn’t fighting it, not really. He’s submitting so readily.

Then Esteldur recognizes those thoughts as blatant denial. Morwë himself has never once spoken of what he gets out of this part of the relationship— it’s always been about Morwë owing Mikhail. But owing him for what? What could possibly be worth this sort of humiliation? Esteldur had never gotten a clear answer out of it.

Itarata isn’t blinking first. Something is passing between the man and the older nér, and Morwë is only being used as a conduit. A vessel. Esteldur wants to throw up.

What do you think you’re doing? he screams at Itarata in their silent language, his eyes communicating every bit of horror at the scene, but Itarata isn’t listening to him. Like Morwë, he’s only hearing Mikhail.

After what feels like a minute of Mikhail slowly, agonizingly, and deliberately licking the edge of Morwë’s ear, Mikhail’s tongue recedes into his mouth and Morwë stills in his arms, or at least stops writhing quite so violently. He’s still shaking, almost as badly as he’d been when Esteldur had found him after the fighting had subsided. Mikhail only gives him a moment‘s rest before whispering something in that ear. Esteldur can’t see Morwë’s face, can’t see if the fear and disgust is as evident in his expression as it is on the rest of his body, but that’s enough.

It’s enough.

Esteldur can’t force himself to watch any longer. He doesn’t care about the long term. He doesn’t even care about Morwë or Itarata or anyone other than his own selfish disgust. He needs this to end, needs Itarata to do anything other than just— stare. He scrambles to his feet, the word “Stop—!” violently escaping his throat, half strangled.

“Stop what?” Mikhail asks, lazily. Morwë clings to him tighter than ever. His body language has suddenly shifted, a new sort of fear coming over him. Esteldur wonders distantly, with horror, if it’s because of him. If he’s only making things worse. “You like this, don’t you, soldier?”

Morwë mumbles something, and Esteldur is hyper aware of just how close Mikhail’s teeth are to Morwë’s neck. In this moment, Esteldur knows without a doubt— he’d kill Morwë before letting the nér go free. Mikhail bounces his legs beneath Morwë, forcing Morwë up and down.

“Stop it,” Esteldur repeats, dumbly.

“Are you jealous?” Mikhail asks, with a degree of arrogance that would astound Esteldur if it wasn’t currently knocking the life out of him, still forcing his legs up and down beneath a clearly terrified Morwë. “Would you rather it be you, between my legs?”

Esteldur flushes, from rage at the offense rather than humiliation but he knows Mikhail is counting it as a win regardless. Itarata doesn’t say anything at all, just studying the situation, which is so much worse than if he’d scolded Esteldur for once again letting his temper get the best of him.

“Just— let go of him,” Esteldur orders, trying to make himself sound as confident as possible.

Mikhail unwraps his arms, spreading them wide, but Morwë’s still holding tight to him. Some other, invisible tie, keeping the two of them together. Esteldur is sure now that he’s making things worse but he can’t bear this. Can’t bear to watch. Selfish. So selfish.

“Do you want to get off of me, Morwë?” Mikhail asks, his hands coming back in order to card through Morwë’s hair. Esteldur burns at seeing it, seeing the completely unabashed display of ownership. The only living person in this world that’s allowed to touch his hair like that is his wife. It’s almost parental, in a sick way. “Tell them.”

Morwë turns his head, and Esteldur knows without a shadow of a doubt that his, “no, sir,” is a blatant lie. He looks up at Esteldur, with pain and desperation in his eyes. More than that— with longing. That want, the unspoken please, yes is so overwhelming, Esteldur almost steps back, stumbling over himself. He only barely manages to keep standing. The nér is barely an adult, but there are first generation elves that Esteldur knows without that much aching in them.

“Like I told you,” Mikhail says with a smile. “He likes it. He likes to be useful.”

Morwë nods, miserable. Esteldur can’t help but think of all the little ways Morwë tries so hard to be helpful around the camp, pre empting every little want Esteldur could have and still seeming desperate for more to do. The attempted kiss. Esteldur had needed to go and kick rocks far enough away from camp Morwë couldn’t hear when that happened. This feels like the same thing, except Mikhail isn’t hesitating to take advantage of that horrible mindset.

Maybe Mikhail is why he’s like this to begin with.

“Or…” Mikhail starts, some worse idea clearly coming to mind. “If this is really so bad. How about he goes and keeps Itarata warm?”

Morwë turns those pleading eyes on Itarata, who inhales sharply but forces a calm expression. Itarata has always been better about touch than Esteldur, more open to it, but that’s changed since being rescued. He seems to mind most of Esteldur’s gently, reassuring pats. And Esteldur’s sure that Mikhail’s noticed— this isn’t the first time Esteldur’s caught him looking at Itarata with that peculiar hunger.

Esteldur thinks he might be grateful the only emotion he can read off of Mikhail when the man looks his way is plain, borderline violent disgust.

Esteldur wants to say no again, to say, just stop it, but Morwë opens his mouth into a wordless please and Esteldur can’t say anything at all.

“I would appreciate the company if you were willing to give it,” Itarata lies, finally looking away from Mikhail to look at Morwë instead. His expression lightens somewhat, less of a threatening edge to it, but it’s still harsh. Morwë looks at Itarata with those wide, vulnerable eyes, still pleading.

Mikhail slaps Morwë’s ass, and Esteldur flinches at the sound.

“Go on then, boy,” Mikhail says, like he’s talking to a horse. Except Esteldur’s fairly certain that he respects his horses far more than Mikhail respects Morwë. Morwë nods, then scrambles back out of his grip before clambering over to Itarata like the older nér is a lifeline. Esteldur can see Itarata recoil from the touch as Morwë positions himself beside the older nér, but Itarata does his best to hide the physical reaction as the younger nér curls up beneath Esteldur’s cloak.

Nowhere near as intimate as with Mikhail— Morwë doesn’t have the best sense of boundaries, as the incident where he’d tried to kiss Esteldur showed, but this is— far less invasive than what Esteldur imagines Mikhail had in mind. 

Itarata wraps one arm around Morwë, doing a very good job of acting like the skin contact from someone that’s basically a stranger doesn’t bother him. Esteldur is lost, out of the loop entirely, but Morwë looks at him from where he sits curled under the cloak, and Esteldur tries to adopt a comforting expression.

All Esteldur can do is try to follow Itarata’s lead. He can’t help feeling like he’d misstepped earlier, reacting so obviously — like he’d fallen into some trap of Mikhail’s. He looks between everyone, trying to evaluate the situation. Morwë looks at him, and Esteldur finds some degree of comfort in Morwë’s confused expression— the two of them can be lost together.

“If you wanted the physical comfort,” Itarata tells Morwë, though he’s really talking to Mikhail. “You could’ve asked sooner. I would have offered, if I wasn’t concerned about intruding on your personal space.”

Esteldur isn’t sure how much of that is a lie. He’s fairly certain a good portion of it is, possibly would have been even before — neither of them have ever been the most cuddly sorts, even back in their youths, though that might’ve been because of the nature of those youths. But Itarata has his priorities, and as much as Esteldur wants to yell at his old friend to prioritize his own wellbeing, he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate seeing the way Morwë seems to relax.

Esteldur’s cloak, the one he’s absolutely certain he’s never getting back from Itarata at this point, looks like wings over Morwë. Or maybe a shield. Either way, it’s a protective gesture. One Mikhail is very much not allowed into.

“Hah,” Mikhail says, faintly. The mocking cruelty in his voice is gone, as is… all of his tone, really. Esteldur half expected the man to take a swing at Itarata at first, but instead, the person they’ve been dealing with so far just seems to vanish, leaving a seemingly hollow shell behind. He doesn’t look— all that different from Morwë, really. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Maybe you over complicate things, where you’re from,” Itarata says, shrugging. Unlike Esteldur, he doesn’t seem particularly disturbed by the sudden shift in Mikhail’s tone. Maybe he understands Mikhail better than Esteldur does. Esteldur remembers Itarata mentioning seemingly out of nowhere that he’d heard the man’s screams back in the fort. “Personally, I’ve always found yes’s more meaningful when no is an equally valid option.”

That feels like an accusation. 

It’s more than a little ironic, as Esteldur spots all the little tells for Itarata’s discomfort at the contact. Esteldur knows the two younger members of their party won’t notice it— he doesn’t think he would, if he didn’t know Itarata so well. But Esteldur supposes the overall point is still valid, even under these dubious circumstances.

Esteldur steps, still so very uncomfortable. How did this get so charged so quickly?

“You’re naive,” Mikhail says, with some degree of bite to it, but he seems… hollow. Esteldur wants to think this is an act, some sort of persona that he’s adopting to mess with them, but— it’s hard to imagine that the proud monster they’d seen only moments ago would be willing to fake this degree of weakness. Besides— it’s such a stupid thing to say. Itarata? Out of all the words to describe him.

“Maybe,” Itarata says, smooth. There’s not a great deal of doubt in his tone.

“It’s— it’s just the way things are, though,” Morwë tries to argue, even though he’s the one huddling under Itarata’s cloak as if for dear life, and Mikhail glowers at him, even though Morwë is clearly trying to back him up. Morwë freezes, pulling in tighter on himself. Esteldur wonders briefly if it hurts his body, to be in such tension all the time. It must ache. “Isn’t it?”

“The way things are now doesn’t have to be the way they are forever,” Itarata tells the two of them. He glances towards Esteldur for the first time in some time now. Esteldur shrugs at his old friend. He trusts Itarata to handle this better than he can — he still has absolutely no idea what’s going on here. “And some things don’t stop unless people make active choices to stop them.”

“People don’t change,” Mikhail tells Itarata, a little more confident now. Esteldur wonders if it’s the way Morwë flinched from him, that gave him that confidence back. Or if it’s something else— if it’s not confidence at all something else, something hotter. Denial.

“They do,” Itarata shrugs with effortless certainty. Esteldur wonders who he’s thinking about. He knows plenty of neri and nissi who have transformed over the centuries. Mostly slowly, in response to the steady but unstoppable acclimation of memories. But some much, much faster. “If they choose to. If refusing to do so doesn’t cost them dearly.”

Esteldur feels grateful, somehow, that the conversation’s finally turned back to not so veiled threats. He knows what to do with those.

“Being like this doesn’t cost you?” Mikhail asks. The words should be venomous, and it’s true that they’re far from kind, but there’s barely anything behind them. “Doesn’t make people hate you? If you just acted normal, not any of this freakishness, they wouldn’t come after you. They wouldn’t hurt you.”

That part is so obviously projection that Esteldur can’t help the humorless laugh that escapes him. Mikhail turns his attention on him, and Esteldur thinks if he’d been tied up or worse, bound by a brand, he’d find the raw, unfiltered hate terrifying.

“Give up everything we have, all for the hopes of getting the approval of people that made up their minds about us before we’ve ever met? Are you mad? Did that even save you?”

It’s Mikhail’s turn to flush. Esteldur wonders for a moment if he should be afraid, if the man’s going to go for a weapon, but he doesn’t. He just looks away from everyone now, somehow managing to be a spitting image of Morwë, if Morwë was angry instead of terrified. Esteldur wants to push him further, but Itarata signals him to stop. As if Esteldur’s at all been the one pushing this so far.

Esteldur sits back down, and the conversation is over. Morwë puts his head on Itarata’s lap, maybe taking Itarata’s words as more consent than they were probably meant as, but Itarata doesn’t stop him. The hypocrisy only seems more and more pronounced to Esteldur— how are you going to make that point for him while ignoring it so obviously for yourself? But Esteldur’s not exactly going to call Itarata on it now. Not in front of those two.

Something’s changed between the four of them, and Esteldur has no choice but to file this entire evening away in his head along side a long, long list of things he’ll need to have words with Itarata about later.

The way that Itarata was looking at Mikhail— even if the point he was making was one that might ultimately benefit Morwë… it didn’t feel about helping Morwë at all. It felt like some sort of competition. A challenge over ownership.

Itarata’s obviously latched onto the notion of helping Morwë as a way to avoid thinking about whatever happened to him, in those eleven days, and it’s not like Esteldur can begrudge him that when he’s been just as bad about it. But seeing this— seeing Itarata now place a hand on Morwë’s back, where their shared brand is…

There’s discomfort in Itarata’s body at the touch, yes, but there’s also an element of pride. Of triumph of what can’t help but read as Mikhail’s defeat here.

Esteldur tries to banish the memory of Itarata on the ground, alive only in the literal sense. A human man on top of him. Having to wait for the opportunity to strike, out of fear of the human’s screams. Tries to pretend he didn’t see the bruises, the red, swollen parts of his body that’d been violated, over and over again. Mikhail hadn’t looked much better.

Esteldur trusts Itarata not to take this too far, trusts whatever passed between him and Mikhail tonight to be calculated and not cruel. And Morwë doesn’t seem unhappy, where he is. Clinging onto Itarata as if for dear life. That trust, that knowledge, doesn’t make the knot in Esteldur’s throat go away.

“Hold these.” Neteri had taken off her glasses and was now holding them out to Erebus. He took them, confused as he watched her bury her face in her hands and take a deep breath. “You’re so self-conscious, Erebus,” she mumbled into her hands before lifting her face and replacing her glasses. “You’re like the most self-conscious guy I’ve ever met, okay?” She shook her head. “Seriously. You can be so dense sometimes.” Erebus opened his mouth to argue, but…no, she was probably right, wasn’t she? He couldn’t help it; he’d lived in an environment where people’s opinions and perceptions of him mattered a lot for the vast majority of his life. 

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, um…am I just going to start trying to fly now?”

“Yup.” 

“Okay…so, do I just, um,” Erebus flapped his wings hesitantly, “do that?”

Neteri shrugged. “Probably? It’s not like I’ve ever flown before. Really, I don’t think any other human has, especially not like this, so…you’re kind of on your own here.”

Erebus felt his face flush slightly. “Right.” He turned away, looking out over the vast expanse of dark sand. He-he shouldn’t be nervous about messing this up in front of Neteri, since she’d said it herself that no one had ever really done this before, but he still found himself proving her point about him being self-conscious to be spot on.  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Don’t think about Neteri. Just focus. 

Slowly, Erebus started to flap his wings, shifting them as he did in order to find the best angle, the one that fought against gravity the most. He couldn’t really explain it, but he just knew when he found it, something in the way the air pushed against the wing membranes feeling right. Neteri was probably taking-no, no, don’t think about Neteri, just focus. Focus on his wings, on adjusting them bit by bit, getting them in just the right-

“Woah!” Erebus’s feet left the ground for just a moment, but due to the shock of it he forgot to keep flapping his wings and fell back to the ground, stumbling and falling down onto his back. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Did you see that, Neteri? I-I was-I was in the air!”

Neteri smiled back, extending a hand to help him up. “I saw! I’m sure you’ll do even better next time.” He took her hand and stood, some part of him…excited to try again, to possibly succeed, to actually fly. Once she’d backed up enough, he tried again, able to find the correct angle faster than last time. Soon enough he was in the air again, actually staying in the air, rising higher bit by bit, but…how was he supposed to go forward? Maybe by moving his wings like-nope, down into the sand he went. It did help cushion his fall, just like Neteri said it would, so he was ready to try again right away.

Over and over, higher and higher, faster and farther, his take-offs getting smoother and his landings resulting in less scrapes and falls, and he was doing it, actually flying. He was rather clumsy still, but he ignored the burning in his muscles and lungs and kept trying. The feeling of freedom, of actual control over something was far too intoxicating for him to do anything but reach for it again and again.

But when he ended up falling gracelessly into the sand, his head spinning and breathing short, he realized he may have been pushing himself a bit too hard. Attempts at sitting up were met with waves of dizziness too strong for him to overcome.

“Hey, are you alright, Erebus?” Neteri knelt by his side, turning him onto his back as she felt his forehead. “You’ve been using a lot of magic to help you fly, huh? I was trying to keep an eye on your condition, but you were taking off again so quickly that I figured you were alright. Sorry about that. Here, let me give you some of my magic power.” She removed her glasses and took his hand, pulling him slightly. “Sit up, Erebus.” Shakily, he did so, his ears ringing as the world spun around him. But Neteri, she, she was moving towards him, moving her face towards his, like she was going to-

Erebus collapsed backwards onto the sand, resisting the urge to scramble away as she looked down at him in concern. “I’m sure you’re dizzy, Erebus, but I promise you’ll feel better if you let me do this, and, well…it’ll be less awkward if you’re sitting up for it, yeah?” 

He desperately shook his head. “I-if that’s-that’s what’s going to-to-I don’t want it so-so please just-” 

Neteri cocked her head. “What do you-” A look of understanding, and slight horror, dawned on her face. “Oh, no, no, no, Erebus, I wasn’t going to-that’s not how we-” She sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to be familiar with how magic power is shared between wizards, seeing as you aren’t one yourself. Here, sit up, I promise it’s nothing like that.” Feeling he didn’t have much choice but to trust her, Erebus sat up once more, resisting the urge to flinch back as she leaned towards him, eventually just squeezing his eyes shut.

He felt her forehead and nose press against his, but that was where the contact ended.  “It’s alright, Erebus, this is it. Just breathe deep, in and out. When we share magic, we do it by sharing breath like this.” Erebus felt a puff of air on his cheek as she laughed a little. “It’s always a little awkward the first few times you do it, but after a while it’s just as normal as shaking hands.” 

“Huh.” It was a little awkward, but he was sort of used to Neteri touching him however and wherever she wanted that he was mostly numb to it all by now. Well, not numb but…he was okay with it. “Why…why is it done like this?”

“Because sharing breath is sharing life, and magic is life. Well, I mean, magic isn’t what makes us alive, but, like…magic power comes from your life force. The bond between your body and soul. That’s why you get weak and start bleeding if you use too much magic power, because the bond grows weaker, and…you’re closer to death. The bond grows stronger again over time, obviously, or else all wizards would die pretty young.” She laughed a little. “But…if you use too much all at once, it can kill you. Like, there are some spells that one person can’t do alone because they require so much energy that it would kill the caster. Not to mention that some require different elements of magic working together, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the amount of energy needed.” There was silence for a few moments. “Sorry for just dumping all of that on you-”

“No, it’s okay, I asked.” It felt weird having a conversation with their faces together like this, but Erebus wasn’t about to lean away since it did seem to be working. And…maybe talking was better than just sitting like this in silence. “It’s weird how little I really know about magic. I mean, I know a lot of what it’s capable of, but…I never really knew just how it worked or anything.”

“Well, it’s not like you’d need to know it to run a kingdom, right? You can’t use it yourself, so it’s not really something you’d have needed to know. But, for me, things you don’t need to know are the most fun to learn about, ‘cause then it’s all about learning for the sake of it.” She shifted slightly, her breath coming out differently for a moment, like maybe she was smiling now. “Curiosity is a wonderful thing, really. We’ve made so many advancements because of it, and, really, it’s why I’m doing what I’m doing now.”

Erebus sat back against his better judgment, gulping as he opened his eyes to look at Neteri. “I-is that why you did all of this to me? Because you were curious?”

“No, I-” Neteri sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head as if to clear it before putting her glasses back on. “That came out wrong. I was curious about demon anatomy in the beginning, and after so much study it led to-” She looked up at the sky, blue starting to fade into orange. “Look, why don’t you practice flying some more before it gets dark. You’ve got your strength back now, right? Just don’t go too far. And after that we can eat and…I can tell you why I’m doing this.”

Erebus stood, steady on his feet once more, and brushed the sand off of himself. “Fine.” He wanted to stay put, to protest, to not let the chance of finally learning the reason for all of this disappear, but Neteri sounded sincere enough, and he doubted standing his ground would result in him actually getting what he wanted. He’d waited all this time, so he could wait for a few more hours.

Besides, he wanted to try and fly again.

After a couple more attempts, he felt like he was really starting to get it, figuring out how to best move his wings and body in each different scenario. He was nowhere near feeling like he’d mastered it, but as far as the basics went, he was feeling pretty confident. For this next flight, he wanted to try and go high enough that Neteri’d look like a little white dot on the black sands below. 

As he rose up, he felt himself starting to get tired again, but upon looking down and seeing how much further up he’d have to go, he kept pushing. Going straight up was difficult, and he’d been finding it much easier to rise at an angle, sort of gliding, but he’d never tried going this high before. Neteri was getting pretty small below him, much smaller than normal, so maybe he’d stop here for now. He waved down at her, not sure how well she could even see him, before looking out over the vast desert stretching out before him, the sky above now stained with shades of orange and pink, making the dark sands below seem to sparkle. A feeling of joy welled up inside him, and he couldn’t help but laugh, the world around him so open, calling him to come explore, because he really could go anywhere now, and he couldn’t resist swooping towards the horizon, to fly as far as his wings could take him, to-

There was a harsh tug at the collar around his neck, and everything spun out of control.

Erebus began to plummet towards the ground as he choked, trying to get air flowing through his throbbing throat, flapping his wings desperately, trying to right himself befo-

Reality hit him, and it hit him hard.

Sand sprayed through the air as he hit the ground, grains taking his place in the sky before falling back down on him like rain. His arms were scraped and bleeding, little pockets of sand collected under the skin, but that stinging was hardly anything compared to the sharp pain in his legs. His lower left leg was roaring in agony, and his right ankle felt like it’d been stabbed through with a nail. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear Neteri running over to him, shouting his name. He pushed himself upright slightly before looking down at his legs, hoping it felt worse than it looked.

All it took was the sight of white bone poking out of his torn pant leg for the world to go dark.

                                                            ~~~

Consciousness pulled Erebus to the surface all of a sudden, mercilessly dragging him back into his body. He jerked awake, crying out slightly as the pain in his legs returned full force. Neteri stood over him, and he was lying on his back in...the old barracks of the mine, on one of the bedrolls they’d laid out on the cots in here before going back outside so he could practice. She gave him a reassuring smile.

“Hey, Erebus, just breathe, it’s alright. You had quite the fall, and…not the best landing. Thankfully I know a spell that makes things lighter temporarily, so I was able to carry you here without much issue.” Erebus started to sit up, wanting to check the state of his leg, but Neteri pushed him back down. “No, no, I just finished cleaning the wound, Erebus, but I haven’t had the chance to heal you yet, and based on how you reacted to seeing it earlier…” 

Erebus sighed in defeat and laid back down. “H…how serious is it?”

“It’s going to take a lot out of me, but…I should be able to fix it. Most of it, anyway. You’re lucky that your t-no, you don’t know what bones are called, do you-your smaller leg bone? That’s the only one that completely fractured in half and broke through skin. Your…thicker leg bone is cracked, but not completely broken, which is good. The ankle on your other leg is also kind of messed up, but that I should be able to fix pretty easily.”

Erebus’s stomach sank as she kept talking, adding to the list of things she’s going to need to fix, the number of painful procedures that he’s going to have to sit through. “O-okay.” He gulped. Neteri didn’t seem mad at him, but…“I’m sorry I flew so far, I…I just got caught up in the feeling and I wanted to-”

“No, it’s alright, Erebus, I’m not upset with you. I told you not to go far, but I probably should have told you what would happen if you did. I have this ring, see, and when I wear it, it’ll pull your collar back towards me if you get too far away, and…I just didn’t think you’d be able to go that far so quickly so I figured it wouldn’t be an issue, but…I’m sorry.” She looked away as she apologized, but soon turned back to face him. “But everything will work out. I’ll get you fixed up and hopefully you’ll be able to try flying again tomorrow.”

The apology was a bit of a surprise, but Erebus wasn’t complaining. “So flying too far away from you so fast is what ended up making me…” Neteri nodded, and Erebus couldn’t help but sigh. He’d felt so free in that moment, but, really, he’d just been like a bird in a cage. One that flew straight into the bars. He couldn’t believe he’d deluded himself into thinking that he could actually fly away from all of this, even for a little bit. Just look where it got him.

Neteri gave him something to bite on and asked him to be still, and all he could do was comply and endure as she fixed the damage his naivety had caused. She started with the most serious injury, the bone sticking out of his torn leg, and he was already fighting back screams as she carefully worked the bone back into its proper place, but he knew it was only going to get worse. Memories of the surgery on his arm came flooding back, of the awful, fiery needles that stabbed through his bone as she worked her magic, and soon enough that same sensation returned full force, a dazzling array of stabbing pains surging up the entire length of his leg, paired with the sickening feeling of Neteri’s gloved hands probing around inside the wound, holding things in place as she lit them on fire, rearranging twisted muscle fibers and reconnecting ripped blood vessels.

At least, some of them.

Her hand left the wound behind, the pain telling him it was not fully healed yet. He shot her a watery-eyed look, and she smiled at him weakly. “I’m just going to fix your ankle up first. I had to use a lot more magic power than I thought I would just to get your leg bones fixed, so sit tight.” He swallowed and nodded, as if there was any other choice. The type and intensity of the pain in his ankle was much the same as it healed, and at one point Neteri had to hold his foot still so it stopped twitching in pain so much, despite his best efforts to keep it from doing so. At least he wasn’t tied down, able to grip the sides of the bedroll or wipe the tears from his eyes as he pleased. It wasn’t much to be grateful for, but he’d come to appreciate the smaller things.

Once she was done, Neteri practically collapsed to the ground, resting her arms on the side of the cot. Blood was steadily dripping from her nose, which she didn’t seem to register for a couple of seconds. After hastily shoving her handkerchief up her nostril, she sighed. “I fixed all of your broken bones, and I stopped the bleeding in your leg. I still have to…have to finish healing some of your muscles and close the skin back up but I…I just need a break.” 

Erebus couldn’t help but stare, now realizing what it meant when Neteri was wiped out from using her magic. “So you…you’re closer to dying right now? Because you used all of that magic power, your life force, to…to heal me. You…you put your life on the line to do this to me, Neteri, so why…?”

“Because I wanted to help people, can you believe that?” She laughed at the notion, her lack of lucidity almost making her seem more aware than ever. “I always thought anatomy was interesting, from the first time I saw my father butcher an animal as a girl.” She steadily crawled her way over to her bag, pulling off her bloodied gloves before rummaging through it. “I studied human anatomy, and then demon anatomy. I wanted to study dragons, too, but it’s basically impossible to get your hands on a cadaver, especially legally. So I studied humans and demons, demons and humans, and I got to thinking, what if demons didn’t come from dragons like we always supposed? What if they were humans to start? What if we’re similar enough to-” dropping the small package she’d pulled out of her bag, she laced her fingers together, “to become one?”

The silence that followed was impossibly loud, and Erebus ended up breaking it before he’d even fully processed what she said. “One like-like me?”

Neteri smiled dreamily, some of the jerky they’d brought along now clutched in her hand, the other wrapped around a familiar crystal. “Yes and no. What I really wanted to do was organs.” Her face fell, took on a coldness he’d rarely ever seen. “So many people need new organs. New limbs, even. We can only take so much from willing, healthy people. But demons,” she smiled, “demons can be butchered all we like. So I wanted to test my theory. Replace human organs with demon ones, see if they take. My proposal was accepted, but only if I made certain revisions.” 

Erebus could see in her face that she was coming back to herself, realizing everything she’d just said, realizing she couldn’t stop now that she’d started. And she’d promised to tell him, hadn’t she? “It had to be all on one person. Someone disposable. Seven surgeries, one part from each kind of demon. Things more tied to their innate magic. And that all was just to be phase one.” Her tone indicated that she didn’t plan on speaking any further. 

Someone…disposable. The phrase had made Erebus’s throat tighten. At the end of the day, that was him, wasn’t it? A prisoner of the Empire, branded as property and sentenced to live out the rest of his days in chains. His life could be thrown away without a second thought. But even worse than that…“Phase…phase one? What…what’s phase two, then?” Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine something worse than what he’d been through, so…maybe it wouldn’t be as bad.

“It’s…it’s the fate I want to save you from.”

“What?” Neteri was looking at him, determination in her eyes, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if her “saving” him was a good thing or not.

“At the beginning I thought this part would be easy. That my subject would deserve to…” she looked away, swallowing, “but you don’t. You didn’t deserve any of this to begin with, and I was too focused on my goals to see it.” She laughed hollowly before turning back to him. “I don’t want to freak you out, so…I’m not going to tell you what phase two is just yet. I promise I will eventually, once you’re out of danger. I just…don’t want anything to go wrong, and if you know what might happen if we fail…I just don’t want it to keep you up at night.”

“I can-okay.” What use was it arguing? Neteri was standing up now, putting her gloves back on, ready to get back to fixing him up, and this conversation was over. He laid back and tried to relax, but this was all a lot to process.

“Actually, Erebus…healing all this combined with the magic power I lent you earlier…I don’t know if I have enough energy to fix your leg and...do the other thing I need to do.”

“Which is…?”

She gave him a tired smile, leaning in close, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m going to remove the tracking magic from your brand.”

Erebus’s eyes went wide. “You…you’re serious?!” When she said she wanted to save him…he didn’t know what exactly he’d been expecting, but was she actually going to let him go? Was-was he really going to be free?

“Dead serious.” She straightened up. “I’m not going to get rid of it entirely, just transfer it to a crystal that you’ll keep with you until the time is right. It’s actually the main reason why I brought you all the way out here. Because I really am going to get you out of here.” A genuine smile spread across Erebus’s face at her words, as much as he was afraid that this was some sort of trick. But Neteri had always been honest with him. She’d hidden things from him, sure, but never outright lied, at least that he was aware of. “Thank…thank you, Neteri. Really, I-”

She shook her head. “It’s the least I can do. And I’ll do more to help you, I promise. But for now…is it okay if I save my energy for the brand and take care of this wound the non-magic way?”

“Yeah, that’s alright,” Erebus agreed, even though he suspected this meant he was getting stitches.

He was completely correct, but the gash in his leg wasn’t too long, so soon enough she’d tied the thread and bandaged his leg up neatly. She healed the scrapes on his arms, at least, since they were so minor that the amount of magic she used doing it was negligible, but the process of her cleaning the sand out of them first was far more painful than it had any right to be. Once that was done, they ate the portion of dried food they’d reserved for dinner, Erebus mostly making small talk while he thought through everything Neteri had said, hoping she was truly going to make good on her promises. 

He’d never been happier to hear her ask him to take off his shirt and lie down.

After he undid the knots of the special shirt she’d made to accommodate his wings, he nervously laid back, excited for what lay on the other side of the pain for once. Neteri told him that it would hurt, that it might be like being branded all over again, but he could handle it if it meant he was really going to be free.

He could handle it, right?

The burning was exactly like it was the first time, and before he knew it he was crying, biting back screams as Neteri slowly slid the crystal over his brand, igniting white-hot pain as it went, and suddenly he was right back up on that stage, rough wood pressing into the wounds on his back, all of his people watching, the collar tight around his neck, heavy chains on his wrists, the taste of blood thick in his mouth despite his missing tongue, the smell of burning flesh suffocating him, the Emperor’s almost bored expression as he pressed the hot metal to his chest, the sky above unfairly blue, unbearable heat overtaking him in waves don’t ever forget that you’re property now you’ll never be free you’ll never amount to anything more than a twisted science project everything you’ve studied and worked for means nothing and all you can do is watch as your very humanity is ripped away and torn to shreds and nothing will save-

“Erebus.”

Erebus tensed up, suddenly finding himself back in the present, Neteri looking down at him with concern. A rag was shoved up her bleeding nose again, but she gave him a weak smile as she wiped away some of his tears. “It’s over. I’m sorry it hurt so much, but it’s over.” She squeezed his hand, holding out the black crystal she’d bound the tracking spell to with her other one. He nodded and took it, numbly worming it into his pocket as he tried to crawl out of his daze. “Let’s go to sleep, then,” Neteri said as she started to pull her hand away.

“Wait-” Erebus sniffed, holding tightly onto her hand. “Please, could you…?” He still didn’t want to say it outright, but he hoped she’d get the message, and he couldn’t help but smile when she gave his hand a squeeze. 

“Alright. But let me get ready for bed first, okay?”

“Okay.”

She got ready quickly enough, even giving him something to help with the pain in his leg since she wasn’t going to be using magic on it anytime soon. Once that was done, she sat on the edge of the bed, holding out her arms and letting him bury himself in her stomach, causing her to laugh a little. “Would it be easier if I laid down? I mean, I have my own bed, but…I think I’m about ready to fall over.”

“T-that’s fine!” Erebus sat up quickly, scooting over to make room. He hadn’t been expecting this, but after what happened with his brand, he wasn’t complaining. Once Neteri had laid down, he cuddled up next to her, her arms around him so comforting. Before he knew it the tears he’d been holding back started to flow again, the horrible memories of that day still at the forefront of his mind. He’d mostly buried it under all the awful things he’d experienced since, but now it was all he could think about. Neteri mostly stayed silent, her hand stroking his hair and rubbing the base of one of his horns. After he’d started to calm down, she spoke up.

“You know, I’d never thought I’d lay like this with a guy.”

“Oh, I, uh-sorry, do you not want to-”

“No, no, it’s okay! I didn’t mean it like I don’t want to or anything, it’s just…weird? No…unexpected? Yeah. I never would’ve thought I’d do this, you know? Like if you told me ten years ago I’d be cuddling with a boy someday I would’ve laughed at you, you know?”

“Well, if you told me at the start of all this that I’d want to do this with you I would’ve…I would have been…” He sat bolt upright, trapped between her and the wall. “This isn’t…maybe I shouldn’t do this or even want this I-”

“Erebus.” Neteri took his hand, holding it firmly as she sat up slightly. “It’s okay to want comfort from me. After everything you’ve…no, after everything I’ve put you through, it’s only natural to want to be comforted, to need it, really, and, well… it’s not like you have anyone else to turn to. And I want to make it up to you, so, please, if you want to…it’s okay.” She smiled. “It’s not like anyone will know, anyway, if that makes you feel better.”

“But what if they did know, what if they all found out that I’m-they’d think I’m pathe-”

“You’re not a prince anymore, Erebus.” He stiffened like he’d just been slapped, jaw falling open slightly before he finally turned to look down at Neteri, his eyes wide. “You don’t have to worry so much about what everyone thinks of you. You’re not setting an example for anyone, you’re not expected to be a leader, you’re allowed to be vulnerable now, to want things without worrying about how you’ll be judged for it, to just be…you.”  She sat up fully, still holding his hand. “So if you want this, Erebus, it’s okay. Really.”

“I…am I ever going to see any of them again, Neteri?” he asked as his shoulders sagged in defeat.

She gave him a tired smile. “I don’t see why not. After we get away I can get you all fixed up, and…maybe you’ll be able to go home. Just as long as you keep it on the down low, it should be okay.”

Erebus smiled wide. “Okay. Thank you, Neteri. We can go to sleep now.”

“Alright.” She nodded sleepily, her eyes unfocused without her glasses on. She glanced over at her cot and bedroll before lying down and closing her eyes. Erebus hummed happily as he laid on her chest once more, his horn resting on top of her shoulder. As exhausting as today had been, he was almost too excited to sleep. The prospect of actually being free was…exhilarating.

Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt hope like this. For so long he’d been resigned to this life, the fate he’d been dealt, because he’d come to accept that escaping on his own was impossible and no one who’d cared about him would be able to save him.

For the first time in a long time, he let himself think about his friends back home, all the people he’d known and loved, of Lythia, and he remembered how they’d tried to save him. That…that was the last time he’d felt hope, the day he was whipped and branded and had his tongue cut off. Lythia had told him he was going to be rescued, and he’d believed wholeheartedly that he would be. And here he was again, being told he was going to be saved, and believing that everything was going to work out in the end. 

Last time he’d had hope like this, it had been destroyed right before his eyes.

Would this time be any different?

Next→

It occurs to you that you've never seen him out of his uniform before. He's wearing a light blue button-down, half the buttons left unfastened, polo shorts, an expensive black watch glittering on his wrist, silver rings on his slender fingers, and a thin silver chain dangling around his neck.

He's also acquired a new piercing, industrial, judging by the bar across his ear. The silver glints harshly under the sun.

"Are you done burning holes through me?"

You blush, embarrassment coloring your cheeks: "No, I'm just surprised." You tucked a loose lock of hair behind your ear, "Didn't expect to run into anyone I knew in another country."

You were just taking a pleasant walk in the acclaimed Champs-Élysées, the avenue every bit as a picture-perfect postcard as it had been described.

"Have you eaten?" The question is spoken with a sigh like he couldn't believe he was asking you this, and you couldn't either.

"Oh, um, no?" You responded, bewildered.

He runs a hand through his dark hair, which reached the nape of his neck by now: "I know a cafe around here. Let's get brunch. We'll talk there."

You don't know what possessed you to nod but you did so, trying to match his quick and long strides. The walk was silent, presumably because the two of you were saving your burning questions for the cafe.

He rolls his eyes when you stutter through your French. He raises a hand, and simply tells the waiter his order and dismisses him. His French is flawless and you're tempted to ask him how it's so good, but you already know the answer. Probably had hordes of tutors to help him.

Merci Monsieur

"Wait," You remark to Eren, "I didn't order."

"I ordered for us. Pain au chocolate, savory crepes, eggs, and ham. Coffee after. For me. Hot chocolate for you because you don't drink coffee."

Oh. That actually sounds good. How did he know your beverage preferences?

He fishes out a cigarette from his pocket, skinny and hand-rolled, "So what are you doing here? No offense but you don't exactly seem like you can afford a vacation to France. "

Now is your turn to sigh. You've nearly forgotten how blunt he could be: "Here on an internship. For art" You supply.

"I assume you just regularly come to Paris every summer?"

He doesn't deny or verify your statement, "Something like that."

"So you're staying at a hostel or?" He asks, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that makes your nose wrinkle.

The waiter comes by with food, and you turn to Eren with a sour look, "I sincerely hope you're not going to smoke while we're eating."

To your utter surprise, he ashes the cigarette. You were expecting a witty and mean retort at the very minimum, not silent compliance.

You pick up the earlier conversation, "Well, I'm actually staying with my boyfriend." You mummer the last word quietly but the viridian-eyed boy's ears are keen. You don't notice how his grip on the knife tightens.

"You're staying with your boyfriend?" He repeats.

You nod, "Yeah, he's an art student too."

The rest of the meal is completed in sparing small-talk and lengths of silence. But it's not awkward. It's weird. On one hand, having brunch with Eren Yeager in fucking Paris, heir to a billionaire pharmaceutical company should feel surreal, but it's strangely peaceful. You feel more at peace sitting across from him in France than you did when he sat next to you in homeroom.

When it's time to pay the check, Eren looks amused by the very notion of you digging into your purse.

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I let the lady pay?" His words are spoken with a teasing smile.

You roll your eyes but can't help a glimmer of a smile from peeking through on your lips, "Didn't take you much for a gentleman."

He tosses his black card on the bill, "You'd be surprised."

What's there left to do now? Is it time to part ways? There's a part of you that craves more but life has taught you to not be greedy when you already have so so much.

You dabble the corner of your lips with a napkin, "Well, this has been fun-"

"Wait, uh, do you wanna check out the Louvre? Since you're an art student and all, you might uh enjoy it."

You stare at him. Is he tongue-tied?

"You've probably there been a million times already."

"Yeah...but you haven't been, right?"

You blink before breaking into a smile that Eren is sure is going to give him heart palpations, so sunny and bright.

"I would love to!"

You guys check out Mona Lisa for the sheer novelty, and you're bouncing around the museum, oohing and ahhing at the chiseled statues and Renaissance paintings. There is so much history here, it blows your mind.

Eren finds himself watching you more than the paintings. You have this veneer of snark that you wrap around yourself like a protective gauze (maybe that's how you maintain your survival in a world of hyenas) but you're different now.

You're yourself. Watching you here come alive in unbridled enthusiasm, eyes widened in passion, makes him reach out to his pocket and fish for his disposable film camera. He doesn't know if he's ever seen anyone in his vapid life look like the way you do, so filled with a zest for things that are greater than themselves.

He wants to burn you into his memory, praying to all the gods that you won't notice when he takes a picture of you admiring a bust of a goddess. He slyly tucks his camera back into his pocket.

The world seems to stand still when you tug his hand to show him a painting, an expression of unadulterated wonder on your face. But when you realize you pulled his hand, you immediately drop it like hot coals.

Why do you look so worried? Why do you look so scared?

"You can hold my hand if you want. It's-it's okay." He can't believe he's gotten the words out.

You're taking too long, your hands still hanging limply by your side, an indiscernible expression on your pretty face. Eren doesn't understand why it makes him so mad, why your sudden hesitation grated his nerves. Deciding to make your choice for you, he grabs your hand, squeezing your palm as he flashes you the charismatic smile that's got him out of countless incidents.

He doesn't like the expression of worry marring your features. Where did the happy jovial girl go? Just a few seconds, you were poking him with sparkles in your eyes, "Look at this Eren!" and "So beautiful, right?"

He forces another smile: "Show me the painting you wanted me to see." Maybe it was meant to be a request but it comes out as a demand.

You cast a glance at your joined hands, his grip borderline painful. "O-okay."

You lead him across the floor, and Eren can feel the stares of people around him. They are smiling. An older woman utters a "Un si charmant couple."

You take him to a grand painting. It's haunting and dark, swirling with so many shades of dusty red from vermillion to scarlet. A pregnant woman lies reclined, arm hanging and head lolling. She appears to be asleep, and there is a cacophony of men around her portrayed in varying degrees of stress.

"Death of a virgin", you breathed.

Such a macabre name, Eren thought as he gazed longer into the painting. He loosens his grip on your hand, testing whether you would pull away.

You don't.

It's raining outside and you're giggling.

"Fuck" Eren swears, "I'll call a cab."

You're a vision drenched in rain. Your clothes are soaked, and he could see the outline of your bra from your thin shirt. But it seems like you don't even care.

"Let's just enjoy it!" You cry out. There are thick droplets stuck in between your eyelashes, and you smell like rain too. It's dangerous, he can see chords of purple lightning flash the sky, thunder booming, and it's like you're dancing, the way you move so effortlessly.

You hook his hands in yours, "Doesn't this feel good?"

He feels like all his sins are being washed away, all the impurities and muck that clung onto him after nineteen years of existence. His heart nearly jumps out of his throat every time he looks at you.

He cups your chin and kisses you. When he feels the threadbare resistance, he kisses harsher, tongue and teeth swallowing your protests, coaxing your mouth open with a skillful pinch to your nipple. He pulls away just before you feel like all your breath has been robbed.

You're stunned speechless, "Eren...I...h-have a boyf-"

He kisses you again. And this time you kiss back, holding nothing back.

taglist: @candy-hime @cinnamon-n-roses @forwardpair

“No!” Declan flinched violently. The last thing he needed was further harassment of his recent trauma.

“I’ll leave it right next to you, but you’ve got to tell me that’s what you want, darling.”

“Please, I’ll drink it myself,” he groaned, watching the water bottle touch the ground before Hasan retreated.

He painstakingly propped himself up on his elbow as the bastard flopped effortlessly into an armchair a few feet away. Each shift agitated the welts on his back. A shaking hand brought the bottle to his mouth, a sweet, cold stream of water pouring as steadily as he could. 

Declan closed his mouth, breathing in what air he could from his nose, and swallowed. His throat was beyond sore, and he felt a shiver rush down his spine, but it was good. His body begged for it, even as intuition only remembered suffering.

A few more sips would have to satiate him, because his arms refused to hold him up any longer. 

He kept eyes on Hasan, scrolling through their phone. Short snippets of songs and voice clips came through the speaker, but soon one came that made their face light up.

“Oh, would you look at that!” They glanced at Declan, then turned around the screen so he could see. “That’s McQuinn!”

A quiff of generic brown hair stood out on the screen, but a particular pair of red sunglasses sparked the recognition in Declan’s mind.

“...isn’t that the guy who cosplays Lightning McQueen?” What a strangely familiar face to see in a place like this.

“He was!”

“Damn, why’d he stop? I haven’t seen him on my for you page in a bit…” He allowed himself to reminisce, like his TikTok for you page was something he’d be able to see any time soon.

“Well… do you remember the man I picked up for my friend?” Hasan grinned.

The faint smile over his face dropped and Declan’s eyes went wide. Shot right back down to reality.

“No…”

“Hell yeah! He’s in Adela’s basement as we speak!” Hasan exclaimed, swiping through their phone and turning it back around to show the same man, frightened, bound, and gagged in a wooden crate.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“It’s not-”

“You’re a freak!” Declan shouted. There was no reasoning or excuse that could make this okay.

“Do we really need to go over that again? This can’t possibly come as a surprise to you.”

He sighed into the carpet, already starting to smell of iron. Or maybe that was his nose. Soft twitches of his face kept disturbing it.

“Ooh, but speaking of captives’ social media…” Hasan leaned back, and Declan already knew what he was searching up. “Out of three Declan Labelles on Instagram—I looked at your ID—only one of them has a trans flag in his bio, fifty-one followers, and of course, those iconic blue bangs. But there’s only one problem! Some silly thing decided to keep his account private~!”

“Fuck off- hey!” They grabbed his hand and pressed his thumb to the scanner of a phone they’d just whipped out of their pocket. Hasan fist pumped when it unlocked, and Declan only realized it was his phone when it was in Hasan’s hands. 

“There we go... I already stripped all communication, location, or cellular capabilities so we don’t have to worry about anyone finding you, but I’m keeping it active on my internet for situations like this! Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll enter my fingerprint in here.”

Declan was already lost in his head as they did that, because if they found his Instagram they could see his linktree, and if they could see his linktree they found-

“But that’s not the main attraction, of course. You didn’t tell me you’re a streamer!”

“You didn’t fucking ask,” he grunted. 

“Beside the point. I’ve refrained from snooping around too awful much, but I’ve gathered you’re a video game speedrunner?” Hasan asked.

“Surprised you know what that means.”

“They’re nice background noise sometimes. Not that I could ever perform those glitches myself.”

“Cool.” Great. Something else for his captor to ruin.

He heard his own voice coming from the speaker, laughing and wheezing over a corrupted file. It cut out and was replaced by the celebration of his most recent personal best, only a week ago. Hearing his own laugh, so unaware of what was to come, made his breath catch in his throat.

“Turn that off,” he pleaded weakly.

“Come on, I’d like to get to know you!”

“I’m right here. Talk to me.” Declan rolled his eyes.

“We both know this isn’t the real you. You’re angry and hurt, and some may call that one’s true colors, but Declan isn’t this miserable thing at his core,” Hasan said, giving him the grossest pitying look.

“Stop torturing me and I might let you have a glimpse.”

“Goodness, isn’t somebody extreme!” They put a hand over their chest and pulled back.

“Asking to not be torn apart is a reasonable request, I think!”

“Here, here’s an archive video on your YouTube. Listen to this.” His own voice came through the speaker once again, over a music track.

“...and we’re live…? Woo, we’re live! Alright, uh, hey all, I’m Cy or Cybermen, my pronouns are he/him, and today I’m gonna show off a run of Donkey Kong Barrel Blast!” The audio paused, and Hasan turned back to him.

“See what I mean? So much brighter, more alive. Though, playing a game that uses a pair of bongos as controllers.”

“Like I said, you could have that for the low, low price of-”

“-not hurting you, and letting you go home, reimbursing you for this inconvenience, and disappearing off the face of the earth, of course, of course. Because you’re only here so I can experience your joy,”

“Shut up, you fucking sadist!” Declan grit his teeth to keep something more desperate from coming out.

“Mmmh, no, thank you. Just sit down and listen for a while.”

They hit play on the video again, watching along as Declan started the game, commentating on exploits and difficulties of individual levels. Listening to something so separated from his current self was a very strange experience. He tried to find comfort in the familiarity and success. That had been a particularly good run, especially considering how nervous he’d been about performing it in front of a large audience.

Declan had settled into the situation when a ding interrupted the video, and Hasan clicked on it.

“Oh my, looks like Lee had plenty to say about that video!” they smiled, opening the message instead. “Lee’s my boyfriend, by the way.” 

Yes. He’d gathered that from the context. Hasan adopted a slightly more American accent and read it off.

“Babe you know I never questioned you for a second, but he’s perfect. Those noises, mmmmm and he took it well for a first timer. Nice even lines down his back too. If I didn’t know you, I might think you’re more experienced.

“I’m so proud of how you handled that little escape attempt. You’re doing such a good job already and I can’t wait to be with you again.

“Please keep a proper eye on him though. I’d truly hate for any punishment to come to you, be it at my hands or the law’s.”

Oh, gross. That was gross. Hearing himself talked about like he wasn’t even there, which he didn’t have to be if Hasan didn’t read that out… and talked about like that. Like he was there to look good for them, like Hasan was the person in the right here, like any of this nightmare was reason to praise the instigator.

Declan didn’t say anything.

“I must say, I have to agree,” Hasan said.

“Good, because I wasn’t entirely sure if you were a creep yet.” Delcan sighed, knowing the insult wasn’t worth shit. He glanced up and the bastard was visibly blushing. They really were deprived.

“Mmhmm,” Hasan nodded absentmindedly, ticked out a text back, paused, and held the phone up. “Say cheese.”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” he muttered to the carpet.

“Close enough. You look cute by the way.”

“No wonder my last relationship didn’t work out. I wasn’t covered in blood.”

“Which means this one will inevitably last now that we understand the issue,” they finished, effortlessly, and Declan didn’t want to muster up the energy or effort to do more than roll his eyes. “Hey, Adela sent a heart of approval! The rest of the chat seems very excited as well.”

“I thought that was just for Lee.”

“Eh, spread the wealth and all that,” they waved him off, unpausing the speedrun video.

And it was right back to listening to game sounds and commentary. Like that wasn’t incredibly violating and invasive. Goddd and it was probably his fault too for saying how much it bothered him. Idiot!

Eventually, Hasan paused it once again.

“Alright. What do you say about cleaning that carpet now?”

“I say I feel like I’m gonna pass out,” Declan groaned.

“And if I offer you two granola bars in return for doing it?”

“You’re a dick.”

Hasan pretended to think for a moment.

“I can bump it up to three.” It sounded like a game show offer.

“You’re gonna make me do it anyway.”

“But I’m being so generous!” Yep, just as generous as those scammy hosts.

“Help me up.”

“That’ll cost you a granola bar.” Declan desperately wished he could switch the channel of his life.

“And if I ask you to do it without hurting me?” He was too tired to care that his question was a stupid one. Not too tired not to internally acknowledge it, though.

“Two.”

“Hurt me, then.” He kept his expression carefully flat, but Hasan lit up.

“Wow, those are certainly not words I expected to hear from you today!”

“Splendid. Brilliant. Get off your ass.”

“Goodness, not if you’re going to keep pretending these are commands for you to give. Ask me, and I’ll see how I want to answer.”

“Hey Hasan, do you wanna help me get up?” he asked flatly.

“Aww sure, Dec, I’d be glad to!”

They stood and approached him, sneering at the bloody carpet before straddling the small of Declan’s back.

“Ow, fuck-!”

“You signed up for this. No complaints.” Hands slid under his shoulders and pulled him up. They came together, shifting all of the welts across them, and Declan cried out.

“I didn’t- aaaagh! I didn’t say I’d take it well!”

“Just scream then. That’s more than enough for me. Now put your elbows under you before I drop your torso to the ground.”

Declan did, and once they’d gotten up, he tried to pull his knees under him too. Hasan helped. They lifted his hips. 

“Alright, that’s enough. You’ve done your granola bar’s worth of work,” he shooed them away.

“That I have. Are you sure you’ll be able to get this done?”

“You’re the one who beat me up and then told me I had to.”

“Sue me for caring,” Hasan held up their hands, but they couldn’t commit to the act.

“You’re concerned about your precious carpet. Not me.”

“And you’re the one taking care of it.” They didn’t deny his statement.

“Am I done after this?” 

“If I say yes, will you get on with it?”

“I reserve the right to wonder why I bothered asking,” Declan groaned.

“If you’re craving motivation, I can offer to step on you in the next five seconds if you don’t grab the stain remover.”

“Consider it done.” Declan waved a hand whimsically and reached over to the spray bottle. He sat on his heels to read the instructions on the back. “Spray on the area enough to soak it through. Rub in, and wait five minutes. Then, blot dry with a towel until the stain is no longer visible.”

“Read like someone who has never cleaned anything before.” They gave him a sarcastic thumbs up.

“That’s literally just the instructions.”

“Exactly. You don’t read the instructions.”

“Well. I do,” he grumbled. “Shut up unless you want your carpet ruined.”

“Don’t tell me what to do unless you want your mouth ruined.”

He shut up. He’d brushed against enough limits already.

Foamy spray soaked into the carpet below Declan, and he crawled across the floor, only as far as he needed to cover all the bloodstains. 

He took a rag and worked it in, regretting not doing so on the first pass. He had to sit up a few times to ensure that he wasn’t about to pass out, continuing at Hasan’s insistence. If they wanted the stain to come out completely they should’ve been helping. Having the sickly torture victim clean their floor wasn’t going to end in a job well done, which was brushed off every time Declan brought it up.

It was a slight relief to see rusty red and brown soaking into that same rag just minutes later, but he had to dig into the carpet to reach the lowest fibers. Declan put all of his weight on his trembling arms, and eventually switched to his knees. This was not worth two granola bars in the slightest, but they surely beat laying here for hours more, being stared at and forced to listen to his own voice, presumably until he finished. 

But now he was finally there, he sighed to himself, soaking up the last traces of the cleaner. 

Declan didn’t even wait for Hasan to survey his job before collapsing to the ground and greying out.

~~~

Next...

~~~

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