#hamareth

A shadow of a frown threatened Hamnet's face, the beginnings of a storm that was quickly quelled by a practiced smile. In the past, there was no need for facades, no place for pretense. Mareth knew the depths of Hamnet's heart. At least—what he had allowed. Things were different now, they were men. They had both been soldiers, suffered greatly because of it. Yet here Mareth stood, wounded yes, but his resolve, remained unchanged. It had still drawn Hamnet, like a life's flame

"Adjusting to Regalian life again, it's been... tasking," Hamnet confessed, the words heavy, laden with the weight of unvoiced struggles. As he worked, extracting the essence from the herbs, his actions spoke of a man well-acquainted with the art of transformation, of extracting light from the depths of darkness. "My niece is Queen, my mother stands accused of endangering the Underland—a threat that once loomed over us all. It's a burden I cannot, will not, take lightly."

"I'd argue the burden I carry currently, is heavier." Mareth quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.

He is heavier than he looks, how did you manage in the jungle?"

With a gentle gesture towards a small bed nestled in the corner of the apothecary, designed for those in less immediate need of care, Hamnet wordlessly invited Mareth to ease Hazard down onto its welcoming surface. The boy, even in sleep, seemed to find comfort instinctively, nestling into the bed with a contentedness that spoke volumes of the security he felt in this place, however unfamiliar.

Mareth then turned, approaching the counter where Hamnet continued his meticulous work, his hands never ceasing in their task. It was then he ventured, with a softness in his voice that belied the weight of his words, "This burden, Hamnet— isn't yours to bear alone."

At this, Hamnet's concentration fractured, his brow furrowing as he met Mareth's gaze. A mix of incredulity and pain flashed through his eyes. "Do you truly believe that?" he snapped, the words sharp, laden with years of unspoken fears and uncertainties. "That I hold no fault for everything that's transpired? That you harbor no ill will towards me?"

Mareth's response was a sigh intertwined with a grumble, a sound that tugged at the threads of memory within Hamnet's mind. It was a sound he had heard many times during their sparring sessions in youth, a prelude to concession or admission. The familiarity of it caused Hamnet's breath to catch. He was back, in the arena, pinning Mareth to the ground, exhausted, and embarrassed.

"I did... for a while," Mareth admitted, the words heavy, tinged with a resignation born of time and reflection. "Yet, as the days turned to weeks and your return was postponed, worry was all that brewed within me. Concern for you—your well-being, took precedence over any feelings of betrayal."

Hamnet's tense shoulders dropped, a visible release of the anxiety that had knotted within him at the prospect of Mareth's resentment. His relief was palpable, a silent exhale in the midst of the apothecary's herbal-scented air. For a moment, it seemed as if a chasm that had yawned wide between them was starting to narrow, bridged by Mareth's words of understanding and concern. Yet, Mareth wasn't finished. The weight of his gaze didn't waver as he took a step closer, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that hinted at the years of unspoken truths between them.

"You ask why I saved you in Hesperides? I preserved your life because that's the action you take for those you hold dear. Our bond transcended friendship;You were important to me, Hamnet. Your departure—it wasn't treachery, but it created an emptiness. I would have undertaken anything to convince you to remain."

At Mareth's admission, a pang of regret lanced through Hamnet's heart, a sharp contrast to the soft hum of the apothecary around them. His head bowed, a whisper of an apology escaping his lips, shrouded in a veil of shame. Crossing the space between them, Mareth placed a hand on Hamnet's shoulder, his touch grounding, a silent reassurance of his presence. "I did not mean to upset you," he apologized, the words soft, yet laden with a complexity of emotions that seemed to resonate within the confines of the apothecary.

Lifting his gaze, Hamnet looked up, his eyes tracing the contours of Mareth's face—a landscape marked by the passage of time and the scars of battles fought, both in war and in their youthful escapades. Each mark was a story, a memory of their shared past that spoke of courage, laughter, and the bonds forged in the crucible of adventure. There, in Mareth's features, was the essence of the man he had known and the changes wrought by time, yet the underlying truth remained—this was Mareth, humorous, loyal, and undeniably handsome.

The intensity of Hamnet's gaze brought a warmth to Mareth's neck, a recognition of the depth of their connection. It was a look that stirred memories of days long past, filled with the promise of youth and the unspoken words that lingered between them. That look held a call, one that had echoed in the depths of Mareth's soul, unanswered yet ever-present.

"I couldn't stay... I didn't want to—" Hamnet began, his voice faltering as he grappled with the words, the weight of his decisions.

"Do more harm, I know this," Mareth interjected, his voice a gentle balm to the raw edges of Hamnet's confession. "But you are here now, Hamnet. Your mother is confined to her quarters, your niece is Queen, Bartholomew's warrior is amongst us."

"And you are here." Hamnet added.

""Aye, and well we both know I was better of steering you clear of mischief. I recall you clinging to my every word."

"If they came from your lips." Hamnet admitted, their gaze catching one another's.

"If they had told you to stay—would you?" Asked the solider.

"Every instinct in me is screaming to flee once more, Mareth. I sense the weight of everyone's gaze upon me, and I'm aware of the whispers that fill these halls, but if you required it of me, I would stay."

"I require it," Mareth said, the words escaping him with a fervency that surprised even himself, his voice nearly breaking under the strain of emotions long held at bay. The promptness of his reply, the raw need evident in those three simple words, cut through the tension between them, prompting an unexpected laugh from Hamnet. The sound, muffled yet unmistakably joyful, reverberated through Mareth, awakening a cascade of sensations that he had dared not acknowledge until now.

The laughter, so genuine and unguarded, was a balm to Mareth's soul, a reminder of the man before him—not a figment of his desires, but flesh and blood, real and within reach. His initial impulse was to close the distance between them, to bridge the gap of years and unspoken truths with the simplicity of touch. His hands reached out, driven by a longing that had lain dormant, fingers inches from Hamnet's face before he caught himself, the suddenness of his own actions leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

The tension in the air was palpable, charged with the unspoken and the undeniable. Hamnet's sharp intake of breath was a silent testament to the turmoil that mirrored Mareth's own—a desperate need to belong, to be understood, to be accepted. And yet, in the vulnerability of the moment, Hamnet leaned into the roughness of Mareth's palms, an act of trust, of surrender.

Mareth, overwhelmed by the proximity, the shared warmth, felt tears tracing paths down his cheeks, the emotion of the moment breaking through the dams of his restraint. "Stay, and I will make sure you do no harm. If you, and Hazard will have me—"

The answer came when Hamnet bridged the gap between them, his lips finding Mareth's in a kiss that was both a seal of promises and the kindling of a fire long suppressed. It was deep, intense, a melding of desire and something far more profound that had been forged in the crucible of their shared past and the trials they had faced, both together and apart. In this kiss, Hamnet poured all the longing, all the fears and hopes he had harbored. Mareth's initial shock at the contact melted into an answering fervor, his own pent-up longing and affection bursting forth. He returned the kiss with an intensity that matched, then exceeded, Hamnet's initial desperation. Mareth's hands, initially hesitant, now cradled Hamnet's face with a tenderness that spoke volumes, grounding them both in the reality of the moment.