#plot: devotion's paralysis

It had been a fortnight since then. Every sun brought a new list of names to the morning and evening papers: soldiers, their crimes, their fates. Now that the Ishgardian Expeditionary Force had nearly fully demobilized, every suspended sentence lapsed into shackled incarceration.

The field and regimental courts churned out rulings with the speed and hammer of an auction house. Imprisonment. Servitude. Cashiering. There were far fewer guilty sentences than the judges of the Dragonsong War would have permitted, but the crisis in Garlemald had proved that the looter could listen and the deserter couldn't flee from a blasphemy. The military was content to let the red stamp of a discharge carry its own meaning. For the Fury's sake, it did not need quite so many soldiers on its payroll.

Elliot did not have the loyalty to stay away from the Congregation.

"Vera," Elliot repeated, pawing at her sleeve. "Vera, please. Do you know when this will be over?"

She regarded him like a bug she had just smashed. Disgust: "You boy, I can't know." And pity: "But Feran'll be out 'fore the next week."

Elliot clung to her for more. Desperation made him a sickening thing—anxiety itself wrapped in argyle—and he was not fit for any company. It only made him seek others more. "How is he?"

"His last meal won't be bad if it's like the pork loin they served the Order last week."

The jab wasn't even worth his irritation. By this point Elliot quieted into a humorless stare.

Vera retreated towards the next stairwell. Soldiers only. "All right," she said, squeezing the railing. "The general court is figuring him out. One of the charges got forgotten. Insubordination's left the slate."

"What remains?"

"You know."

Elliot knocked his heel into the first stair. "I don't know," he insisted, querulously.

"You?" Vera tried not to mock Elliot's pout.

"It would be a betrayal to know."

"This aint? Wouldn't be the first."

"Vera—"

"No, you ought to know because you were in them."

Elliot withdrew his foot. "I don't. I don't know, and I don't need to. What I must know is what's happened to him."

Vera mounted the next step. "That's not happened yet," she said. "We just gotta see whether he walks out with a job or not."

She left Elliot then.

The Congregation burred with the talk and heavy tread of strangers. Stone, wood, and metal spiraled into the next landing, where Vera's shape blended and disappeared. One mind seemed embedded in the barracks, even as knights marched around him, some with confusion and others with impatience.

The answer had been spoken moons ago. Nolanel's career would not continue if it did not scapegoat him. In some moments, Elliot believed freedom would be closer if things stayed as they were. Keener shackles came with a discharge.

Nolanel had said, while buttoning his parade jacket, that to lose his commission would destroy him.

He would accept any punishment but ignominy. It was not less than he deserved. Still, there were men upon whose reputations his own relied in part, and if he were to stand before the Lord Speaker and have his regalia ripped from him by a traitor—that would kill the last of his self-respect. He'd dreams of the degradation ceremony, where ex-comrades would stamp on the pins of his laurels until the metal twisted, and his patches would dirty under jackboots, and a knife would sever his epaulet before he could think to hang himself with it. Even in that imaginary torture, he'd never lost the dragoon insignia on his collar. The Order would take its own revenge. He did not have the temerity to say he could survive it.

"Tell me what you think most likely," Elliot had reasoned, watching another button slip from Nolanel's fingers.

"Nothing," Nolanel had said. "They'll say things to fill up the time like they fill their carafes. Dragoons will be paraded in for consultation. Brucemont will lie, watching me as he swears on the Enchiridion, and the judges will agree to his counsel. Then I'll be escorted out. A knight or two will apologize for wasting my time and the rest will doubt me. They have reason to. If the Court were fair, many more men would serve decades in work sentences."

Elliot weighed his words like gold. "They have not been kind to you before. If it is corruption that protects you, then mayhap the gods have shaped the Tribunal's integrity in a way that protects you at the very end."

Nolanel had let his arms fall. "I am fully, knowingly, and truthfully guilty of what they charge. They know that. Yet to satisfy their arrogance, they want me to admit why."

It had felt as though he were cutting open a wound when Elliot concluded, "You won't tell them."

"No."

"As you haven't told me."

"No, I won't do that either."

"Will you tell me why?"

Nolanel ate half of a fruit tart in one bite. "I'm not allowed to talk with my mouth full," he said with his mouth full.

"Look, if you're going to be a part of this family, you need to know how to bitch." Josseloux took his spoon and jangled it against the side of his tea cup. "If you asked him, Elliot would say he was frolicking about the Hoplon with evil itself this morning."

"Aye, and he's resolved to do so or he'd've squirmed out of it."

"You don't know how this predicament with Miss Mol will end?"

"No--only that it will once Elliot puts a stop to it. Could've raised hell if he wanted to. Turned the tables. Have me challenge Xanadu, force her to call in favors to resolve the dispute--mayhap force her damned suitor to step up--and not have to parade a farce around that'll take too long to clean up after."

Josseloux deliberately poured Nolanel tea to indicate that he wasn't going to talk.

Squinting--but knowing the routine--Nolanel plunked sugar cube after sugar cube into it. "He wants to help her--and put the conclusion off as far as possible to get me better afore it comes to blood. If that's where it goes. I don't care so long as it's over."

"The Pillars will require something else to talk of soon. As amusing as it is, one can't watch the fluttery Cadieux boy and his promenading harpy pretend to smile at each other forever."

Nolanel looked up from the fading sugar to see two familiar figures turn into the adjacent street. He tried not to smile. "Father, you rotten bastard."

"Thank you," Josseloux said, lounging and hooking an arm over the terrace's fence. "I'm not tired of the spectacle yet."

His throat burned as if he'd taken a knife and slit the length of it--but he vaguely remembered last night's ages of panic and voices, and how he'd retched so violently his sight turned black. He panted, hating each shudder of his chest with the effort, hating more the pain it took to breathe.

It was fire in his throat with each gasp. Something like the smell of coke in the furnace and how it smelled different when his nose was clogged with blood after his mother had hit him. The warmth in that cramped, smoky room was enough to be comforting--not like now, where twilight crept from the horizon and did nothing to dispel the heavy, unfamiliar heat.

A windmill churned above. Each sail sliced through the appearing constellations, and Nolanel wished he could identify what madness in him made him want to climb it and shoot one of those glittering stars from the sky. The mills in the Lowlands had been prouder, somehow, than this foreign thing. Still he could break his nails tearing open its door—so like long ago, as if he could rush inside for eggs to rob from birds' nests. They had fit in his hand perfectly then, like the wet sphere of an eye.

His broke into groan that pinned him back to the present. He'd not drank much today. The water tasted of clay. Being away from it all ruined him. It was like how he told Elliot--he had the time, now, to think too much. Back in it all, he'd cupped his hands in water blackened with oil and algae, brought it to his mouth, and known gratitude. Now he shrugged his shoulders--twice-damned scum--and balked from the name of Gyr Abania, its soil hard in his teeth from a collapsed dugout. Half a bell underground. If it had been in the mines--how the others would mock him! Half a bell to tremor from the bitter grit of clay.

His body rocked with unknown weight. He barely recognized the hands over his face. This was the Goblet, he repeated to himself, shaping the worlds with a tongue that seemed to choke him. Though he was not safe anywhere, he was not safe here, and he must stand with his own legs and walk with his own strength towards home.

This would be easier if there were bodies in the gutters. A ragged ache pierced his soul and rang insensibly in his ears: of course he could not stand.

His voice had long been broken by the Vale; he shattered it again with his savage yell. Spiteful, Nolanel clawed his puffy eyes dry and begged himself to remember why he was here.

That ice and crystal hallway in the Dusk Vigil. The frostbite still clung to his back. It was not the worst he'd seen or felt but it twisted him in a way that made him believe he could die from it. Those not-dead knights had ribs that looked pried open, the bone reaching out from the thin skin over their unmoving chests. They did not have hearts, surely.

Fuck. Nolanel gasped over a sob and tried to lift himself. It was not just that Vigil but that dear, dear man--Nolanel knew he had not loved him well.

He didn't fight when someone crouched to touch him and say something he didn't have the strength of mind to understand. Part of him recognized the futility of revolt--he was too tired to do aught but cry and let himself be pulled up against them.

He slurred an apology and wished for, if anything, the pride to stand. Instead he took a heavy breath and prayed to understand.

Nolanel lay on the floor next to the piano, his head tilted back to the warm rug, the lines and hollows of his throat exposed to the red flash of candlelight. His shoulder knocked into one of the piano bench legs as he lifted an arm to cover a vocal yawn.

Elliot, seated before the instrument, regarded him with a soft wonder, and murmured alongside the subdued melody that Nolanel needn't stay awake for him; he only played to soothe himself and pass the time until tiredness struck him.

Nolanel shielded his eyes with his arm and grumbled some unintelligible refusal. The last thing he wished to do was leave Elliot by himself.

A trio of candles glittered atop the piano lid. Elliot reached to remove one of them by their ceramic base, and blew the little flame out. A tendril of smoke dissolved into the growing dark. After replacing the candle, he returned his hands to the keys and roused music back into the room.

It was an old folk song, slow and gentle, dallying between beats like birds circling through their sunset flights. Repeating chords hung between each lyrical refrain and grounded the song through its interludes. It was effortless for Elliot to play. He dipped between his thoughts and fancy, and imagined snow beyond the heat-baked windows. The satisfaction of refuge made him light; he longed for invulnerability from every element of nature and society--instead he fought fake battles to distract himself from the real ones. There seemed all gloom at his back.

Nolanel stretched his hands out before him. His fingers curled and flexed around invisible figures, pressed against the heat of his worn palm, and went limp; the gleam of red light fell against the scarred veins and pocks, and Nolanel, scowling at the way the uneven flame filled his skin with shadows, turned away to rest his wrists against the seat rim.

Elliot lowered a hand to his side and entwined his fingers with Nolanel's. He abandoned the chords and played only the melody, and his singing broke into the room.

Warm burnished hills, and soul of river sweet,

Every life is Thine, O Lord, every rush Thy voice.

Most tender wind and rain, glorious and fleet,

Bless our home with kindness and age-forgotten joys.

The second candle flame twinkled desperately afore it vanished, spreading the misty odor of smoke through the room. Elliot blinked, ruminating over a possible draft, and removed his foot from the pedals so he could stand. While he continued the song with one hand, he prodded at the final candle with the other. The little flare trembled but burned steadily; assured by it, Elliot sat down again to sing. Nolanel joined him.

Tell us what love is, and tenuous adrift,

We shall rise to meet Thee where faith is stone.

The sea is in our eyes; the lashing brand is swift--

But holiness shall greet us and kneel afore Thy throne.

Nolanel dropped his hands to his chest. He hummed to himself, waiting for the first sight of Elliot's smile. How often they'd been at this point, together around a piano older than themselves, isolated and calm, sharing their moods and voices as balm against fear. The piano keys clunked under each press, Elliot nodded into the rhythm, his shoulders collapsing and rising naturally as he played. He didn't glance away from the keys.

Nolanel wrapped a hand around Elliot's ankle, outlining the bone with his thumb, and skimming his fingertips up Elliot's slim calf.

Elliot whined and batted him away, laughing with him as they began the next refrain:

My life is thine, O Lord, mine ardent love thine ever.

What fleeting light awaits me I shall never know

Except thy name, thy might above measure,

And my passing breath in ecstasy aglow.

Elliot pulled away from the piano, allowing the last note to reverberate into silence.

The song wasn't finished. Nolanel hooked his hand around Elliot's knee. "I like having you in reach like this. What're you thinking about?"

As if in reply, the final candle went out. Elliot gasped his betrayal. He shut the piano dust cover as if it could shatter. Standing, he moved from Nolanel's touch and turned away from his old solace. Nothing was before him. No ghosts, no threat or lurker was in that unknown--only a silence so cold it couldn't be called peace.

Nolanel spoke from the floor. "To be clear with you, I don't think I can get up from here." He laughed, and Elliot imagined the way he must have leaned his head into the rug, splaying his curls across the softness, and how mirth would color his eyes' fire.

If he could imagine what was true, he could give the same power to his fears. But he didn't want to speak them. He wasn't even meant to be awake so late. It was ruinous. All feelings had more power at night. Comparisons rioted in his heart: what should be, what action should he take--all nebulous and worthless when he avoided the only confrontation that mattered.

His eyes shut so he wouldn't be speaking to the room's darkness. "I won't go to bed while you sleep on the ground."

Nolanel thumped a fist into the rug. "Then join me. What's got you thinking like that?"

Elliot bunched the fabric of his sleeves. "I have to go home soon. I don't know what'll be there--except it won't be as I like. My family, the military court, Xanadu's nonsense at the center of it. If I just wait for as long as possible, how much will their vitriol fade?"

"We're Ishgardian. Hate don't fade. We'll have to face it, and we'll do it strong as we can." Nolanel leaned to his side and set his heel into the chair leg. "Look, if the bitch wants me to kill her suitor or whomever, I'll do it if it shuts everything up."

Elliot huffed. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I'm willfully ignoring it. 'Sides, I'm sure when it comes to it, I'll be able to stand."

"Either way, he's done naught wrong. There's no good reason to kill a man just because he's persistent."

Nolanel bit his lower lip for a moment. "Or entitled? She say no to him?"

"I said no to her. And killing them both for the same crime is no option either. 'Tis a waste of life."

Grunting, Nolanel sat up and rubbed his face. No progress, no nothing, and he couldn't even see an ilm afore him. The matches, he assumed, were in the kitchen. But he refused to move. Part of him would rather not be seen.

“Would you fetch something from my bag?" He tilted his forehead into the seat cushion. "Should be next to the dresser."

Elliot slid a foot forward into the darkness, hesitated, and drifted towards the next room. 

He knelt, fumbling for the touch of old leather. His knuckles struck the suitcase with a low knock.

"There's a set of extra pockets inside. One's shut by a button--that's what you want."

Elliot furrowed his brow but did not complain. It seemed odd for Nolanel to be so--lazy, in a word, or even cryptic. He tried not to think. His hands passed over the cracking buckles and loose lining until his finger caught on a sewn-in pocket. The coarse fabric lifted from the leather, and a small button sealed it; he drew the lock free and slipped his hand inside. Slips of folded paper--and something chilled by the desert night. A ring. He thumbed over the top and knew it identical to the one he wore, hydrangea set into the emerald.

Love crushed him. He shivered and knew what collapse was: relief, exhaustion, resolution, trust in what would catch him. A sense of sunlight and shadows fell over him.

Things he forbade himself came roaming, laughing their temptations, through his mind; his hands flexed as if to hold them, and stop the iridescent fancy that he may be unreservedly loved from baring its beautiful, untouched face. There were agonies he buried with his hopes--those voices which cried deceit and selfishness, and languished over some unintended sin: how could someone he loved so much return that passion, so unique and damning, and meet his wanting eyes with the answer yes, or hold his empty hands with the promise to never let go?

He felt belief in himself mix with the familiar dread. The desperation of his youth mocked him. How different was he from that frivolous child he locked in his memory? He was shameless in his wants, almost detestably so--but he still admired the naive bravery of that boy who stored unaddressed letters in an old reliquary, that his words might become holy while he waited and wanted and searched for some figure who would laugh over the immature rhymes written years afore he loved the mind which penned them.

He was definitely still the same fool. Terror had taught him restraint, and imagination proved that reality rarely obeyed his hopes. He wanted to scream or cry or even whimper but his throat shut and his breath caught.

Even so, Nolanel seemed to understand. "It was your father who gave it to me."

Elliot folded his hands over the ring and pressed it to his heart. "Yes."

"I wish I could be more direct."

"You don't need to be."

"It make you feel better?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. There's just time. I'm trying to give us longer."

Elliot knew it was distance that kept their voices straight. As he stood, he began, "If you give us longer by falling off a scaffolding again, I'll shave one of your eyebrows and bite your ear."

Nolanel groaned. "Someday--mayhap tomorrow--I will say to the world, 'enough is enough' and it will listen."

"I won't listen," Elliot declared. He bumped his hip into the piano, yelped, and staggered to the floor.

Laughing, and repeating he was sorry for it, Nolanel grabbed and tugged Elliot to his chest. The wall braced him as he leaned into its hold; Elliot straddled his waist and lay against him, sudden and welcome.

There seemed nothing in the world but the hands carding through his hair, or the way Elliot's body fluttered keen under his touch. How soft life became, and insatiate--he could have stayed forever in the arms that circled his back.  He forgot all definition at the rush of breath on his skin and the tease of lips on his neck.

Elliot smiled as Nolanel's grip loosened and returned around him. "Thank you for all you've done," he murmured, tracing the strong curve of Nolanel's shoulders.

"For you anything," Nolanel slurred in answer, knowing the words mattered less than Elliot's mouth against his own, and their hearts echoing the same beat. He loved that warm soul that matched him in every pain and bliss, like no other but himself.

Perched on the low couch, Elliot scowled gravity and twitched impatience. The collar of his silk dressing gown slipped about his shoulders as he yanked paper after paper from the stack. He'd done this before, but that was during the war--and never with such violence. Methodically quiet, he scanned each page for something the fresh ink neglected to show time and again.

Nolanel stabbed a thumb into the orange and ripped a slice free. Juice fled down his hand and slipped into a cut on his palm. He winced, dropped the fruit for a rag, and muttered something about the desert drying out his skin.

Elliot paused from his search. He turned to Nolanel with a new gaze, as if seeing him from a distance. "Are you all right?"

Nolanel pulled free a piece of orange stuck between his teeth. "Aye. You eat yet?"

"I will soon."

"Carry on." He shoved another slice into his mouth and returned to his vigil.

Elliot persisted, a bit less petulant in his movements now that he had an audience, and squinted through headlines until he met the one he dreaded. He sighed not to whimper, and said, clearly and sternly to the paper, "I'm engaged to be married to Xanadu Mol."

The ensuing silence would have choked a man less used to shock. Nolanel's voice lowered to a whisper when he finally asked, "What."

Elliot dropped the paper. "'Tis public now, so it's true as day. I'm engaged to an ex-inquisitor who would sooner skin me than admit I did something right."

"Don't sound so chained to it. Should I ask 'since when' afore I hunt her for sport?"

"Since yesterday evening. And more than you have tried to kill her. Don't involve yourself. With luck and Halone's blessing, this will all be over in a moon or two."

"Say what you mean, Cadieux."

Elliot fixed his gown and pulled his legs onto the couch to separate himself from his work. "To escape a blindly devoted suitor, she's declared through the law of the press that I am her betrothed. Still, she would hate more than I to actually go through the ceremony; she'd never have reason enough to risk an affair, and--" He clamped his mouth shut. "I don't even know what it would cost to dissolve such a thing. Must there be reparations for a maligned bride?"

"You're not marrying her, and you're not engaged. Every hell to her and her jockey. How can she do this so easily?"

"Connections, of course--which she also used to threaten that if I didn't comply, she'd ensure no vendor would ever cator my real wedding."

Nolanel slammed a fist into the countertop. Within the drawer, cutlery rattled. "Elliot, that doesn't matter--Why would--No. I'm sorry. It does matter. Real fucking low of her. Why doesn't she back off you and marry me instead?"

"No one is marrying her!"

"This is ridiculous." Nolanel groaned and slipped from the island to drop himself into the opposite couch. He pinned the nearest pile of news against the table with his injured foot. The unspoken grated him: there was no "real" wedding except in hopes too sacred to discuss. No--he was simply too cowardly to discuss it. If he hadn't delayed--

Nolanel pinched the chapped skin of his wrist. "Fine. Word's in the paper. Now what."

Elliot looked between the heap of scoured papers and the yet untouched stack. Most were Ishgardian, some only produced morning editions, at least a few were circulated only in the Brume or through divergent factions. He knew his thoroughness was unnecessary, but also that a partial tally would keep him in assured ignorance. His fingernails tapped against each other. "It's definitely one of the twice-daily papers my family subscribes to. Halone knows if Xanadu has little minions there. Or if the newsroom she approached sold the story. But by the end of the day I expect to be contacted by no less than five gibbering aunts. So good of me to take responsibility for my title."

Nolanel wrung his hair and clenched his eyes. He knew the easiest advice to give was the worst, and to say bad family wasn't family was to ignore the keenest issue in the entire problem. Society had eyes and judgements--most of them unfair. He barely understood that realm, and he certainly held no sway in it. "I won't ask what we should do right now. That's for later. So what do you want to do, but won't?"

Elliot pouted. "I wanna cry and maybe set fire to one of her tarot decks."

Nolanel shrugged and observed the scattered papers. "Sounds easier than witchdropping her."

"She'd fall."

"I know. But it seems like it'd suit her."

"I almost wish you weren't right." Elliot bit his lip. He loathed the image of Xanadu, defiant, and that wound-like gorge in the Highlands. Death for innocence felt like his own condemnation. 

"What's your father gonna do?" Nolanel asked at length, holding his breath.

Elliot wailed and slumped against the pillows. The embroidery indented itself on his cheeks. "It doesn't matter. He'll be so disappointed in me. He told me not to get mixed up with inquisitors and here I am. He'd laugh at me."

Nolanel thought of how he'd be laughed at next. Kiddingly, he took a cushion and tossed it so it smacked Elliot's arm and bounced to the rug.

"And then he'd laugh at everyone who thought it was true." Elliot snatched the pillow and hugged it to his chest. By now, strips of light from the windows had stretched across the room, and they barred his face in yellow highlights. "But there's a final catch. It doesn't need to be true: just public enough that Xanadu's suitor can't deny it--just challenges it."

Nolanel considering shutting the curtains. He scoffed--he wanted to act and resist, to labor against the past in that hopeful, human way--not distract himself and drag about a broken ankle. His upper lip rose in disgust. "She wants him dead within the law and she wants me to kill him."

Elliot said 'yes' as if it meant goodbye.

Nolanel ignored or missed the tone, and continued. "So instead of shooting him in the head, she involved not only you and the Bellworks, but a good portion of Ishgardian society--plus the Inquisition. To an extent, the military too. What the fuck?"

"She was drunk." Elliot had to laugh in disbelief as he said it--and realized he could not believe in impossibility anymore.

"What the fuck." Just to feel the absurdity of it all, Nolanel gave the silence a few more moments. Then he sighed and set a knee on the table to reach across and steal the pillow back. Several papers crinkled beneath him. He poked Elliot's forehead. "You say it too."

'Tis against my custom to put vulnerable information to word, but I feel I must make an exception if only to mend what pains myself and Nolanel have given to you. Whether you accepted such troubles willingly or not, I despise thinking that I have placed even a minute's discomfort upon you; last visit I exacerbated your plain unease with mine attempts to keep away from the conversation--and particularly with the times I failed in maintaining my silence. I was not myself.

I'm furious with old wounds and ageless worries--and with how they continue to mar what I try to protect. You've done better than I at getting Nolanel to speak of them, and for that I thank you. I forced him to explain with tears; you let him sift your memories to help understand his thoughts. It was wrong of him, mayhaps, to question you with such a self-absorbed goal. Nevertheless, I'm grateful he did. He values your words, and he has spent much time considering them (if his perpetual ruminating look is aught to judge by, I suppose. If his eyebrows become stuck in that furrow I will be cross with you instead; they're lovable as they generally are; now he looks sententious).

I digress. The bastard broke his own ankle, and if you were trying not to consider that as a possibility, I am sorry: it is true. The reasons seem longwinded and difficult to explain, and I'm unsure if I understand them all. Halone knows if he does. And somehow--and gods take me as I admit it--I wish there were not a purpose behind his actions at all. A lapse in judgement is easier to forgive, and so on. My selfishness knows no bounds. Still, this sabotage is a cruelty I suspected would happen, and my negligence allowed it to occur. Moreover, my name appears in his telling of the story often--whatever that may imply. I take as much responsibility as I can for this.

I'm not playing deliberate ignorance, either. I know this fiasco dances the grounds between enlistment and discharge (or disqualification, even: 'tis hard to tell the extent of damage in his legs until the swelling reduces). But the music keeps changing--and his mood with it. He has sworn his life to the martial, but it is now a marriage to an Ishgard he did not know when he kneeled afore the Holy Vault altar. His leaving the Order is a decision I have never pushed but always desired. He seems to think he may have only his life with the military or one with me--ridiculous, it's plain rot, damn the idea or damn me. 

Something has changed him. I shan't list theories without proper grounding, so thus I shall list none. I will say, even so, that I think he has decided to take the risk of letting his body determine his future--whether it heals to its lifelong strength or not--because his heart has not the time to choose.

I don't know what I hope is the right answer anymore, and I would not hate it if you were to destroy this.

Yours Cordially,

"Aye," Nolanel said, scowling as he prodded at his bandaged finger. He lifted his gloves from where he'd thrown them on the floor. Tugging them on, he paced back to the couch and collapsed against its pillows. An untouched glass of water sat on the table afore him. His chest lifted and fell with each heavy breath. He watched the dust flutter near ceiling if just to focus on something else. As always, his body betrayed him: red blotches flushed his skin, visible on his neck; he rubbed his throat to soothe a persistent cough. Nausea shuddered through him. The azure of the door ward glared in his vision. He plucked the last pieces of white clay from his coat jacket and piled them on the coffee table.

Elliot shut his eyes and ran through the amount of names he'd have to write apology letters to. Gods, poor Norhi. Brave will *love* hearing this. And Xanadu will likely frame the envelope, note, and all. He'd use the good stationary, then.

"Do you have a clue of why Max reacted so violently?" he asked, pulling the gardenia from his lapel to inspect.

"Fuck if I know." Nolanel leaned his cheek against a tight fist.

Elliot rubbed a petal until it bruised, then moved to the next. "Why did you ask her the question about fragging?"

Nolanel sunk deeper in the couch. He sighed and groaned. "She--" he started, and clamped his mouth shut. A few moments later, he swung up to sit properly. His face darkened in concentration. "I dunno. She and Norhi were talkin' pranking the Wailer's officers, and she seemed so keen on it. Conscripts're the first to leap to that sort of thing. I wanted to know what to expect from her."

"Now you know what to expect, and to keep your distance. She's trying to part herself from the empire. Don't keep linking her back to it."

"Aye, and the Solus-damned Horde's freed up to tend the bean crop they razed."

Elliot put his flower down. A ripped petal stuck to one of his fingers; he shook it off, insisting, "You don't deserve her jabs, but you must have more care with what you say. Curiosity, memory, or test--It doesn't matter. There are things you don't ask without permission."

Nolanel wove his hands though his hair and pinned his bangs back--an old scar showed on his forehead--and wrung his curls until it pained him. Then his arms dropped limp. "She already answered a question I asked afore sincerely--she said she was better 'an me with the not being in service thing--but no, godsdamn it. I told her I wasn't japin', and she turned 'round and said I must be glad of what happened."

"And yet you thought, because you asked nicely, she would meet you with a stiff upper lip when you accused her of killing one of her officers? Would you like it if I stayed here and asked, politely as I'm able, how the Dusk Vigil went?"

Nolanel stood to resume pacing. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shivered, throwing memory's weight from his shoulders. "Oh, shut up! That's different--you know it."

Elliot knocked on the table for Nolanel's attention. "Look at me. 'Tis not so different. You come to me barely able to walk and give a sentence's explanation why; I never asked further. If Max says she riled up her upper brass, you don't ask if she killed one of them."

"I'm sick of arguing. Them others wouldn't quit their comments. I don't need to hear you harp neither.” Nolanel ripped his coat off and dropped it on the piano stool. “I thought she'd react better than she did, and if I was shot you'd still have a broken mug to sweep. I won't talk to her no more." His gaze slipped away to the floor and found his boots. He flexed his hands and felt he needed more weapons; he had one concealed dagger and two small knives--she had three for hunting, a revolver, and damn good aim. Propped beside the door, his halberd was worth nothing here. The worst he could manage aside from a lit fire poker was a set of medical knives or his boots, steel-toed. No doubt Ul’dahn forges were shit compared to Ishgard’s. And this place dealt strictly in war relief, not weaponry? Good gods.

Elliot slowly rose from his chair and fetched the cup of water. Humming a few notes, he slid into the back-and-forward path Nolanel followed. He didn’t talk or move away until Nolanel accepted the glass. "I have to settle this. I will not go to Brave and tell her I made no progress towards resolving what happened. Yes, avoid Max for now--but keeping the pair of you from beating each other bloody is not the responsibility of onlookers. We must lay terms with her when tensions cool."

"Bloody diplomat, you,” Nolanel scoffed.

“You heard it from her lips: when she felt threatened, she was not above murdering Norhi during her pregnancy. Right now, asides--possibly--Brave, you’re her greatest threat. She almost killed you today, Nolanel. I don't care if the condition for this to blow over is for you to take the blame for her aggression. I think you should accept it. 'Tis your life, yes, but I'm in it. Don't throw me away either."

Nolanel quieted. Max's spite was what disturbed him, not her violence. She coughed and threatened and provoked; the knife in her boot was her first instinct, then the gun at her back, in seconds, but for Vhene--Still he felt no terror remembering it. Somewhere in his heart, mayhaps, dread lurked, but his mind repeated her piqued smile and the way her voice dragged because he hurt her and by gods she would hurt him back.

He doubted for a moment that death was what he grieved. Though he saw Whitfield, the hatchet in the major's leg, his blood frozen on the billet shed's door, the bulging purple eyelids and tongue forced from between perfect teeth--Nolanel saw the men who conspired in the murder far longer. He loathed that torn, rebellious platoon, infested with apostates and defectors, who seemed united in naught but distrust. He wanted them dead. It didn't matter if half a dozen were to blame--after the first executions, fear inherited hatred. They disparaged each other, fought and drank like beasts, and poisoned their own well in the night. The military could not scatter the guilty unit's decimated ranks, but it could neither kill them all at once; it smothered publicity with Nolanel's introduction, then crushed each head of the mutinous hydra one by one. The Inquisition's cunning brought the situation to order within a month. Nolanel left, not knowing what he went through. He still didn't, and standing in Elliot's room, an hour after he could have had his head shot through, he didn't want to consider who could take his own place. 

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling with forgotten intensity the ache and stiffness of his ankles. Nolanel sidestepped and lowered himself to the piano stool.

Elliot plopped down beside him. His legs stretched out before him and he rocked his feet from side to side. “I'm on your side. I always will be, whether that's against Max today or Halone tomorrow. I hope you’re listening.”

Nolanel nodded longsufferingly. “I am, I am.” "Good. Now the next bandage to rip off is for me to check my mail box for anything I don't want the incoming wasp's nest to infest."

"Do you mean--"

Elliot snapped his fingers. The ward dispelled. He hopped to his feet and tilted his head, musing, "I jest. If she wanted to be fired, she'd go out with much more of a ruckus than that." Then he slipped out the door.

Alone, Nolanel wondered what time it was.

A knock came at the door and Elliot reappeared with two letters, a box of cookies, and a look as if he lost a night's sleep over them. “From Norhi,” he said.

“Of course it is.”

“I know.”

“Yeah.”

Elliot put the tin on the coffee table and dropped into his desk chair. One of the drawers groaned as he opened it to retrieve a slim knife; he sliced the envelope of each letter and handed Nolanel one of them.

Nolanel leaned from the stool to grab it, tore the envelope further, and extracted the note. Moments later, he dropped the letter atop the keyboard. “This day never ends. Why can't she give up on us already so I don’t have to feel bad for her kindness?”

Elliot pulled another drawer open. Flicking through the slips of colored paper, he said, "At the very least, if you must feel bad for her generosity, think of yourself as indebted and not guilty. Furthermore, I intend to write to everyone afore they can form their own conclusions. Would you join me?" He extended a small stack of half-sheets and wiggled them until Nolanel accepted.

"I will," he replied hesitantly, "but later. I can't think at present. Don't really wanna." Elliot considered the excuse, turned his desk lamp on, and told Nolanel to turn the main lights off, if he liked.

After four drafts, he first wrote Norhi's:

Dearest Norhi, I fear I cannot express how sorry I am for what occurred. Even so, my gratitude towards your intervention and kindness is unending. There is little I can offer in the way of justification, and I can neither ask you to understand, but I humbly request your ever-cherished trust and prayers.

Worry is not something easily cast away, but if I may lessen yours with explanation and assurance, let me try with this: removing Nolanel from his martial place has worsen his symptoms, it is true, and he and I have observed this many times in the past. Leave can be a curse to any in whom it is not a blessing; a middle ground exists, but not in Nolanel--though he tries his hardest and looks to improve, there are limits to how an alienating environment can comfort him. I must thank you again, for in yourself you have given him a friend in a place which constantly reminds him of his differences.

I take full responsibility for removing him from Ishgard. I felt when I made that decision--indeed I still do--that he would do better here with me than there alone, even if, at first, there is fire and not snow. In short, I am gambling his mental health when he is most vulnerable. Judge me--but do not blame him.

If time proves me wrong, my requital will be mine own. If his joy begets mine, so too does his hurt affect me. I am a fool, particularly in this tie, but I would not change it. I believe in him and his future; he trusts my reasoning.

Yours cordially,

Elliot Cadieux

Brave receives a letter that is nearly identical. The first paragraph is slightly altered: the second sentence is eliminated and replaced with a promise for transparency, an affirmation that he has spoken to Nolanel and will speak with Max, and an additional apology.

The letter to Max seems less certain that he will speak with her; he fully expects the note back with “FUCK YOU” written over its text. Nevertheless, he attempts: 

Dearest Max,

I fear how little I may do for you at present: this letter is likely not what you desire--neither is this situation--and I cannot apologize in Nolanel’s stead. Mine own apologies can neither suffice.

Furthermore, I feel that assuring you in writing is callous. If I may talk to you in person, I would be appreciative, but I have no intention of inconveniencing you. Pray inform me of what you prefer.

Take your time, and take care of yourself first. I wish to do all I can for you both.

Cordially,

Elliot Cadieux

Haru's and Xanadu's letters do not reach their inboxes until later that evening; presumably their notices underwent a significantly longer drafting--or exhaustion prevented the writer from completing them after the first round of letters.

Haru's reads:

Dearest Haru,

I shan't harry you with the unnecessary. In short, Nolanel is my responsibility; he is my love; injured leave from the Order of the Knights Dragoon has brought him here. If you haven't had today's incident explained to you yet, Nolanel said something he shouldn't about Max's military history, which prompted her to retort with an open jeer. She stepped too close to him, he shoved her, and the altercation you entered is what ensued. Though they may be worth little to the disturbance, I offer my apologies profusely, and I swear such a thing should not reoccur. Thank you for intervening as you did.

Yours cordially,

Elliot Cadieux

And finally Xanadu's letter, in Elliot's most legible yet ornate handwriting, reads:

Dear Xanadu,

There is naught I can say that you do not already know. I am grateful, nonetheless, for your distracting Nolanel--of course you knew it was the best decision--but I cannot apologize in his stead for the matter of the thrown mug.

My thanks and prayers may be of no worth to you: I give them to you still.

Nolanel requested to write a postscript to this letter--so I have let him. I have neither dictated nor read his following words.

Yours cordially,

Elliot Cadieux

Nolanel's scrawl marks the bottom of the page. The lines curve into a distinct slant, but at least his brevity ensured he didn't run out of room to write.

I should not have thrown my mug at you so I extend my apologies for that. Halone bless you + kindly fuck off

It struck Elliot how stupidly young he and Nolanel were. Two and twenty summers, only just grown, with titles on their heads begging for an early death.

Regardless of true years, anyone in uniform seemed of appropriate age to die; in a lord's costume, anyone looked immortal. He supposed both of them would receive immortality, in a way—he through portraits and Nolanel through words—and their souls would go on...

And no poetry. That burns with him. So will the drachen mail with Nolanel. No one deserves to inherit that cursed steel.

Born of Steel. Gods, he hated that title. Nolanel was flesh and bone and all radiance, even if those things had cracked to bring him here.

No. The airship would bring him, and love would, and they would be together finally, finally, after too long. Any time alone was too long. All Elliot wanted was to be near Nolanel and to have nothing to part them—that was the simple fact his life's happiness had come to. He laughed at it though he wanted to cry.

People filed from the landing. Luggage trolleys grumbled over the glossy tile. From behind brochure-lined countertops, attendants in uniform smiled through check-ins and schedules. A young girl hobbled along the clearing, using a hole-punched ticket as a spyglass. Her grandfather hastened to catch her, but his walking cane found no purchase on the floor.

Elliot resolved to buy a nice cane for Nolanel if he needed it. How he'd hate it. But he must get better. Cracked ankles—what an irony, if not so uncommon an accident for dragoons. Horrid fate! Cruel to bring him back to Elliot's embrace, to quiet and sanctuary, to rest and unrest. Cruel life. But life was love and Elliot's would return to him. Time separated them now, not duty.

Bells erupted into clamor above. A light faded and glared incessantly. Against the warning of the many signs and of the workers, people rushed to crowd the dock. Elliot joined them. Doors opened at the eastern port to the blue expanse. An airship glided closer. Cheers seemed to urge it on. Its tarp wings folded inwards as it dipped closer. The hull screeched against the landing bumpers. Steam burst from its exhaust and it shuddered to a full stop. A voice on a megaphone announced that disembarking would begin shortly.

Before the waiting assembly could turn to impatience, the ship doors parted to the gangway and passengers flooded the area. Annoyed shouts and screeching machinery pitched through the station. Luggage swung in unknown grips and nameless faces ignored Elliot's watch.

He stood on his toes for an extra ilm in his search. No, no—all strangers. They moved past him with disinterest. If he was not nothing to them, he was an obstacle. Elliot swallowed the whine in his throat. Next time, he'd pick a rendezvous point. If all his time apart from Nolanel was necessary, this was inexcusable. Minutes passed, the flashing light counting each second, and each one drove a needle through his calm.

Where was Nolanel. This was the right port, the right time, day, and airship. Did something keep him? No more obscurities. If his injuries worsened—

Elliot backed against the railing. No letter had come today or the day before. Blinded by hope, he had trusted that silence. If naught changed, there was no reason to write. But if Nolanel was forced into a hospital or held by his parents or waylaid, if there was an attack, if any atrocity prevented him from boarding that airship, then—

A whistle split the clamor. It seized Elliot's heart. He tore through the crowd. Others shoved and cursed him or avoided his path with derision and pity; someone frisked him for money, another smiled to him, but as the mob filed to the exit, the din faded, and Nolanel's whistle came again.

Elliot caught a glimpse of him, only yalms away.

He sat atop his worn suitcase, back pressed against the warmth of the brick wall. The burnt collage of red and orange seemed to radiate around his wintry figure. His wearied face turned to tug the cloth of his greatcoat from under his makeshift seat. Aloof and estranged, he peeked sideways to the retreating stampede. An invocation parted his lips as he shut his eyes, perhaps thinking to whistle a final time.

An annoyed woman rammed Elliot from her path. He tripped and fell with a shriek, collapsing at Nolanel's feet.

Nolanel started. He rose, luggage crashing sideways, voice caught by his heart. Elliot rushed to stand and threw himself into his arms. They laughed; they knew they were fools but shame deserted them in this moment. War hid away, worry faded, and love lightened their aches. They lived; they knew the world was there but they did not need it until they could face it together.

“Welcome back.” Elliot pressed his cheek against Nolanel’s. To say more would make him cry; he refused to; he had not learned to cry without grief. He smiled and smiled. The arms around him strengthened. Nolanel's voice fell soft against the shell of his ear to whisper his name.

He cried. The man he loved was here in his arms, not a thousand malms away in an infirmary of sour antiseptic and bleach, with figures in stained glass and groaning victims for company. No prisoners to beat into line, no cannons to haul through slush, no flares or green wounds or relentless sound. Only here, where all the cold of Ishgard drained from him to be replaced with the warmth of their embrace.

Elliot thanked him uselessly.

Nolanel raised his head and remembered what he was. Pain twinged up his leg and he gripped Elliot tighter. Apologizing, he pulled tentatively away to reposition himself and straighten his jacket.

"No one here knows who you are or your title," Elliot said. "You can lean on me until we get home. We've naught to hide."

Nolanel flinched not at Elliot's fingers reaching across his back to hold him, but the word 'home.' He set his weight and arm around Elliot's slim shoulders, frowning, silent. Clear in the dry air, Elliot's scent was as foreign as it was home-like. But it had not changed. It had been too long; memory altered sense; another distance had grown between them.

After the first step, Nolanel sniffed and wiped his eyes.

"Not the pain, I hope?" asked Elliot.

Nolanel shook his head as if it hurt him to do so.

One day we'll keep our smiles. Elliot could not say it aloud. To give it that type of power would strip it from his confidence, bare it to the world, and stamp Nolanel's sudden hurt into blame. Let the gods know it. Or if gods had no ears, let them rot in silence; they could not hate him for seeking heaven in this world.

Elliot clicked his tongue comfortingly, leaned his head into Nolanel's collar a moment, and took up the suitcase. Behind, the airship rumbled to signal its next passengers to board. The thought of others' separation did not harass him. His pity turned fully to the man pressed against him, speechless in concentration, struggling to balance his pride with his desire to be close. When Nolanel finally lapsed into passivity, Elliot steered them though the last of the lingering crowd.

Nolanel gazed hauntedly at the decorative tiles in the floor. So soon Elliot lost his love to a nameless torment. Somewhere, some spiteful holy thing laughed at him. He resolved not to care. He looked for excuses as they stepped into the sun.

Nolanel was tired, surely. He'd traveled far alone, he needed sleep and food, he was dehydrated, he was unused to Ul'dah, he was confused, wary, wounded, and he kicked at a lizard that darted across the stone path.

His weight shifted to his injured leg. He buckled.

"What were you thinking!?

"I wasn't, godsdamn it!"

"It's just a lizard, they're everywhere!"

"Shut up! Quit shouting. I didn't know!" Nolanel shoved Elliot off and shuddered. He lurched to the wall, found his balance, and dragged his free hand through his sweating hair. "Just tell me which of these is your place."

"The first house after this turn. Easy."

"I know why you don't get lost now."

"You'd be surprised."

"I'm sure I would. Who's home."

"I don't keep such accurate tabs on the others." Elliot immediately wondered if that was true. This early—Brave in the workshop, Wyda prodding the coffee machine from Gyr Abania, Sasamu asleep, Norhi away to the Shroud. With luck, the usual prowlers would be contained in the kitchen for breakfast—Arcian, Max, Haru, and so on. Fine, he had a half-decent idea of the Bellworks' schedules.

As usual, Nolanel would rather avoid the looks and questions. But Elliot felt need to skip them as well. He recognized it as that inborn Ishgardian want of privacy—that thing which he always forwent for attention. Today no scenes interested him, no greetings, no announcements nor introductions nor condolences. He wanted silence to concentrate, and if that meant keeping Nolanel's name and presence to himself for a while, so be it. 

And so he did as he wanted, inconsiderate of later troubles. Nolanel returning his arm around him was all the assurance he needed.

Beyond them, the towering windmill of the Sultana's Breath rose from the gorge mist. Each blade groaned through the air and passed before the sun, combing shadows across the Goblet. Lines of light and dark swung across the warm brick of the Bellworks headquarters. The garden shivered in the delicate breeze and vibrant oleander winked from their bushes. Similar flowers topped raised segments of the fencing; Nolanel grazed his hand against the stone for support. He dizzied from the unfamiliarity of it all. Elliot hummed a little fanfare for making it back.

The welcoming mat crunched under their feet and removed the dust of the road. A doorbell hung nearby, fit with tiny gears telling of some new technology. They ignored it. The door opened easily with Elliot's key, as did the next down the hall to his room.

No barrier. Elliot showed Nolanel inside with a face that showed he recognized the cautious man's disapproval. "'Tis not just my room, but mine office—others must come and go without the inconvenience of a ward."

Eyeing him, Nolanel shrugged his coat off and draped it over the rim of the couch.

"I'll put one up at night."

"Good." Nolanel's severity broke into relief and exhaustion. He drifted forward, unbothered by the sweat that dabbed portions of his long-sleeved shirt. Blotches of crimson colored his cheeks, and he swallowed hard as he took in the room. Absently, his fingers drew along his suspenders. The durable black leather cracked in places. It didn't matter. He dropped himself onto the couch, overwhelmed again by emotion, and pushed his hair from his forehead. He sighed. His thick lashes flickered over his eyes, giving him the affect of a posed languor.

Elliot did not pause to relax. He snapped his fingers for attention, crouched, and tapped on the toe of Nolanel's shoes. "May I see?"

"Mm." Nolanel turned a shoulder into the couch to cradle himself against the fabric.

Elliot stared.

"Fine, all right." Nolanel straightened himself. He folded his leg over his knee and tore at the laces. The uneven patches of polish on his boot were obvious beneath the chandelier light. After taking each off in turn, he tossed them aside.

His toes curled tentatively, scrunching the thick woolen socks that reached to his knees. After he rolled them off, tan gauze and a pair of splints remained on each bruised ankle. A crystal rosary wrapped around the scorched skin of his left leg. His fingers brushed the clear beads.

Elliot's hand replaced Nolanel's atop the rosary. He pulled the necklace free and pooled it on the side table. The splints followed.

Nolanel's dry skin cracked and flaked white around the swollen red of his ankle. Elliot pressed his thumb against the joint, whispered an apology, and turned Nolanel's foot to each side. He tested the other in the same way, watching how the tendons shifted and the muscles strained.

Nolanel winced and pinned his arms back to keep from grabbing Elliot. "How long?" he asked.

"Until they heal?" Elliot licked his lips. "Several moons or so."

"Heaven's sake."

"But they'll mend, I think. Thank Halone for that."

Nolanel grunted his assent.

Elliot stood and took Nolanel's nearest hand into his. "And you have to listen to me. Stop walking so much."

Nolanel groaned and hid his face in his free arm.

"No going up or down the stairs."

"Mm."

"Don't wear your shoes unless you need to. They'll rub and irritate the skin."

"Mm."

"I shall get you crutches. Or a cane."

Nolanel jerked his arm away to glare. "Come now. Don't."

Elliot released him. "Then you stay where you are and elevate those feet."

"Would you get me water, at least? And my kit?" He pointed towards the doorway to indicate the battered suitcase.

Elliot fetched both with a severe look. He managed his silence like a punishment—with difficulty—and finally broke his reproach without grace: he could not say Nolanel's name without smiling. "Nolanel. Do you want to be here?"

Nolanel accepted the cup. Water spilled over the edge as Elliot let go too soon, but it mattered little.

"More than anything, I think." Ice clattered against the cup's side as he pulled a chunk out.

"Very selfishly, I must agree. I've learned not to scorn the details if you're near."

Nolanel set the water to the table and pressed ice against his pulsing ankle. "Listen, I've a few things for you. Go ahead and open the case."

Elliot hefted the suitcase onto one of the couch cushions. The lock on its lid snapped free with little resistance. Naught of the inside could be seen; a knitted blanket covered everything.

Nolanel reeled it out and threw a tasseled edge at Elliot. "Helped an old lady out in the Lowlands as we marched by. She offered one of these blankets she makes. I wanted it for you, but I wanted to give it over in person—and then I needed it too. Sorry. But I didn't get blood on it. And though it ain't doing we either of us much good here, it's yours."

Elliot gathered the blanket in his arms, looked over the argyle pattern, and hugged it as he said his thanks.

Trying not to look pleased, but failing miserably at it, Nolanel fished a tome from the jumble of his clothes. "And your father gave this book for you. A note's inside he bid you open."

Elliot put the blanket aside to accept the delivery. He glanced with disinterest at its worn labels, then plucked the letter free. It was no more than a slip of blotting paper with some text, but he skimmed it with a deepening frown. "The shipment I prepared for the reconstruction project in the Firmament was waylaid," he reported. "Damn!"

"Aye, Father Josseloux told me so I wouldn't ponder over it while I traveled."

Elliot folded the note and dropped it with the book on the coffee table. "I'll organize the next anon."

Appealingly, Nolanel lowered his head and removed the last gift from his bag: a smooth wooden jar with a broken top. He snapped the worn string that secured the lid on, then tilted the jar to Elliot. A wick protruded from purple candle wax. "From Limsa. I traded at an Alliance gig with another guard. She said it's lilac."

Elliot gave a closed-lip smile. He accepted the candle, knowing it was probably lavender, and said, "Just what I was missing, now that I have you." He fit the cap to the candle and gently placed it to the table with the rest.

Nolanel shut his suitcase so it wouldn't slam, then pushed it to the floor. He stretched across the couch lengthwise and watched Elliot's expression for some change.

Once his smile faded, fatigue hardened Elliot's face. His gaze swept across the room for something more to say, but no words came to him, and he allowed silence to dominate the room. It was an inhospitable thing to do, but if manners would not forgive him, Nolanel would. With others, Elliot could conjure up some easy topic to discuss for bells until he was drained of memories and questions. But Nolanel, following him with a heart more awake than it had surely been in months, could not inspire him to speak of larks or trials. An orison split his gratitude for peace with wordless, incomprehensible strength. Perhaps he despised the details after all. He did not know himself; he knew Nolanel; he knew love.

He reached for the cup of water. As he rose it to drink, the melting ice clattered as it split apart. Through the glass, he spied Nolanel. The image warped uncannily. He put the cup down.

Nolanel smiled. Tauntingly quiet, he tapped a finger to his cheek.

Elliot forgot why he worried. He braced an arm against the couch cushion and leaned in to peck him on the cheek.

Nolanel tapped his lips.

Laughing, Elliot moved in accord. He kissed him, feathering his hand across his neck.

An idea struck him. "Stay here." He slowly pulled himself up, trailing his fingertips across Nolanel's chest, and circled around the couch to his desk. A small ceramic pot displayed a bustle of blue hyacinth; Elliot selected a stem and pinched it free.

He plucked individual flowers from the stem and tucked them into Nolanel's hair, in the curve of his neck and collar, and when Nolanel tried to speak, Elliot slipped one between his lips.

Nolanel spit it out. “Really?”

Elliot set the empty stem down and stepped back to admire his work. “Yep.”

“I take a hammer to the shoulder to get back here, and your idea of what to do with me is to shred a poor flower for my hair.”

Elliot froze. His mind raced over every bone and tissue that could be damaged, how Nolanel supported his weight on his arm to walk with him, what toxins may have been forced into his bloodstream. He was waiting for this—some extra catch, some additional misery to compensate having Nolanel here and not in a Ghimlyt trench. Fear like ice paralyzed his lungs, and his hands trembled, then lurched to unfasten a brace hooked to the inner rim of Nolanel’s pants. One of the suspenders jerked to slap his hand, but he ignored it to rip at Nolanel’s shirt collar, unbuttoning it partway. The flowers tumbled away to pin against the couch. A petal stuck to his skin.

Nolanel snatched Elliot's wrist. “Stop—Stop, I was joking—”

Nolanel’s shoulder was untouched. No new scars, no scabs, no bruises. He weakened his grip and hesitantly withdrew his hand.

Elliot cried. Relief and anger scored his throat and buried what censures he burned to say. But his tears were punishment enough for them both. He turned away.

The wait had worn on him, hurt and damaged him like it had Nolanel, and he was ashamed of it: he could not help sobbing in frustration. Joys deserted him for a moment, and every misery blackened his hope for change. He wanted perfection, even if it was simple—especially if it was simple. Even that was intangible, though Nolanel was before him. They should be happy—incandescently happy—but war shadowed as it always did.

War and wounds kept Nolanel away, brought him home, put him before Elliot, sorry and tired, blue peaking from his waves of hair, shirt askew and lips apart. He leaned deeper into the couch, looking as if he wanted to disappear. His hands flexed, and he wished he was alone in Ishgard, where at least the lives he damaged were not Elliot.

He lay one arm over his eyes and extended the other towards the table. His fingers glanced against the candle, scooting it towards the edge.

Elliot approached with a sigh and pushed the candle back to the center.

Nolanel grabbed Elliot’s leg, yanked him closer, and pulled him by the vest onto the couch.

His body fell with the weight of a second heart atop Nolanel. He struggled, but Nolanel's arms held him still and he didn't want to leave them.

Nolanel kissed him until he kissed a smile, then kissed him for the joy of it.

Elliot submit easily. He wanted warmth, and softness, and always more of them. His tears, though he despised them, only made everything sweeter. Again he wavered, lowering his face against Nolanel's chest, saying, "I'm sorry you have to be hurt just to be here."

Nolanel leaned his head back to watch the ceiling. "Me too. And sorry for making you cry. But like you were sayin'—take victories where you may."

“Mayhap by tomorrow we shan't be so emotional.”

“Let's be reasonable. By next week's more like.”

Elliot went limp. "Quiet, you."

Nolanel scoffed. He plucked the hyacinth from his hair and rained them atop Elliot. They poured over his shoulders and bounced to the rug. Several caught on Nolanel again; music was tangible in the stir of Elliot's laugh against his collar.

"It'll be a good while together," Nolanel mused.

"Gods willing."

"I ain't gonna agree aloud."

"Say something else then."

Nolanel kissed him.

Elliot matched his haste with passion, pressing himself closer, thrilled by the rise and fall of Nolanel's chest against him, every breath a madness. He trembled like a flame at the hands sweeping the curve of his waist, and chased the bliss of reverie.

With a sore resolution, he tried to forget the years and minutes that came before to live only in this moment. Doubt, oscillating with the hours, withdrew again for hope. Elliot thought of surety: if it was nowhere in the world, at least it was in his heart. The rest shouldn’t matter. Forget divinity—what higher vigil compared to the meeting of Nolanel’s gaze to his? War’s cries, too, silenced under the perfect sound of Nolanel’s gasp when Elliot teasingly unlatched the second brace.

He smiled to himself at the light pressure of Nolanel’s hands around his neck, lips skating his throat and ear. Nolanel’s voice broke as a tender growl, and his tongue pressed against the cold of Elliot’s earring between each syllable. "What more to say?"

Previous installments timeline:

I know

Ghost Blood

21. Crunch

> Homecoming

23. Parched

RP: w @endangered-liaison

RP: w @norhimorovine​ & extra response

RP: w mostdangerouspotato*

11. Snuff

RP: w @mostdangerouspotato

10. Foster

25. Trust

*i lost this log! all i remember from it is that they discussed making rings when samu asked for advice over her engagement rings, and when she asked what type of engagement ring nol’d want, he said smth like “one w weight so u can’t forget that it’s there” but didnt reveal he was actually making some too skjdhf