»You’re not going back to work yet, Fin.« The Crown sat back, absent-mindedly placing a hand on their belly as they scrutinized their brother.

What work did a prince even have to do? They — both of them — were waited on hand and foot. It still felt eerie. Elgar occupied his hands with the slice of orange cake on the fragile porcelain, an import from the queen’s home, before him. Ever since he had mentioned how much he loved it, it had become a regular occurrence. It was so easy. Everything was so easy.

Well, not everything. Especially now that the Crown was here. They had yet to hurt him in any way, but he still couldn’t relax around them.

The prince gave a dissatisfied little hum. »What about you?«

The Crown sighed. »I’m not working either, as you might have noticed.« They looked even more dissatisfied than the prince.

»Not true. You get your mail here. And so on.« The prince reached for his slate, as was becoming rarer and rarer, as if he was going to list all the ways in which the Crown violated their claim.

»Okay, well, I can’t wholly abandon the kingdom.«

Satisfied with their confession, the prince dropped the slate again. »And you’re baking a human.«

The Crown tapped a finger against his chest. »Yes. And you are healing.«

The prince looked undecided whether he should continue arguing, and to Elgar’s dismay, the Crown turned to him. »What about you, Elgar?« Their voice was gentle. »Do you feel better?«

Elgar crumbled what was left of his cake. »Yes, your Majesty. Thank you.« It was true, after all. He felt better. And if the prince decided he wanted to go back to his ordinary life, well, then Elgar was ready to go with him, even though it filled him with trepidation, knowing so little about what that would even entail.

The Crown eyed him a moment, before they turned toward their brother again. They flinched when something bumped inside their belly.

»Are you okay?« the prince asked immediately. Elgar suspected he was glad for an excuse to turn the conversation further on the state of the Crown.

»I’m handling it.«

He looked worried, laying a hand on their sibling’s other before speaking again. »It’s over soon.«

The Crown’s lips quirked. »I think I’ll have to pop out a few more.«

Elgar caught himself staring, but it was the prince who answered. »You don’t have to do that to yourself.«

»There needs to be an heir. And if…« They exhaled softly.

»The others will have children.«

»Still. Five seems like a good number, don’t you think?« They smiled slightly, and flicked his nose. »Where would we be if our parents had stopped at four?«

*

You would have been spared a lot of heartache. The thought sprang into Orafin’s mind unbidden. That wasn’t remotely what Ozriel had meant, he knew that. But it was true — the months of believing him dead, the trouble of taking care of him in the state he was in when he returned, the worry of whether he would ever be okay again, able to attend to his duties.

And now he was — he thought he was — and Ozriel wouldn’t even let him.

It was true he startled from nightmares, sometimes, in which he crawled towards a border infinitely far away, dragging his broken legs, Elgar’s cries of pain behind himself as he abandoned him. He couldn’t even cry into Elgar’s shoulder when he woke from them, choked with shame, like he did on other occasions. It was no mystery where the nightmares came from. It should have been him, the prince, saving Elgar, not the unfortunate, miraculously kind soul risking everything for an uncertain future for his sake.

He should be doing his job, at least now. He didn’t think he could return to the front, and he knew Ozriel would never ask him to; probably even the people wouldn’t call it unjust — he had served, after all. But there was so much work to do: administration, logistics, even charity. He could do something. He should do something.

The warm, loving look Ozriel gave him made him ache. He knew Ozriel would never demand anything in exchange. None of his siblings would, especially after what had happened to him.

Above him, the bed creaked with the force of Elgar being railed into it, easily for the dozenth time this night. Their master had invited some of his friends to come play with his pretty toy, and they had been at it for hours. At first, Elgar had pretended to enjoy it in a futile attempt to appease them, but he had long since given up, his moans and little whimpers giving way to sobs and cries of pain; at least when his voice wasn’t wholly smothered by—as Orafin could imagine only too vividly—another cock rammed down his throat.

It didn’t stop his tormentors from adding insult to injury. »You’re enjoying this, little whore, aren’t you?«

And Elgar, robbed of all strength to resist, could only sob out the answer that would spare him later punishment. »Yes, sir.«

Orafin had to stifle his own sobs. It certainly wasn’t his place to cry over this, even if there wasn’t the looming punishment for making himself known. He wasn’t who was suffering.

»Please-«

No. There was nothing Orafin could do, but he had so hoped that Elgar would be able to resist the urge to beg. He had been getting better at it, Orafin felt, but he couldn’t blame him for his willpower failing him.

»Please what, pretty thing?«

There was only one answer their master would accept to this question, too. Elgar had been trained too well, had suffered too much for refusing it to fight back now, and Orafin knew it.

Elgar let out a desperate wail. »Please, Master-«

»Please what?«

For a moment, there was nothing but shuddering breath. »Please f-fuck me harder.«

The jeers and laughter nearly drowned out the scream that followed.

And Orafin could do nothing but weep for the only soul that had shown him any kindness in this unending nightmare.

He reached up and pressed a hand against between the slats, where he felt Elgar’s weight against the mattress. He didn’t know whether Elgar could even feel him, nor whether the reminder of another witness to his degradation wouldn’t make him feel worse.

Now he was alone in this big room with the beautiful curtains before the large windows, the painted wardrobe and the desk he had no use for, unable as he was to write, and the bed.

There was a key in the lock. He hadn’t dared turn it.

He couldn’t quite believe it.

The next morning, he appeared at breakfast like he had been told to, and found a prince that looked more tired than he had for the past weeks. As if he had barely slept.

Neither had Elgar. His mind kept playing tricks at him that someone was coming through the door into the room where he lay alone and unprotected, that someone would-

Maybe even the prince.

But of course that was ridiculous.

The prince attempted a smile when he saw Elgar, but it was clear he struggled as much as Elgar struggled to return it.

The prince’s brother — Otira — had welcomed them at the estate and made sure they were settling in, and the prince — Elgar’s prince — wrote a note for him to read to Elgar.

He permitted Elgar to visit him in his bedroom, if he wanted.

When Elgar lay awake again that night, it started feeling like being alone might be worse.

Of course, there was nothing bad about being with the prince at all. He had never tried to hurt Elgar. But with all the power he had now gotten back-

Elgar’s heart was in his throat as he knocked on the prince’s door. A soft squeak answered him, and Elgar felt a brief but intense wave of embarrassment wash over him that he could have forgotten the prince couldn’t answer with a word.

He entered. The prince sat up in his bed, and smiled when he saw him; immediately, he moved over and gestured at the spot beside himself.

»Thank you,« Elgar muttered and slipped under the prince’s covers.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, but eventually, he slept a little better that night.

As the nights crept by, he should have gotten used to it. Should have blindly believed that things would continue the way they were, with the prince next to him chastely holding his hand, or at most lying against his body, perhaps with one’s arm wrapped around the other.

It was comforting, too. It was better than sleeping alone had been. No one could reach him there, in the prince’s bed.

No one, but the prince himself.

He might change his mind at a moment’s notice.

There was no reason Elgar should assume he would, but the thought wouldn’t leave his head. The prince was getting better, more confident and more comfortable in the position that had been his since birth, by the day. Sometimes a simple look or word made Elgar’s anxiety spike so much it took his breath away.

He wouldn’t be able to conceal it forever, and truly, he didn’t want to live like this, not when he had a choice.

For the first time in so long, he had a choice.

Not an easy one. But he had to know.

* »Do you want to sleep with me?«

Elgar’s voice was so small, his eyes so fearful, that Orafin instantly knew what he was getting at, and once more his heart broke for the man who had reached out in kindness in his darkest hours. Both their darkest hours, really. The thought that he who had saved him would now fear Orafin would take advantage of his position to dig deeper into the horrific hurt he had been subjected to was unbearable.

Orafin blinked back tears — it wasn’t his place to cry, here — and decisively shook his head, seeking Elgar’s eyes. He reached out and took Elgar’s hand into his, squeezed it gently.

Elgar looked up at that. His fear wasn’t quenched, Orafin could tell, and he had to pull back to try and speak.

He didn’t have all the words to say what he needed to say yet, but for all its faults — mostly being so easily talked over, and Orafin having to learn a whole new way of communication well into adulthood—he had found sign language to be quite expressive, and it was easy to convey his intention by speaking soft and gently, like handling a small, frightened animal. »Calm down. I will never, never hurt you.«

Elgar nodded, and swallowed, and then tears slipped down his cheeks.

In truth, Orafin had been impressed with how well Elgar seemed to be handling himself. He, Orafin, had cried multiple times despite his best efforts, but Elgar…

Not until now.

Orafin reached out a hand and, very carefully, took Elgar’s. Squeezed. Only when Elgar squeezed back, Orafin, very carefully, wrapped his other arm around his shoulders.

He was relieved to find Elgar leaning into his touch.

»I’m sorry,« Elgar sobbed as Orafin, very carefully, pulled him into a full embrace. »I believe you.«

It’s okay, Orafin wanted to say. I’ve cried into your shoulder plenty. I know it’s hard. I just want you to feel safe.

But he would have had to let go for that, if he even had the words, so instead, he just held Elgar tighter and let him cry.

At midday, they stopped at a camp they had been expected at; a handful of tents, only one fancy enough to host the prince and princess.

And from it, another Teeradian emerged.

She was dressed in fine Ochurian garb — much like him, Elgar realized a moment too late; it was easy to forget how fancy he must look now — and followed by a much younger Ochurian woman in much simpler clothes.

Both bowed to the royals, but the princess immediately hopped of her horse and hugged the Teeradian.

»Lady Hirias! Glad you could make the journey!« She spoke Teeradian, whether for the stranger’s benefit or his, Elgar wasn’t sure.

The prince next to Elgar dismounted, too, smiling and nodding at the woman; Elgar hurriedly followed.

She was awkwardly returning the princess’ hug, but her eyes were sharp, and they quickly settled on Elgar. Only when the princess let go, she turned her attention back to the royals.

»I am pleased you are well, your Highnesses.« Brief worry flickered across her face as she looked at Orafin, but he was still smiling, and she continued without comment, »This is Zizariu. State your purpose, girl.«

»I am — I am going to teach you how to sign, your Highness, if you’ll have me.« The young woman’s voice trembled a little, and her eyes were darting anxiously between the ground and the prince’s face; it was obvious she was not used to speaking to royalty.

But she was moving her hands as she spoke to demonstrate, fluidly and effortlessly.

»Her mother is deaf,« Lady Hirias explained bluntly. »She serves in the palace; a chef, I believe.«

Zizariu nodded, clearly still a little breathless from the company she was in.

»Thank you.« The princess smiled at her. »Your services — and your mother’s, I’ll say — are much appreciated.«

»Your Highness.«

»And this is Elgar.« The princess gestured at him far more dramatically than Elgar would have liked.

»I figured,« Lady Hirias said, raising an eyebrow and examining him head to toe. Elgar felt like sinking into the ground from the attention. »I hope you’re a bit quicker on the uptake than his Highness here.«

Only the slightest shadow of a smile gave away the playfulness of her tease. Orafin, though, just rolled his eyes and gave Elgar a pat on the arm.

»Lady Hirias will be teaching you Ochurian from here on out,« the princess said with a warm smile; surely his concern must be showing on his face.

»Yes, I — I figured that,« he replied weakly. »Milady,« he added quickly. The etiquette lessons the royals had been imparting on him felt an impossible bar to cross, far too many little rules to ever remember them all, but he could remember stuff like this — things that made some shadow of sense.

She cocked her head, and Elgar immediately realized she could hear, unlike the Ochurians, how lowly and peasant he sounded.

But she said nothing.

The princess chattered on as lunch was readied for them — still three meals every day, and still Elgar felt like it was a dream — and answered the burning question he didn’t dare ask.

»Lady Hirias has joined the intelligence corps when she came here, and now she’s retired, she’s teaching instead. She has rendered this country a great deal of service — kind of like you,« she added in what could only be a joke.

But something in Elgar’s mind clicked at the story. »You’re — you’re Lady Sirvi Hirias. You disappeared…«

Lady Hirias raised an eyebrow. »For a street urchin, you must have been paying close attention to court gossip.«

He hadn’t; everyone had heard of the lady’s disappearance and presumed death. The words burst out before he could stop himself. »You’re a traitor!«

Lady Hirias kept a straight face. »Kind of like you.«

Elgar was already in the process of trying to melt out of sight from the sudden bout of unexpected boldness, and now he had to reckon with being called a traitor.

Maybe he was. But Teeradia had never done much for him. The Ochurian royal family, on the other hand-

Lady Hirias nodded at him, pleased. »You see what I mean.«

The prince curiously looked back and forth between them, and Elgar wasn’t sure how to begin explaining. But then the prince just took his hand, squeezing it; he must have sensed his discomfort; and suddenly Elgar felt silly. It was nothing. What did it matter to him whether the lady had been loyal to the government of a country he had long since left behind?

What mattered was whether his efforts in her lessons would be appreciated, and he just had made it that much harder for himself. »I’m sorry,« he muttered, but of course it was too late.

Technically, Elgar hadn’t been required to stay with the prince during these visits. But he didn’t know what else to do — the thought of running into a visitor, servant or not, on his own somewhere was terrifying, and sometimes even being alone, away from the prince’s protection, made him nervous. And then, more and more, as the prince started to sign at least his greetings and such, he found himself translating for him.

It simply happened, at first. It was too awkward to bear to see the prince sign a warm welcome at another noble and be met with confused looks.

Maybe these people should learn to understand sign. Maybe they would have to. But there were always new ones, so it seemed like it would never end.

And if he was honest… he was glad to be helping the prince out, even in such a little, insignificant way. It felt like he was doing something to earn what he was getting.

»Your Highness! Permit me-«

Today’s visitor was a young man who, compared to the people who had dropped by so far, looked downright bedraggled. Fancy, still, but a bit disorderly, his hair in disarray and his clothes in creases.

But the prince had leapt to his feet when the doorman had announced one Baron Lifan Irozaen, and once he saw him, skipped past any words and threw his arms around him.

»I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,« the visitor mumbled into his shoulder, holding him tight, and sounded like he meant it. »I was on the road, down south managing shipments, I came as fast as I could — oh, my Prince, I’m so glad you’re alive.«

The prince patted the baron’s back, and when they parted, there were tears in his eyes. But then, he quickly turned and gestured at Elgar, smiling.

They had agreed on this procedure. The prince couldn’t introduce Elgar, so he had to do it himself.

»I am… Elgar, your, uh… Baron. His Highness and I… escaped together. It is an honour to meet you.«

The baron, exchanging a quick glance with the prince, crossed the distance between them in two long strides, and clasped Elgar’s hands in his own.

»I didn’t think I’d be saying this to a Teeradian, but thank you,« he said. »His Highness has written to me about… your services. Your great courage.«

Words failed Elgar; he had no idea what to do with the nobleman suddenly holding his hands almost like an equal. He threw a desperate glance at the prince, who smiled and nodded at him, but then, sensing his distress, moved in and laid a hand on the baron’s shoulder.

The baron furrowed his brow in confusion, but chased it off with a smile as he let go of Elgar, and followed the prince to a couch.

There they sat, exchanging tales scrawled hastily on the prince’s slate, or caught between the baron’s rapid speech and exuberant gestures.

They were too fast for Elgar to follow, but he didn’t remember ever seeing the prince smile so much.

*

Another day had passed, and it was time to sup and retire. Orafin was starting to get used to it, again. At first, resuming his duties in welcoming guests had felt stressful, but it came more naturally every day.

A few of them Orafin considered genuine friends, and every one had been wonderful to see again when he had almost thought he never would. But hugging Lifan again was on a whole different level. His heart felt warm and alive.

»Who was that?« Elgar asked. He was getting more comfortable just talking to him, Orafin felt — asking questions and even making requests sometimes. The other day after dinner he had, very quietly, entrusted to Orafin that he disliked artichokes, and would prefer not to be served them again. It was such a silly little thing, but Orafin had stifled his laughter. This all had been hard for Elgar, and he didn’t want to ruin the progress he was making towards being as comfortable as he deserved to be.

»My friend,« was all he could sign yet in response, but that didn’t begin to cover it. He wrote on his slate, carefully printing each letter — Elgar was making great progress with his reading, but he didn’t need to make it harder for him. My best friend in the whole world.

Elgar read, his brows knitted together in concentration. Then, he smiled — his smiles kept coming easier, too, although there was a glint of concern in his eyes; Orafin didn’t know what for. »Ah. You must be… I mean, obviously you were very glad to see him again.«

Orafin simply nodded, smiling himself. He’d see Lifan a lot, at least for a while, and that was wonderful. The baron loved to keep busy, but Orafin had no doubt he’d make time for him.

To make matters worse, it had been decided he should take lessons in the precious resting time. Not just what little help the royals could give him with the language—he would have a proper tutor for that, the princess reassured him, and that too was a scary thought—but etiquette lessons too. It was important he would know how to act by the time they reached the capital, the prince had explained, looking at him earnestly while his sister read off what he had written for Elgar, because Elgar still couldn’t read. It was important.

And worst of all, he was getting riding lessons.

The princess had asked him if he was ready to start within the week of them setting out from Akreh; clearly, she was the impatient type, and Elgar, of course, didn’t want to displease her, so there was only really one answer he could give.

And so, while the prince was sitting comfortably by, or even resting indoors, he was learning to ride.

It was a small comfort that the horse—Sparrow, he still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her as his own—was so easygoing; she barely ever seemed willing to move if she could help it, so there was not much worry she would run away from under him.

But still, it hurt.

He was healing so slowly, what with the daily travelling, and now he had to ride more. In the evenings, he wanted nothing but fall into bed and maybe cry to himself a little, but he knew the prince would worry, and somehow, explaining himself to him seemed worse.

He was no longer worried the prince would be upset with him for daring to voice a wish, at least not all the time; some evenings, they huddled together in a hug before going to sleep hand in hand. And yet, he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask for this specific favour, for this specific reason. Maybe he worried that the prince would tell the princess about the hows and whys of it. Yes, that must be it. That, too, was silly, of course—what dignity did someone like him have to lose in the eyes of a royal?—but it made some sort of sense.

And then, the prince was exhausted too, Elgar could tell. After his first crying session, he was certain that all the smiles and happiness he was putting on all day, whenever anyone might see, was just show, and it must be draining, especially while he, too, was still recovering from what their master had put him through—far worse than Elgar, even if he now had been stitched back together better.

»You’re making great progress! Maybe tomorrow, we can try cantering.«

The princess’ cheerful voice called his attention away from his misery. She was smiling brightly, as if that was good news.

It was true he had been getting better at keeping his balance on the horse, and at giving her the correct signals on his own—it did start to feel like he was actually riding.

It helped that however slow it went, the pain was fading, with every night he remained untouched. Still, he did not look forward to riding harder tomorrow, but he nodded. »Thank you, your Highness.«

He no longer needed her help to get off the horse and lead her away from the field they had been practicing in to be untacked. That was something he wasn’t expected to do himself, anymore than the royals were, and it made him feel uneasy. He was being served. Two of the slaves travelling with them were looking after the horses, and one of them took her out of his hands with a smile.

He managed a mumbled »thank you,« or so he thought.

He no longer needed the princess’ help with this, but she had followed him anyway, and now her grin had returned. »And you’re making great progress with that as well. Bet once you can get under our tutor, you’ll learn the language in no time.«

»Thank you, your Highness.« He opted for the more comfortable Teeradian this time, knowing she would understand it. Then something about the phrasing caught in his brain. Their tutor? Surely not their, the royals’, tutor, why would they need an Ochurian tutor?

But then, who here could teach Ochurian to a Teeradian—but perhaps someone who could have taught Teeradian to an Ochurian, too?

What would a royal tutor expect from him? How could he possibly hold up?

It was the end of the day—they had squeezed the lesson in after dinner—and Elgar was glad to be able to withdraw, sore and exhausted and now freshly worried.

Well, withdraw from most. The prince was waiting for him in their bedroom, but that was alright. Sometimes, he almost felt a kind of companionship with him. Almost like a resurrection of the bond tied between them during their captivity.

The prince was sitting up by the window and reading inbetween the fading light of dusk, and a candle. He closed the book when he heard Elgar enter, and gave him a smile, and a questioning thumbs-up.

Elgar nodded hesitantly. »It’s getting better.«

He went to sit with the prince. The bedroom was cool, of course, but he was dressed for the temperatures, like he very much hadn’t been under their old master.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Elgar looked out the window, into the stripe of orange drawn across the western sky, trying to calm his mind, but then he blurted out, »Do you think your tutor… is going to be satisfied with me?«

The prince looked at him quizzically, and Elgar explained, »Your sister, her Highness, she mentioned—I’d be taught the language by your tutor?« It sounded silly as he said it. He must have misunderstood something. But then—he had been afforded every luxury, far more than he knew how to handle.

And the prince nodded earnestly, reaching out to hold his hand.

»I just, I—I don’t know if I’ll be as good at it as… they’d expect.« He felt a hotness creep into his cheeks, and he was glad for the low light.

The prince shook his head, smiling, pointed at his chest then made a cutting motion. Elgar couldn’t read his lips too well as he mouthed words, but between it all, he figured it out. I was not good at it.

He couldn’t help a chuckle, but the prince’s smile faded as he thought about his words, and he gave a small shrug, flicking his free hand, then pointing between the two of them.

They were in the same boat. The prince would have to learn a new language, as well, with his hands.

He was made to eat with the royal family, sitting stiffly in his chair and trying his best to copy the prince’s manners. The thought that they were still practically out in the wild, and all the pomp and circumstance would only get worse when they appraoched the capital, churned in his stomach, but at least he was getting food. In fact, he was getting better food than he had ever had in his free life; it was uncanny, reminding him of the leftovers and table scraps from his masters’ fancy meals. He had to remind himself each time that the full dish in front of him was all for him—he didn’t even have to consider leaving anything for the prince.

The prince who was, by all appearances, thriving. Clearly he knew all these people, and was friendly with a great many of them. The bruises that hadn’t been healed by magic were starting to fade, and skin was slowly covering more than bone again.

Elgar was glad, he was. That was what he had wanted, for the wretch to heal.

And he, too, was treated well. That had to count for something. The prince still rested for hours a day, and Elgar was allowed to rest with him.

A short few days was better than nothing. He was healing, too. At least a little. He was.

Then, they went on their way, together with Princess Orina and her guard—a whole unit of soldiers—and her personal slaves.

Wherever they went, they were warmly welcomed not only by whoever had the honour to host the prince and princess, but by the people as well. The prince smiled and waved at the crowds that gathered whenever they reached a settlement, obviously and, for all Elgar could tell, genuinely happy their prince had returned. It was unlike anything Elgar had ever experienced before.

On the third night, the prince broke down crying.

He had requested he and Elgar share a room. Elgar had technically been asked, and agreed, but in no small part because he was unsure how wise it would have been to disagree.

In truth, the prince’s insistence on spending their nights together was starting to make him nervous, even though he was still occasionally glad for a hand to hold, a privilege the prince had yet to withdraw.

Tonight, though, all that didn’t seem to matter so much.

The prince was sat on their bed, in his silken nightgown, and started to cry without warning; deep, gut-wrenching sobs. He had been so peacefully quiet that Elgar had almost forgotten he hadn’t lost his voice itself. He pressed a hand to his mouth, but the sobbing wouldn’t stop.

Elgar didn’t even hesitate. The prince had been trained to hold back sounds or he would be punished further, and it was clear he was trying even now; he must be desperate. Elgar sat next to him and, with only the slightest trepidation, put an arm around his shoulders.

* Orafin felt selfish leaning into Elgar’s touch, burying his face in his chest. He was the prince here—he was who should, and could, protect and comfort Elgar, and he had already been spectacularly failing, and now here he was, breaking down into Elgar’s arms as if he didn’t have his own horrors to contend with.

He couldn’t say what brought it on. It had been an exhausting few days, travelling and meeting people and smiling and waving when he wanted to curl up somewhere safe among his siblings, but those were the duties of a prince.

He was safe, and taken good care of. There was no reason he sould be crying now. Yet with all the awful pratice he had had, he couldn’t swallow down the tears soaking into Elgar’s nightshirt—silken, like his, he wanted Elgar to share in all of his luxuries, he deserved it—nor the sobs, nor the rough howl wrenching itself from him, sounding more animal in the knowledge it would never become words again.

Elgar, sweet Elgar who had been so anxious the whole time no matter how much Orafin tried to signal he was safe and respected, enclosed him in a hug.

»It’s—it’s alright. You’re safe now, your Highness. You’re going home. It’s going to be okay.«

Orafin couldn’t so much as thank him, much less return the favour, or explain that he knew, he knew, he was acting an utter fool.

With great effort, he righted himself. Elgar’s arms hesitantly slipped off of him, and he took his hands in one of his own, reaching out with the other, gently touching Elgar’s cheek. Tears were still welling up in his eyes, and he kept having to blink them away.

He couldn’t say thank you. He couldn’t ask where Elgar took all this kindness from. He could only-

On impulse, he leant forward—but no. Enough had been inflicted on Elgar’s body without asking. He righted himself again, touched his fingertips to his own lips, then reached out to hover them over Elgar's forehead, silently asking the clearest way he knew how-

»Do you. Are you asking-« Elgar’s voice cracked. »Are you asking if you can kiss—my forehead?«

Orafin nodded.

He didn’t know what their name was; their tongue had been cut out, so they couldn’t tell even if it were safe for them to talk. He hated referring to them by the term their master used so derogatorily, but he had no other.

Tonight, their cold fingers were trembling in his hand. They must be cold, and in horrific pain.

Master’s travels had led them close to the borders of the wretch’s home country, and Master had seen fit to break their legs to prevent any attempt at escape. He had not relieved them of their cleaning duties. Elgar knew they had been trying their best, despite the agony every move must cause them, but it was never enough to avoid further punishment.

Elgar, staring at the ceiling, had already made up his mind. The difficult part was working up the courage to actually act on it.

Master’s breaths were slow and steady. Every moment more he hesitated was a moment wasted.

He squeezed the wretch’s hand. »Hey.« He hoped they could hear him, not daring to raise his voice any further over his breath.

They squeezed back.

»If,« if Master hears any of this, you’ll both be sorry, »if I get you to the stables… on a horse, do you think you can make it home?« Right here was the closest Master’s travelling route would get them. It was now or never.

Elgar didn’t want to think about what Master would do when he woke up and found the wretch gone, with only one possible assisstant to their escape. But they needed to be free of this. They would die.

The wretch didn’t respond for a long moment. Their breathing was laboured, holding in, he knew, cries of pain they would be punished for, even as they just lay there.

Then they squeezed his hand, with all the strength, he thought, they still had. It wasn’t a lot. They were starved even worse than he was, having to live off his leftovers. He had started leaving them as much as he could once he realized, but it was never enough.

»Okay,« he breathed. »Can… can you come out? I can carry you from here.«

He sat up to watch Master’s sleeping form on the bed, cosily wrapped in as many blankets as it took to keep him warm; he had started to snore softly.

When the wretch appeared in the strip of pale moonlight falling through the window, their lips were pressed into a tight line, tears rolling down their face. Their legs, dragging behind them, looked wrong. Elgar hoped they could find a medic soon when they were free, or they would never heal right.

As quietly as he could, he stood up and opened the door, then came back to pick them up.

They pressed their face against his arm, straining not to make a noise as he inevitably jostled them. They were feather-light, even though the hunger and abuse had also sucked his strength. It was nothing to what they had been through, he reminded himself.

He successfully maneuvered them out the door and tiptoed down towards the stables. The stronghold wasn’t heavily guarded on the inside, not when attacks from the outside were such a concern, so close to the border, and that felt like a blessing.

The stables smelled of hay and horses, soft shuffling and breathing revealing more of them than the little shards of moonlight filtering in. After setting the wretch down in the saddling area, Elgar had to feel around for tack and could only hope it wasn’t too ill-matched to whatever horse he could find in the dark.

He managed to lead a friendly horse, a barely-there silhouette, out of its stall and up to the wretch. There was no time for a proper brushing-down, so he just quickly ran his hands over its back before saddling it, and lifting the wretch up. A little whimper escaped them as their legs shifted onto either side of the horse.

They would make it, somehow. They had to. He handed them the reins and swallowed. »Good luck.«

He was about to step away when they caught him, grabbing on to the arm of his threadbare tunic.

They were gesturing for him to join him. His heart sank like lead. »It’s too dangerous,« he whispered. »We’re… our countries are at war. You people would not welcome me.«

The wretch tugged at him, their gestures more urgent, then cupped their hands together as if cradling a small animal. I’ll protect you.

Elgar silently shook his head. They wouldn’t be able to, and he knew it. Even if, by some strike of luck, they could convinced whoever they found first that this Teeradian had saved them and deserved no hostility… others would disagree, sooner rather than later.

They tugged at his arm again. Their eyes were shimmering in the low light.

They could hardly even ride in the state they were in. And truly, how much worse could things get?

You might die, a voice screamed in the back of his head as he clambered on behind them, the horse already walking off when he was still trying to find his seat.

He wrapped an arm around them to give them both a little more stability where they were perched uncomfortably in a saddle made for one. They were holding on to the reins with what appeared like surprising competence as the horse wandered along, across the courtyard.

The gates were closed, of course.

Calling out to the guards seemed wrong when they had been trying to make as little noise as possible, but there was no way around it. »We are to run an errand for our Master.«

The guards didn’t bother asking any questions.

The wretch, breathing through soft sobs, tapped his leg with one hand as they rode through the gates, and he gave the horse a tentative squeeze. He never had known the luxury of a horse, but he had ridden a donkey once or twice, long ago.