WETWICK NETWORK

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“There’s a pub in Lowtown - the Dregs and Pegs - stocks a perfect ale for an evening like this. Let me buy you a drink.”

You swerved through the crowd and headed toward the Wick, one hand hovering by the dagger strapped to your hip. “Not interested.”

“C’mon, I promise it’ll be worth your while! Who can turn down a free drink?”

“Me.” Especially when you’re literally heading toward one right now. Leander typically plied you with drinks every night just to keep you from retreating to your room and passing out for the night.

Stumbling along at your heels, the would-be mercenary laughed. “Playing hard to get, I like it.”

The dagger’s handle slipped into your hand without thinking, your thumb rubbing the pommel. “Not playing.” 

“Hey, straight shooter, I like that too.” 

Patience thinning underneath the muggy heat of the night, you spun into an alley and upped the pace of your strides, close enough to the Wick that you’d rather lose him in the pub than on the street. Though the Wick was far from choosy with its clientele, mercenaries not affiliated with the Bloodhounds tended to steer clear. 

“So you’re not interested in the Dregs - you will find me more than accommodating to your tastes. Shall we head to your usual haunt?” 

Fuck this. At the next corner, you turned on your heel and forced him against the wall, dagger out and pressed to his throat. His adam’s apple bobbed against the blade. “How about you be ‘more than accommodating’ to my knife and choke on it?”

The mercenary - Foland something, you couldn’t be bothered to remember - grinned winsomely, his hands raised in surrender. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and perhaps that was the root of the problem. Curly blond hair, brown eyes, full mouth. In decent shape with quality armor, even if that pack of wildewolves had nearly made a particularly meaty dog treat out of him in the wastes.

You’d think twice before saving a random merc’s ass in the future.

“I know I should be frightened right now, and I am, but I must admit,” the merc said under his breath, leering down at you, “but I find this very attractive. Whatever will you do with me?” His head tipped back, pushing his neck closer to the edge of the blade.

He thought this was a fucking game. You pictured it for a moment, but ultimately decided lugging his corpse out of the city would be more hassle than it was worth. 

“I can cut this neck or the other one. Take your pick.” 

“The other - “ He froze, his flirty smile falling. An entire conversation seemed to play out across his face, and you couldn’t imagine how he’d managed in Eridia with a face that easy to read and that irresistible to a fist. Then the smirk returned. “Oh, I see.”

“You really don’t.”

“You’re into knife play, yes?” He reached up as if to grab your arm.

“For fuck’s sake - “

“Need a hand?”

Both of you froze at the new voice, accompanied by a long shadow at the mouth of the alley. You turned to look and felt a mixture of relief and exhaustion. 

Leander stood at the entrance of the alley, one hand braced on his hip. Green, faintly glowing eyes surveyed the scene, taking in the knife, the merc with his hand out, and undoubtedly the ire writ large on your face. With a clap of his hands, he approached and smiled charmingly. To you, he asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Tomcat here can’t take a fight nor a hint, apparently.”

“That’s - there were three of them, beautiful, I’m only one man - “

“My childhood sword cut down wildewolves.”

The merc flushed around the collar but changed tact at top speed. “You have trained since childhood? That would explain it. As I said on our way back to town, your swordsmanship is stunning - practically a work of art, when considering your attractive physique.” 

You shared a weary look with Leander, shoulders sagging a little. 

It’d been a long day. You’d ventured out to the wastes in the first place for a job - deliver the corpse of the yellow-crowned serpent to the apothecary. Rumors of the creature terrorizing travelers arriving in the eastern gate had enticed the apothecary enough to put out a sizable bounty. 

You’d arrived, waited in the blistering sun until the serpent had left its cave, only to discover that the serpent was, in fact, a naga. It had taken you nearly an hour to finish off the ferocious creature and another hour to drag the body and your own back to the city before the mists returned. 

On the way, you’d rescued this cheerful asshole from his well-deserved mauling by wolf, who had promptly followed you through the city, to the apothecary, and now to the doorstep of the Wet Wick.

Leander held your gaze for a moment, completely ignoring the idiot chattering away against your knife at his throat. A shiver slipped down your back, your stomach tightening. “Well, I can’t hold that against him,” he finally said, his eyes still lingering on your face. “You’re gorgeous in the storm of battle. Breathtaking.”

You glanced away, cheeks burning. “... enough of that.”

“Never,” he said.

A moment of silence passed, hanging strangely heavy in the air. 

Then Leander stepped closer, his hand brushing against the small of your back. He leaned down to your ear and said, so close you felt his words across the rim of your ear, “I’ll take care of this. Meet me at our usual booth?”

Goosebumps spiraled down your neck. Heart thumping faster, you answered with a quick jerk of your head. Fighting to ignore the heat stirring in your blood at his proximity, you withdrew the dagger and returned it to the holster at your hip. 

“Are we heading in for that drink now?” The merc asked, beaming as though he had won a prize.

“Not you.” Brushing past Leander, your stomach flipping when his hand pressed against your back until the final moment you stepped out of reach, you added, “But I’m sure Leander will be ‘more than accommodating to your tastes.””

“That’s what I’m known for!” Leander echoed cheerfully. There’s a scuffle of boots on stone and a thud. When you glanced over your shoulder, the merc was pinned to the alley wall with a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Hold on there, stranger. Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”

You met his gaze one last time before turning the corner. Dark promises echoed back to you under the sweep of lashes.

Then the Wick welcomed you in a clamor of music and laughter, a shroud of beer and bodies pressed together, and the cozy feel of firelight.

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Once she had turned the corner, Leander released a long, slow breath. He dropped the man’s shoulder and stepped back, his arms crossing over his chest. Holding the smile in place, he asked, “New to Eridia?”

Now that she was out of sight (and out of reach), the other man shrugged and said, “Three days in town. Almost thought it was a wasted journey, but….” his gaze lingered on the mouth of the alley. “Perhaps I’ve just found a reason to say, give the famous city another chance, eh?”

Leander’s hands curled into fists. “Well, Eridia’s not the easiest place to live nor to travel to. Did you come by caravan, or with family?”

“Grain merchant gave me a ride for most of the trip. You wouldn’t believe the places I had to pull straw out of,” he joked, holding out his hand. “Foland, lone merc looking for work.”

Alone. Leander twisted the ring on his middle finger before shaking his hand. The metal warmed on contact. No magic to speak of, nothing latent. “Lone merc, huh? I remember those days. Not easy getting a start here in Eridia.” Thinking back to your words, he asked, “That wildewolves contract - you get that at the guild?”

“Yes. You seem well-informed,” the merc mused. “Are you a merc as well?”

Doesn’t recognize me. Fresh as a babe, then. “No,” he said, checking the position of the sun. 

Night had fallen, cloaking the streets in shadow, illuminated in the pockets of light shed by windows and street lamps. Few people passed by on the street, and those who did kept their eyes focused on the road ahead, knowing better than to cast their gazes wandering.

They stood in the middle of the alley. The path to the right let out at the market if you were lucky - if not, one could spend days lost in the labyrinth of slums and abandoned houses lurking at the hill of the district. People got lost all the time. 

“From the sounds of that conversation, you struggled with the wildewolves until she arrived. Did you split the profits?”

“I intend to - I’m a man of honor, after all” the merc glanced back to the street, his brow furrowing, before he suddenly beamed. “I’ll pick up the reward from the guild and then - well, that’ll give me a good reason to contact her again, for a beer or maybe even a date.”

Wildewolves extermination, small money job, hasn’t collected. Guild officer’s unlikely to remember, and easily paid off regardless.

“No. I don’t think so,” Leander replied. His hand plucked the gold brooch from his vest and raised it to his mouth. He blew into the point, eliciting a high, hollow whistle. The emerald glowed, illuminating his face.

“Hm? What did you say?” The merc turned toward him. He stiffened, frowning. “Your eyes…what’s happening?”

Leander leaned his back against the opposite wall, pinning the brooch to its proper place. “Had we met under different circumstances, there might have been a place for you in my crew, but,” he paused, his gaze sweeping over the other man, “tomcats don’t heel easily, do they. Not like my hounds. Significant effort, little reward.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Months ago, I could’ve stomached another drooling over her. I had more patience then. After all, she’s… something special. Beautiful. Deadly. Genuine. My knife in the dark.” His thumb stroked the inside of his palm, remembering her touch. Soon, he would be holding her hand in that corner booth, tucked away from the world. He’d have her all to himself, however brief. 

Footsteps echoed softly through the alley, the sound reverberating up the stone walls. Shadows appeared at the north and southern exit, cutting off the light from outside. 

His hounds had arrived.

“No longer,” he finished. 

The merc finally seemed aware that something was not right about his situation. His face paled at the men gathering in the alley, dressed in leather vambraces, armed to the teeth. He looked around toward the opposite end and found more approaching, their shadows looming on the walls, magnified into the silhouette of a great beast.

“Hold on a minute. Just, hold on,” he was saying, sweat forming at his brow as he raised his arms, palms out.

Leander stared at the right hand. Recalled that hand hovering in the air, grasping, seeking to touch what was not his to touch. The fury building inside him from that moment crested inside his chest. 

His dagger punctured the skin and cut through the palm as smooth as butter. The blade notched into the stone behind the merc, pinning him in place. Leander held him there, staring hard into his face, the glow of his own eyes painting the merc’s face a sickly green.

Then, before the man could do so much as scream, he yanked the blade out with a twist of his wrist and stepped back as blood gushed from the wound. 

Now, the merc screamed. He held his hand, face purpling under the force of his scream, eyes bulging, his whole body shaking. His knees crumpled and sent him to the ground. He huddled there, curled in on himself, whimpering and gasping.

One of his hounds glanced over his shoulder to the street corner before relaxing upon spotting the thin, green veil that shimmered in the air. 

“What the fuck,” the merc shrieked, scrambling to ball up a cloth from his pocket to stem the bleeding. “My hand, you son of a bitch!”

Crouching on his heels, Leander mused, “Still yours, though. Had you touched her, I would have cut it off.” He watched the man scramble back from him, writhing on the ground like a worm. “Others haven’t been so lucky.”

“You’re crazy. You’re fuckin’ crazy.” The merc crawled toward the wall and pulled himself to his feet, tears flowing down his face. Those pretty blue eyes bulged in terror, his golden curls smeared in dirt and blood. “I’ll have you in chains before dawn for this. The city guardsmen, the Senobium - they will lock you up for the next century.”

At the mention of the citadel, a rumble passed through the surrounding men. 

Leander rose to his feet and returned to the wall as his men inched closer and closer, teeth bared, their eyes shedding an eerie green light.

“Even angels are barred from their lofty tower,” he said, amused at the threat,“If you’re so sure of your welcome, how about a wager? If you can make it to the Senobium’s gates and convince them to let you inside before dawn, you live another day.”

The merc swallowed, his lips pinched together.

“We’ll even give you a head start. Aren’t I generous,” Leander said, his voice low, “tomcat?”

He watched, silent, as the merc shuffled toward the back of the alley where the cluster of men was thinnest, his gaze darting around fearfully. After a moment’s indecision, he shoved the closest man out of his way and sprinted down the alley, footsteps pounding the stone, panting. 

A dozen eyes turned on him. Bodies tensed, knees bending, bracing.

Leander smirked. 

“Hounds. Hunt.”

That night, as she dozed against his shoulder after three pints of beer, his thumb stroking the back of her hand, Leander closed his eyes and let his magic surge through the hounds, singing in their blood. He grinned under the weight of their euphoria - hearts pounding as they chased the cat through the city, their bloodlust pulsing, teeth sharpening with every nip at his heels.

Through the eyes of his hound, he watched as the merc stumbled and bled through the city, increasingly desperate, bleeding through a thousand wounds with every brush of tooth and claw. He watched as the man shook the gates of the Senobium, begging, pleading to be let in.

He watched as the guards ignored him. He watched as the man grew manic in his fear and despair, wailing and beating the iron bars, until an arrow pierced his shoulder.

He watched as the merc gave up and sprinted back toward the city walls, seeking the watchmen and finding his hounds at every corner, lurking in every shadow.

By the time he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward her room at the back of the Wick, another unfortunate soul was lost to the perils of the city. 

Leander returned to the bar after resting her head on the pillow and bribed the bartender into opening up the kitchens and rousing the cooks in spite of the late hour.

His hounds had worked up an appetite.

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"What's that on your back, sparrow? "

You leaned on the counter of the Wick without even thinking on who might be around, or what you were wearing.

The voice made you jump but just for a moment: Ais was only terrifying the first time you met him, but after that, he seemed insistent in making you irritated, making you laugh.

Whichever way you reacted always made him smile so smugly it felt like you lost a bet.

You reserve the detail of loving the sight of that smile, fangs showing almost threateningly. He doesn't need to get any more full of himself.

Now, the sensation of your fingers on you was new, at least like this: carefully following the lines on your lower back, as if he was drawing then on himself, no brush as delicate as the feather like touch of him.

He stops instead of moving up, following the design up your back.

"Never seen a tattoo in your life? " you try to sound smug, firmer than you are, your hand trembling slightly around your drink.

He can make your skin tingle under his touch so easily, as if it was made only to react to hqim.

You try to shake away the thought as it ran like water am over you, demanding to feel his touch again.

"Not on you, I haven't ." He sounded curious, almost mesmerized: if you looked at him through the corner of your eye, (because you almost certainly weren't turning around and facing him with how your body demanded him, thank you) you'd see him hypnotized in the way your skin twitched slightly under his touch, in the way the black lines felt raised and soft against the pads of his fingers.

"It's a thorned vine." You explained. "With butterflies and flowers; it goes, uh, " your throat felt suddenly dry. "All the way up."

"Mh." The last sentence seemed to have sounded like an invitation: the barely there touch of his fingers became a palm flat against your lower back, weirdly soft and intensely hot and still so delicate, as he reached underneath your shirt without pulling the fabric away.

It was a public place, after all.

"Bet it looks nice on you, sparrow." He was so close to you his voice fell warm and velvety on your ear. Your hand curled against the glass tighter.

"Well I'm not showing you!" Too loud, you immediately blushed a fierce red while he, of fucking course, laughed.

You paused for only a second, pretending a fortitude you did not have ever time he was around you, as if something inside of him tugged you closer, always closer.

You couldn't escape it.

You didn't want to.

"Upstairs. " your choice was barely a murmur. "I can show you upstairs."

His hand moved up, slightly curling and scratching a soft warning down your spine, before nesting on the small of your back, encouraging you forward as a dancer would on a ballroom.

These days, Vere finds himself watching her sleep.

Not, of course, in a manner most crass—contrary to popular opinion, Vere wasn’t as gutter-minded as many seemed to assume. Something which—while certainly a common misconception, was also one he never felt the need to correct. Why amend when he could weaponize instead?

If people were desperate enough to slip a honed blade into his deft hands, a hold so accustomed to the craft of using that it could be done with effortless ease—then why should he bother denying them?

After all, a show was a show, and Vere wasn’t in the habit of missing out on free entertainment. Not if they were offering themselves, and that was almost always what it was—fresh meat so eager for the taking that it gifted gleaming knife and bared neck alike.

The problem was though—

A steady heartbeat. Too steady, if you were to ask him. His senses were such that people could not hide from him, sharp enough to unearth the most buried of weak spots and expose the rawest of nerves—no matter how cleverly concealed it was.

—easy prey did not satiate him for very long.

It should have annoyed him. Or rather, he should have been more annoyed—enough to be spurned into action, or at the very least full of biting words as opposed to biting them back. Vere had certainly cut people off for far less, a nonzero sadistic streak enabling him to find a particular enjoyment in reminding others when they forgot their place. You could even accuse him of it being one of his hobbies and have that accusation be warranted.

So why was Tiên still slumbering peacefully in his bed?

Perhaps he’d be less vexed by it if it was a post sex occasion. If all the nights she’d decided to crash were post sex occasions. Because while Vere did not have a tendency of allowing people to stick around for that long in the aftermath, it would certainly make this all feel less… irritatingly saccharine.

But it wasn’t.

Eyes narrow. Fingers itch. It would have been a mistake to have called this allowance one of sentimentality—the vast coldness in his gaze revealed as much, completely devoid of anything fond. It would have been a mistake, but that it could have been made in the first place irked him. It was all so irksome.

The gall to not ask—to beg—for permission. The audacity of never reacting to anything normally. The absolute maddening cheek to somehow not be unbearable in spite of all the things he had to bear.

(‘Just kick them out,’ Ais had said, ever the poor sympathiser to his plight. Nothing short of absolutely shit for things like this, but he was one of the rare few that lasted long enough to hear Vere complain.)

Vere knew exactly how they’d react if he told them in no small words to beat it. The first thing was that they would indeed beat it—without any question. The second was that Tiên would not only not get embarrassed, but she’d likely never bring it up. Ever. And not just because the humiliation of retracing a misstep was one she wanted to avoid, but because it would have genuinely not mattered to her.

Which meant that without her to be the affected one, even his perfectly reasonable response would have felt an extremity—a loss of control where anything but a victory was unforgivable. Regardless of it being a matter of relativity.

He could have potentially justified it if she made for a poor bedfellow—a man of his luxuries and comforts that was exceedingly possessive of his own space, were Tiên to have been a poor sleeper, that would have been more than enough to make up for the previous, except…

Tiên does not move in her sleep. Her body temperature, the next thing that could have so easily been bothersome, also wasn’t, and in fact was something she could change on the fly, meaning that it was always infuriatingly perfect. His vanity, in one of the pettiest reasons of all, would surely have enabled him to call it quits if she was unsightly at rest—but he wasn’t granted that either.

And he’d tried to psyche her out. The last time she’d done this, Vere had taken a page out of her obnoxious novel and slept on top of her without asking. In what was a clear bid to make Tiên give him a single satisfying valid reason to get rid of her; were he to have awoken in the middle of the night that would have been it—

Instead, he’d woken up the next morning in what was evidently uninterrupted slumber.

Even now, the thought of it was a trying one. His only explanation was that it had to have been a miraculous fluke, but even that feels wanting when he was bereft of what felt a surefire win. To meet with such impossible standards, including a zero tolerance for his own discomfort even at the cost of—or especially because of—another’s… and to still surpass them…

Well, that didn’t sit right with him at all.

In the dusk of rose, barely blinking—a frigid chill grows all the more biting. What might’ve seemed a petulance ultimately boiled down to an immovably monstrous nature: an affinity towards discord and an aversion towards harmony.

Rule one was to remember that a monster was always a monster. Rule two—

Moonlight and shadow as the sole witnesses. Nimble fingers twitch in a call to action—where idle hands were synonymous with the devil’s tools; the watcher no longer content with just watching. He couldn’t be blamed, in the end. It was on her for letting her guard down. It was on him to teach her a lesson.  

—was to never forget rule one.

The dagger may as well have been slipped into his hand. A sleek, pretty little thing, gleaming steel a perfect fit for the space between Tiên’s ribs. She already looked the part he would have found triumph in, flat on her back with her hands neatly clasped, locks of ashen silver to halo her form—a most picturesque corpse-in-waiting if he’d ever seen one. At least she was good for something.

No remorse. No hesitance. Night itself seemingly darkened in a wicked embrace of blood-soaked sin; its silence a clear sign of approval—why else would it have carried the heady weight of a rapt audience worth putting on a performance for?

As easy as breathing.

As quiet as fallen snow.

Of course, it struck true. Of course, it slid home.

Of course, the buried, bladed evidence was revealed in jewel-encrusted hilt, one that stuck skywards and out of Tiên’s chest.

They hadn’t even cried out.

And yet—

A steady heartbeat. Still too steady. Always too steady.

Where metal met meat, a red slit simmered in something almost ponderous. A languid, near bubbling, as if the inner was deciding what to do with the intruder and it had all the damn time in the world to do so.

It’s clear, then. In the moment that should not have existed. In the imposition that should have been imposed in its place. Vere never strikes without the complete and full recognition of what that strike can and will do, but when he’s not afforded even a single drop—no crimson tear to grace the canvas of flesh, no crescendoed swansong to precede the final curtain—somehow, he’s not surprised.

Just like when the murder weapon…

…tips…

…landing onto its side—he’s also not surprised, either.

If anyone claimed that he was secretly hoping for it not to take, they’d surely have been corrected—if not by him, then by the world itself. Because it’s not relief that fills him when he can still hear that blasted beating organ, but neither was it hatred that had driven his hand in the first place.

By the time he retrieves the dagger, a wintry cool has settled within him. A quiet resignation, perhaps. Or at least an acknowledgment—of inevitability, of futility.

Of her.

She’d not been so much stabbed as her heart had become a blade’s cradle, up until it was eaten. Steel piercing flesh? A tale as old as time. Flesh swallowing steel?   

Vulpine ears had flattened. A sigh rises and falls. They hadn’t even done the courtesy of stirring, as immovable as ever—with her breast unburdened with the need of the rise-and-fall, she really did look dead. And while it was a shame that Tiên couldn’t follow through, by the time Vere comes back to bed, he’d already let her have it.

At the very least, if she complained about the pain, then perhaps it would be worth the cost of a knife.

It’s always nice to head back after a long day of work to privacy. You’re exhausted and smelly after hours of cleaning and frying fish for the vendor in the street and some time alone is just what you need. You’ve finally gotten your own place (too small to truly be called an apartment) but it’s yours all the same, and safe behind lock and key. In the past couple weeks you’ve been saving up money for the deposit by helping out local shopkeepers, running a few Bloodhound missions with Leander, and more days than not, gutting fish - entrails and bones twisted and morphed into shapes that feel inexplicably alien. Cleaning fish isn’t the most enjoyable work, but it pays your rent better than secrets and you get a meal out of it, too. Plus, you get to meet the people of Eridia. You hear what weather the grandmas forecast, rumors of infidelity, and sometimes, a snippet of something more: gossip about the Senobium, or the Abbess, about becoming a student… and you lean in, straining your ears to listen as closely as possible over the sound of fish frying in oil. Leander makes sure to drop by for lunch on days you work there, (had come by just today, in fact), grabbing a quick bite to eat and a side hug. He only reached for the embrace on days you’d escaped most of the fish guts. Though the best you could offer was a minimal amount of slime - even the gloves you dons at work each day over your bandages fail to prevent the scent of fish from seeping into your pores. But today, you’d been pretty tidy, so he squeezed you good and proper and left with fish in hand and a cheery, “See you around, I’ll be at the Wick later if you have time for a drink!” 

You had worked late, staying through the dinner rush of people hurrying to get a meal before darkness fell. You, too, had to be diligent about coming home to your room before dusk. You’d been lucky enough to survive your first (and second) brush with the Soulless and you planned on avoiding rolling the dice again. Third time’s the charm, and all that.

You’ve cherished the two weeks you’ve been living on your own. Staying at the Wick hadn’t been bad, exactly - not if you overlooked the raucous laughter that found its way into your room from the bar below, hardly diminished by the solid stone floor. Or tried to ignore the way your belongings would be in a slightly different location than you remembered leaving them last. Or if you brushed off the number of times a drunk couple would press against your locked door, fumbling at the handle for far too long and giggling until they would (at last) realize that their room was the one next to yours. Ok, maybe it had been pretty bad.

So you’d been all too eager to sign the lease that the disinterested landlord shoved at you after you saw the property. It was really only a room with a bed, fireplace, and washbasin, but it was all you could afford. At least until you were able to find more consistent work or decided to give up more of your secrets. Leander hadn’t let you move out without making a fuss. The conversation was still fresh in your mind.

“I’m still going to come by the Wick all the time,” you had said beseechingly, gesturing at the tavern around you.

“You’re sick of me already?” he’d pouted, face falling. “I can give you more space if you need it-” Despite your resolve to leave, guilt had nagged at your conscience. “It’s not that, I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me out-”

“Are you confident that you are going to be safe? Allmother knows you didn’t even make it to Eridia in one piece. What if something happens before I can get there-”

“I managed on my own just fine for years before I met you, as long as I’m not out at night there’s nothing to worry about-”

“-So is it the Bloodhounds, then? If they’ve been crowding you, I’ll have a word with them, just let me know who-”

“No, they’ve been perfectly polite to me.” You had huffed out a breath, holding out your hand to stall the next question quick on his tongue. “Listen, I just… If I’m here, on your coin, it doesn’t feel like this is my home. It’s as if I’m just visiting for a while, like at any point I’ll have to leave… like everything could be pulled away from me.” 

Stability. Something that had been so hard to come by for you. Everything lately has been in so much flux. You hadn’t been able to say the rest to him - that if you stay in the bustling community of the Wet Wick, there’s a greater chance that your curse would become common knowledge. That you’d be cast out of the city, feared by the very same Bloodhounds who have been friendly to you.

Something in him had softened, and he relented at last, concern shining in his pale green eyes. “Fine. But don’t be a stranger. I’ll be keeping my eye on you. if you need anything, or if your new place turns out to be a moldy, rat infested corner of the city, you come right back, understand?”

“I looked it over when I got the key to the place and didn’t see any rats, Leander.” you had said reproachfully. “It’s cheap but it’s not that bad.”

“Well, that’s how they get you, right? The landlord goes through ahead of time and bangs some pans together, scares all the rats away quick right before you arrive, wipes the mold away-”

“I’ll be fine.” You’d given him a small smile. “Really. I’ll come back if there’s any big issues.” Despite his protestations, he had put up less of a fuss than you’d expected. Perhaps you’ve proven to him that you can hold your own - adapted to the city better than he expected.

And so, you had moved your meagre belongings inside and taken the first long breath since moving to Eridia. You had a place where you felt truly safe. For a beautiful, independent, cozy two weeks.

But it’s on the other side of the door. You stall in front of it, feet aching from your long day at the fish stall, pulling your coin purse out of the front of your shirt and fumbling in it for your key. The key. The key that should be tucked right here in your coin purse - safe from foxes with wandering hands. But, as you jam your fingers into the lint filled corners of your bag with increasing desperation, it’s just not there. You check every possible place you can think of, hands fumbling through pockets and folds of fabric time and time again. There’s nothing there. Nothing but your coin purse (with a few grimy coins inside) and a handkerchief, slightly disgusting from where you’ve used it to wipe your brow as you bent over the hot oil. 

You stand on your own doorstep, mind spinning. Maybe it fell out, somehow? You couldn’t remember anyone getting close to you today, no one of consequence. I better retrace my steps. 

The conditions weren’t in your favor. The evening was late, sun low on the horizon. It bathed the city in a warm light, turning the buildings a rosy color. Flowers sat open in the setting sun, clinging to buildings and draping from hanging planters, fragrance wafting on the balmy evening breeze. It would have been quite a romantic view if you had any time to look at it.

Instead, your eyes were firmly planted on the ground, scanning for your key between cobblestones and the contents of upended chamber pots. As the light falls, your hope does too. Dread weighs heavy and sick in your gut. It’s not safe to be outside. You need to find a place to hide out, and quickly.

The Wet Wick is a little ways away from your winding path back to the fish stall. Should I go there and meet up with Leander? He said he’d be there tonight. But honestly - a part of you rankles at returning to Leander so soon after putting up such a fuss about being independent. And you might still find your key. 

But there’s no key on your route. Nothing but dirty stones beneath your feet. You stand, forlorn in front of the now abandoned fish stall, and the sun starts to slip behind the rooftops of those rosy (now crimson) buildings. It’s about time you made up your mind. You run the rest of the way to the doorstep of Kuras’ clinic. The line has finally dispersed. No one in poor health can afford to wait out in the open when Soulless might drop by and turn their poor health into no health at all. You knock on the door with uncertainty, realizing you aren’t sure if Kuras is at the clinic this late. Does he live here…?

To your relief, the door opens and Kuras is before you, golden eyes wide in surprise. You lean back a little on your heels as he appears. He’s wearing his doctor’s uniform and the light from the room behind him illuminates the soft curls around his face like a halo. Though you’ve seen him a few times by now, you can never prepare yourself for how handsome he is. It’s like jumping into a cold pool - even if you try to prepare yourself for the chill, the plunge will have your heart pounding and skin tingling just the same. 

“...Good evening.” You flush as he takes in your harried expression, your rumpled clothes, the anxiety that you fail to conceal behind your bright smile. “...Are you well?”

“Yes! Well - I’m well enough, I suppose, only - I seem to have misplaced the key to my place. It’s not that far from here, and it was getting dark, so… I thought I’d see if you were in. I’m rather invested in keeping my arms attached, didn’t want to waste your hard work.”

“I would hope your investment in your health would be centred around the importance of your own wellbeing, not on my behalf,” he chastises, ushering you into the clinic with a wave of his hand. “But if it’s what encourages you to prioritize your safety, I’ll accept it for the time being.”

As you look around the room, you realize that you’ve never actually been in the front room of Kuras’ clinic. Well - that’s not entirely true. You might have been carried through it when you were a breath away from death. But you’ve only seen the room you woke up in, and the hallway that led out to the back door. 

This part of the clinic is minimalist but inviting. It’s a small room, with wooden chairs set along the wall and a vase of small white flowers sitting on an end table in the corner. A light, fresh herbal scent fills the air. The chairs are unpadded, the floor is stone and the rug at the center of the room is a rich brown. You try not to think about the practicalities of such a spartan design, how often there might be various fluids spilled here. A door across from you leads to what you assume is the rest of the clinic. Candles flicker in sconces along the walls.

You wrap your arms around yourself, nerves still frayed from your walk here at dusk. “Do you run this whole place by yourself?” 

“Mostly. There are a few who will lend me their aid from time to time. But it is primarily a solitary pursuit.”

Despite the inviting warmth of his personality, it’s awkward as you regard each other. You haven’t been in such close proximity to Kuras since he saved your life. It’s messing with your head a little bit that he’s standing right in front of you, close enough to touch, with all of his attention trained on you. He looks down at you, concern drawing his mouth into a line. “You’ve misplaced your key?”

“Yes - I could have sworn I had it with me when I saw Leander at work this afternoon. It must have slipped out of my coin purse somewhere along my walk home. I retraced my steps looking for it but it was getting dark and I -”

There’s an intensity to his expression as you speak, brows furrowed as he considers you, but it only lingers for a moment before he’s raising his hand towards you in a calming gesture. “Worry not. My clinic is meant to be a refuge for anyone who needs one. You are welcome to stay until the morning.” He looks at you with mock sternness. “Besides, as you’ve stated yourself - I didn’t heal you just for my work to be destroyed so soon.” You laugh at that, jittery. “I intend to cherish it, trust me. Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here. I wasn’t sure if you lived here, or maybe, if you’d be attending to patients at this hour… I can just sleep wherever you have space - the floor is fine, honestly, I don’t really need all that much. I’m just thankful to not be outside at the moment.”

He turns to face the doorway at the back of the room, hand raised to his face in contemplation. “I have no empty cots available at the moment, as I have some patients who are recovering here overnight. Nothing too severe - but they require a night’s rest before they will be well again. Come. We’ll find an option more hospitable than the floor.”

He leads you through the threshold to a hallway lined with doors that you assume lead to rooms with recovering patients, and up a staircase at the end of the hallway, pausing to unlock a large wooden door.

You step into the room after Kuras. It’s a wide, open space that’s somewhere between a storage room and an apartment. There are open shelves along the wall that contain ceramic and glass containers, each marked with an old, browning label written in a spidery scrawl. Other sections of the walls have unmarked wooden cupboards that reach the ceiling. Tightly bundled medicinal herbs hang above the high arched windows across from you. Bookshelves intersperse the storage shelves, leather bound tomes sitting side by side with colorful, flimsy paperbacks. The right side of the room has two closed doors. The floor is covered by an ornate cherry colored rug, light pink magnolia flowers with winding branches twisting around the perimeter. There’s a long couch in front of the windows, mahogany arms curling down into a scroll shape.

A worn leather armchair sits at an angle across from it, crescent-shaped eyeglasses resting on its arm. A table with a chair at either end is placed near some of the shelves, written papers atop it stacked next to pitchers of water. Colorful glass lanterns hanging from the walls illuminate the space. A lit fireplace, with hooks inside for hanging cooking pots on, stands on the left side of the room, adding to the glow. You hadn’t prepared yourself for how intimate it would feel to see such a personal space. You slip off your shoes and stand hesitatingly behind him, unsure if the heat of the room is emitting from him or the fire. There’s an urge within you to examine everything in the room - but it’d probably be poor manners to scrutinise anything too closely.

“I originally demarcated this section of the clinic as a personal space where I could keep supplies or rest on the rare occasion I happened to have a patient here late at night. However,” he continues with a wry smile, “with the poor health of Eridian citizens…that soon became most evenings.” I wonder where his house is, then, if he has one?

Kuras regards the furnishings critically before gesturing at the couch before you. “I believe this is the best solution to your problem.” He meets your eyes, lips curving into a smirk. “Of course, should you find it too uncomfortable, I have a bed in the other room.”

You inhale sharply and cough, eyes darting away from his amused gaze only to trail unbidden down the long line of his body. Images flash through your mind. The warmth of Kuras’ chest pressed against your back as he cradles you in his arms. His hand, firm and warm, spanning the curve of your hip. Both of you, sleeping soundly, beneath a ridiculously downy comforter. “Th-The couch seems really comfortable, I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine,” you say, wheezing. 

He raises his eyebrows, expression still playful. “Do not mistake my intentions. I would rest elsewhere if you were in my bed. I do not require much sleep, and I have a few tasks that will occupy me for much of the night.” 

As you become more familiar with him, you’re increasingly certain that misunderstandings like the one you just had are precisely his intention. In his bed. Fuck. You’d been worried about the Soulless… but maybe you should have been worried about him.

As you stand close together in the room, you are suddenly reminded of the fact that you probably reek of fish. “I’m so sorry, but is there any way I could freshen up a little? I’d planned on doing it when I got home, but, well… I didn’t get the opportunity.”

“My apologies, of course. I’ll get you a change of clothes for the night as well, as you weren’t able to bring anything yourself.” He hurries right back down the stairs, and you’re charmed by how sincerely he’s looking after you. Perhaps he’d do the same for all of those under his care - but it feels special to be attended to like this. 

He returns and presses a bundle of loose clothing into your hands, along with a washcloth and a pitcher of steaming water, and leads you to one of the closed doors on the right side of the room. His bathroom. There’s a basin atop a table with a mirror behind it, with drawers and a small bar of herbal scented soap in a ceramic dish. Beneath a pointed window lies a low, long clawfoot bathtub, and a hamper off to the side. The wash basin stands far higher than comfortable for you (around chest level), and only your eyes and forehead are visible at the bottom of the mirror. You shut the door and dip the washcloth into the steaming water, sighing happily as you press it against your skin. You’re finally starting to relax. Frankly, you’re starving, but at least your stress and fear from your difficult day melt away with the oil and sweat. The bread, cheese and fruit you had waiting for you in your (locked) apartment will just have to be tomorrow's dinner instead of the meal for tonight. Carefully, you clean the grime from your skin with the hot water and soap, leaving it flushed and shining. You strip out of your clothes and into the baggy, comfortable sleepwear he’s provided for you. Am I going to end up naked every time I’m here? 

Though you’ve finished getting ready, your curiosity is piqued by the intimate domesticity of being in such a personal space. Moving quietly, you slide open one of the drawers in the wash basin stand. There’s a stack of neatly folded washcloths, a tooth brush, and a small vial at the back, filled with an amber liquid. You falter for a moment before grasping it, examining it closely. A faint smell is emitting from it - golden and resinous, warm and rich. A perfume oil. Your fingers shake a little as you hastily put it back into place, pressing the drawer closed. You stare blankly out of the window above the bathtub, mind whirling. Who does he wear that for? Special occasions, dates… Fleetingly, you think about how the scent would bloom on his skin - how it would smell with your face pressed into his neck, his hair wild around you. How it might linger on you after he left, or in your sheets the next morning - You frown, trying to collect yourself, but your gaze has slid down to the bathtub and it’s as if you can see him before you, water glistening on his bare skin, hair dark and clinging damply to his face, gaze burning as hot as the water as he beckons you closer -

Tearing your eyes away from the tub, you glare at yourself in the base of the mirror. You point your finger accusingly at your reflection. Pull it together. You give yourself one last steely look before gathering your clothes in your arms and yanking the door open abruptly. “All done.”

He looks up from where he’s seated in the worn armchair, book in hand with the pair of semicircle glasses perched on his nose. “Better?”

“Yeah, I definitely feel refreshed. The hot water was nice, thank you.” And it’s definitely the only reason why your skin is flushed. Your stomach twinges again, voicing a complaint, but you do your best to ignore it. It’s too uncomfortable to ask him to make you a meal. You take a seat on the couch across from him, legs dangling above the floor. “You don’t have to look after me, I’ll be fine on my own if you need to go check on patients or do anything else…”

“Sporadically I work from daybreak to daybreak, when my rooms are filled with those near death.” He closes the book in his hand and sets it on the low table by his side, crossing one long leg over the other. “But tonight is not one of those nights. The most serious malady downstairs is a difficult case of influenza. I will spend the evening here, with you.”

You nod, happiness creeping through you like a tendril of smoke. “So do you mainly see people who are struggling with serious illnesses? Or maybe…acute cases of dismemberment? Or are there people that come by just for checkups every so often?”

He fixes you with a pointed look. “Are you inquiring because you’d like one?”

“I-I don’t mean to impose, I’m fine! I was just curious, really.”

“Hmmm.” He contemplates you for a moment, looking at you over the top of his glasses. A catlike smile plays around the edge of his lips. “In my expert opinion, I believe I should examine you further. I would like to be certain you’re not suffering any further complications from the Soulless attack. Do my due diligence, and conduct a thorough checkup.”

Despite the teasing lilt to his voice he picks up a notebook and pen from the table at his side, scrutinizing you with a professional demeanor. “Do you have any conditions that run in your family?” His eyes shift towards your arms and you blanch a little, blindsided.

“Not that I’m aware of. Truthfully… I’ve never known my family. So, I suppose I could have a lot of conditions that will suddenly appear when I’m forty that have been passed down through generations.” You grip one hand with another, bandages taut against your knuckles, unwilling to discuss your curse. Not yet. Even though he’s seen your hands already. But he doesn’t linger or press for more information, passing on to the next question with a smoothness that can only occur after years of habit. “Have you noticed any recent changes in your appetite, weight, or sleep patterns?” You heave out a sigh. “I have. Appetite and weight are fine but I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had nightmares for a while now but they’re so much worse lately. I keep finding myself in the wastes. Bleeding out in the mud, with no one but Soulless around.” It’s more honest of an answer than you had expected to give. You don’t tell him about the other parts. How you feel the Soulless tug and rip at your limp body. Or see the faces of each person you’ve met since arriving in Eridia twist, one by one, into madness. He tilts his head slightly, gazing at you evenly. You find it refreshing that he lets things go - accepts what you’ll tell him without peppering you with questions or discomfort coloring his face. “It’s fairly common to experience nightmares after such a traumatic event. I have a few items that may be able to aid your sleep, if you would be so inclined.” “Sure. It’d be nice to not wake up flailing around every day.”

“Let’s start with a medicinal tea, and if it doesn’t diminish their frequency or intensity, we can discuss alternatives.” He jots down a note, nodding to himself. “How has your arm recovered? Any changes in functionality?”

“No, it’s been right as rain ever since you stuck it back on.” He lifts one eyebrow at your response, sly smile returning. “Would you allow me to examine it briefly?”

“A-Alright-” And before you know it, he removes his glasses and approaches you, kneeling down on the rug at your feet. His hands, warm as the water he had brought you to wash up with, trail feather-light over the tidy stitches at your elbow. He’s incredibly close to you and it’s so difficult to look at him, his presence as stark and blinding as the sun. His fingers knead the line of stitches gently, pressing into the give of your skin. Every part of you feels hot from embarrassment and the inescapable focus of his unadulterated attention. “Hmmm. Healed perfectly.” His voice is lower now, soft as velvet in your ear, and you realize he had no doubt in the quality of his work or in your arm’s healing. That he chose to do this not because of a doctor’s duty but rather due to his interest in you, desire and curiosity merely laying atop the facade of a checkup. The realization sends heat pooling into your stomach, treacle-thick and aching. He slides his hand to the edge of your bandages and your arm jerks, years of instinct filling you with alarm -

“Shhhhhh.” He calms you like you’re a spooked horse, motions slow and gentle. Kuras smooths the top of the bandages, fingers burning like a brand against the edge of cursed skin, straightening one where it’s twisted. There’s a reverence in how he touches you. And a thrill inside as you realize that he can touch your skin without fear, that he must have done so when he healed you the first time; when he gathered your lost limb with his own and rejoined it to you. Your eyes dart between the angled lines of his furrowed brow and where his long fingers rest on your arm.

“Flex your fingers for me.” His breath puffs faintly on the side of your face. You ball your hand into a fist and then open it, fingers stretched wide. “Good.” Praise, from him.Your breath shudders as you exhale. Good. It makes you ache for more, yearn to hear it again, to do what he asks. To be so very good for him. Kuras’ hand glides down the rough lines of your bandages to your palm, thumb rubbing small circles in the center of it. The rest of his hand wraps around the back of yours, cradling it in his own. Your heart pounds and you pray he can’t feel it, that the bandages offer you some kind of protection from his observation - Allmother, his hands are so big-

“Any issues you’ve noticed with your heart or lungs?” Your hand feels so hot in his, trapped between the weight of his grasp and focused attention.

“N-No, um, everything has been normal-”

Kuras tuts at you, impeccably calm. “I find myself doubting your judgement.” Your heart pounds traitorously within the firm press of his hand. He slips it up your arm to lay on the side of your neck, where your heart beats furiously in your throat. His other hand rests on the sofa next to your hip, caging you in. “I need no medical instruments to detect that your heart beats so much faster than is normal. Or to notice how your breath comes so quickly from between your lips.”

You freeze, hyper aware of the blood rushing in your ears as it thunders by. And how your breath stutters with each teasing word.

His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, and you look at him desperately. Desire burns in you as hotly as the sensation of his fingertips on your skin. His face is level with yours, eyes dark despite their golden hue. Heat emits from him in waves, sweeping over you. You can see the delicate way his bangs fall on his skin, the way his eyelashes lower as his gaze falls to your lips. “Unless you would tell me that these are not chronic conditions, but rather very recent developments…?” 

Your hand rises of its own will and holds onto his wrist like a lifeline, unsure if you want to hold him still or tug him closer. Your voice is soft and breathy, throat dry. “...Recent. I seem to be suffering from the most sudden affliction.”

You look at his lips, the way they turn up so gently, and gather your courage, leaning forwards toward him, brush softly against the curve of his nose -

Grrrr.

Your stomach growls obnoxiously, shattering the moment. No, at a time like this?! You laugh awkwardly and pull away, cheeks red.

Kuras, truthfully, looks horrified. 

His hand falls away from your face and he lurches to his feet in alarm. “My most sincere apologies!” He runs a hand through his hair hurriedly. “I-I have been a dreadful host. You must have not had the opportunity to eat any dinner.”

Your shame is quickly overtaken by your amusement. Wow, this is the first time you’ve seen him… embarrassed?

He turns on his heel and strides quickly to the cupboards on the other side of the room. You watch as he opens them, one by one with increasing speed, pausing intermittently to peer at the top shelves, or to extend his arm into the dark recesses. Even though most of the shelves are obscured from your view by the broad span of his back, the slivers you can see appear completely barren. You rise and come to stand by his side. If he’s going to make you something to eat, it’s only polite that you’d offer to help. But it's increasingly difficult to not feel apprehensive as you stare down at the eclectic assortment of items he’s setting on the counter. As he finds each one, he places it next to you with marked relief, brushing dust off it before burrowing back into the cupboards, head barely visible. You can hardly believe your eyes. It appears that the menu for the evening consists of only the most matured items: a jar of jam, label so worn and faded that it’s nearly impossible to tell what type; a clear glass container of some pickled vegetable, green faded through time into a murky brown; a singular apple, skin slightly wrinkled, and lastly, a much newer, pumpkin-sized sack, with “Nutrient Fortified Oats,” printed boldly across the burlap material. 

The doors clatter as he closes each open cabinet and comes to stand by your side. Any remaining hope that he’d find something more palatable quickly vanishes. So… that’s it, huh. “If I knew you were this low on groceries, I’d have brought you some fish earlier. Missing key or not,” you remark, craning your neck to smile up at him. He frowns, looking down at the pile, his hands clasped behind his back. “It has been quite some time since I’ve been to the market.” You raise your eyebrows. Eons, maybe. Kuras hums contemplatively. “I thought I had some asparagus hidden away, but I haven’t been able to locate it.” You peer at the murky mystery vegetable, lifting it up to get a better look at it in the lantern light. “I think… this may be the asparagus,” you say, squinting.

He stoops to take a closer look at it. “Ah, that it is!” he declares brightly.

“Though, um, asparagus is not a vegetable that I’m overly fond of,” you hazard, looking at the jar with trepidation. Some of the stalks inside appear to have lost their shape, partially dissolving into the brine. You actually enjoy asparagus, on occasion. But you desperately would like to avoid eating this kind. “I think oatmeal sounds perfect.” It’s certainly a safer option than trying either of the items in the jars.

“A wise choice. It’s quite heartening - I prepare it for patients who have been at my clinic overnight. It seems to give them the strength to go on their way.” He retrieves a gigantic pot from next to the fireplace and hesitates. “How much would you like?”

You look at the huge pot with wide eyes and then back at him. It’s almost big enough that you could sit in it. “Oh, um, just a bowl amount would be fine…” As he starts to pour the entire pitcher full of water into the pot, you ask hesitantly, “...are you having some too?”

“No, I’ve already eaten.”

You watch silently as he adds a second pitcher of water into the pot. He tosses in a couple cups of oats and hefts the huge pot onto a hook in the fireplace, suspending it above the flames. It appears more as if he’s making an oat-based tea than it does oatmeal. He hangs a kettle on a hook next to it. Frankly, the pot contains probably about eight times as much water as you would have used yourself. But it’s his kitchen, and he’s already done you the tremendous favour of allowing you to spend the night. So you bite your tongue and think longingly about the meal you have waiting for you in your apartment. The two of you take a seat at the dining room table. “The oatmeal takes a good while to cook,” he says, handing you the slightly withered apple. That’s probably an understatement, if he normally boils it in this much water. 

You take an apprehensive bite. It’s not too bad. It hasn’t gone mealy, and still has a tart brightness to it. "I saw you were reading a book earlier." You lean forwards, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. "What's it about?"

"It is a story about uncovering a criminal."

"A mystery novel?"

"Of a sort." He looks down where his hands rest along the edge of the table. You can hear the gentle sound his ring makes as he presses his hand against it. "It's one I have read countless times before."

"Is it a favourite of yours?"

"Not exactly. But it is one I find myself returning to, from time to time."

"Sounds like it's worth hearing about." You take another bite of the apple, leaning back in your chair.

He smiles a little at that, inclining his head in admission. "There is a kingdom ruled by a wise king, who is well liked and increases the prosperity of all. As he reaches the very beginning of old age - an age where he might still have some twenty years ahead of him - he falls ill. It begins as a cough that grows worse by the day. The entire castle can hear him as he coughs through the night. But one day, he falls into a dreamless sleep that no one can wake him from and eventually wastes away.”

He continues, voice measured and gaze focused far off in the distance. “The land mourns - but none as much as his firstborn son. He had hoped to learn more from his father before it was his turn to rule over the kingdom. As a testimony to the wisdom of his father, the young prince keeps all of his father's advisors and court, to guide him as the new king. Of note, there is the lead of the palace guard, a few lords of the lands within the kingdom, a royal physician, a royal magician, and the head of the palace staff. The years pass peacefully once more as the new king has much of the good sense that his father possessed. The lands are so bountiful that he selects members of the court to send to neighboring kingdoms as envoys to form alliances. He sends much of the court, including the court's magician. The new king marries and has a beautiful daughter."

The kettle whistles, and he rises, pouring the boiling water into a teacup and adding a bundle of herbs. “For your nightmares,” he says gently, placing it before you. 

You sniff it warily, but all you find is the friendly and familiar smell of camomile. "This story doesn't seem like much of a mystery yet," you muse, taking a sip and settling back in your chair as you prepare to hear the rest. The tea settles warmly in your stomach.

"The base of the mystery is there already," Kuras remarks, with a twinkle in his eye. "The new king is cautioned by his queen that he trusts too easily, for she had come from a land where betrayal was common. He begins to doubt the death of his father and the sudden way in which he fell ill. He watches the remaining courtiers more closely and asks those whom he had sent away to return, out of fear that they might be swayed by gilded promises to turn against him. His daughter grows into a young girl. The magician had kept a small garden before he left as an envoy, in which he grew various plants for potions and natural remedies. He had always kept it well tended and forbade others from entering, stating they would trample the flowers. But in his absence, it begins to grow unruly. New plants spring forth from the earth, the plants in the garden diversifying without his watchful eye to weed out newcomers. One day, the princess is found in this overgrown garden - in the same, unending sleep that the king's father died from. Perhaps poisoned when she was out of view."

"Is there an assassin in the court? Or maybe someone from one of the neighboring lands?"

"The king suspects as much. He brings each member of the court into the throne room and interrogates them. It seems as if the same person who killed the king has laid in wait all these years. Lord Lautier is the leader of the largest section of the lands in the kingdom, and the king suspects tyranny. He was a lord when the former king passed. He threatens and pleads with him to tell him how to wake the princess, but Lord Lautier has no answers for him. So the king casts him into the dungeons in disgust. Next, he speaks with the head of guards, fearing a coup, but the man is earnest and forthcoming. Still, he sends him to the dungeon out of mistrust. The king even begins to suspect the queen. Perhaps she had so often spoken of treachery because of a guilty heart. And so, she too is locked away. Each person has words that appear earnest at first glance, but for the king, they ring false. His paranoia follows him like a shadow. He begs the court physician to heal his daughter, and the physician tries remedy after remedy, but nothing wakes her. He brings in every healer he can find in his desperation - but no matter what potion, spell, or medicine - the princess remains asleep. The magician is the last to arrive at the castle from his duties as an envoy. When he hears word of the sleeping princess, he grows pale and rushes to his quarters, crafting a potion. It works - it wakes the princess. The king promises the magician whatever he wants in return, but he will not accept a reward."

Kuras pauses, hearing the dull rumble of boiling water. He lifts a ladle from the wall and scoops the oatmeal into a large wooden bowl, setting it before you with a spoon. It looks abysmal. The oats float, unmoored and swollen, in the cloudy hot water. It’s more something that you could drink than eat. You dip your spoon into the, well, oat broth, and gingerly place it in your mouth. Oh, you think grimly, he didn’t season it at all. Or… maybe he did, but it got diluted by the water? 

You swallow quickly and try to find another question to ask about the story. You need to buy time so you can decide how you’re going to get away with only eating a tiny portion of the food when you were so hungry earlier. I bet his patients could get better even faster if he wasn’t feeding them such a depressing meal. "So, who tried to assassinate the princess?"

"The king's fear turns to anger now that his daughter is safe. He will not rest until he discovers how his daughter became afflicted. He goes nearly mad with rage, ordering torture upon the imprisoned members of the court. One day, as he interrogates the court physician, convinced that perhaps he had not truly tried to heal his daughter, the physician speaks. How strange is it, he says, that the magician was able to cure his daughter when no other could? The king's gratitude turns to suspicion, and he orders the magician to be jailed like so many of the others. But before the magician is taken away in chains, he confesses." 

You twirl your spoon in your bowl, watching as the oats spin. The room is pleasantly warm (from Kuras just as much as the fire), and drowsiness is seeping into your bones. You take another bite, hiding your grimace with a gulp of the herbal tea. "So the magician was a traitor the whole time?"

"Years ago, when the aging king fell ill, the magician had done his best to find a remedy that might ease his sleep and allow him to heal from his sickness. He read ancient texts and cultivated a flower that would aid in rest. But in his inexperience, and the king's weakened state, the undiluted flower was far too potent, and the king could not be woken. When he died, the magician lost his king, as well as his honesty. If anyone learned of his potion, he knew he would be executed. The palace grieved in the years after - but none so much as the magician. He did trial after trial and came up with a remedy to this endless sleep - though it was too late. He banished the plant from his garden and swore to never tell a soul what he had done. To live a life in service to the new king as his penance. When he was sent to a neighboring kingdom, in his absence, those soporific flowers bloomed once more. Some seeds had lain dormant in the soil despite the magician’s efforts to eradicate them. And the princess, fancying herself a florist, found them after they bloomed and inhaled their pollen. At last, the magician had a chance to use his remedy and alleviate his guilt. But in doing so, he exposed his original sin."

You glance at your tea before glaring at him in mock suspicion. “I hope that is a fictional flower. I may have nightmares but I’m quite fond of my ability to wake up. There are some unsettling parallels that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore -” 

Kuras laughs in surprise, holding his hands out in supplication. “A mere coincidence, I assure you.” You yawn, waving his sentence away. “I’ll believe you, I suppose. No point in the alternative. I’m already sleepy, so if you’ve doomed me to eternal slumber, I’m probably already beyond saving. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” You mull over the conclusion to the story, listening to the soft crackle of the fire. "Was the magician executed, as he had feared?"

Kuras steeples his fingers together and regards you with a long, searching look."Yes."

You slouch in your chair, pulling your knees to your chest. "But the magician didn't mean to harm anyone. I mean, he was only trying to help the king, and then he spent the rest of his years trying to make it right. Wouldn't you have pardoned him?"

Kuras sighs. "Does his remedy for the princess erase his former mistake? Can his guilt and shame bring the king back to life? What of the members of the court who were imprisoned and tortured - does the magician hold no blame for their treatment, when he could have ended it by breaking his silence earlier?" 

You shake your head slowly, eyes fixed on the way his mouth twists as he speaks.

He continues, voice firm. "I do not believe atonement can be merely crossed off a list. There is no endpoint where one's good deed has nullified the initial transgression. Perhaps… the magician is right to live in service to the king as penance, just as the king is right to take his life." 

It doesn’t entirely feel like the two of you are only talking about the story now. “Hmmm,” you yawn, drumming your fingers against the surface of the table next to your (mostly still full) bowl of slop. “I think good deeds can eventually outweigh the original crime, if there’s enough of them. Sure, it might not erase the initial mistake. But people learn a lot from messing up and it can motivate them to go out and do great things. I guess intention and effort matter to me, when I consider… when I consider whether someone should be forgiven.” 

You rub your hand over your face, sleepiness weighing down your eyes. Despite Kuras’ promise that your tea isn’t going to put you into an eternal rest, you find yourself doubting him. There’s a desperate craving to find some warm cozy corner to curl up in that has spontaneously appeared. “It sounds like I’ll have to read the story myself. To see if I agree with you.”

Kuras seems, in that moment, older than he appears. As fixed and enduring as a wizened tree, burls formed by years of growth around one wound. His golden eyes are fixed, once more, on that distant point far beyond you. “Absolution,” he murmurs, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire. “Who can give it, save for those whom were wronged? And in their absence…” 

But the moment is lost, and the man you recognise is back before you, levity glinting in his eyes.”Yes, I’ll lend it to you. Let me know whether your opinion is altered upon completion.” He rises and crosses to your end of the table, frowning at your nearly untouched meal in disapproval. “Eating well is the foundation of health,” he chides, taking your full bowl away just the same. 

Your drowsiness is becoming impossible to ignore, weighing you down like you’ve been submerged in sand. “That’s why your cupboards are empty,” you mumble, laying your head across your folded arms on the surface of the table. “You eat up everything and make a h-huge monstrous breakfast or something so you can be the strongest.”

He breathes out a huff of laughter as he sets your bowl down on the counter. You continue dreamily, exhaustion making you bold. “It’s why you’re the picture of good health. Shiny hair and skin that’s so glowy and also - it’s the reason you’re never cold, I bet.”

You hear his steps pause over your shoulder, close behind you. “It appears that it’s time for you to turn in,” he says, amusement as warm in his voice as the coals in the fireplace. “And maybe next time we’ll steep the tea for a little less time, hmm?”

You close your eyes, head feeling as heavy as a boulder where it rests on your arms. It’s childish but you can’t resist. “Don’t wanna move. Bring me a blanket and I’m comfy cozy riiiiight here.” 

He gives an exasperated sigh. One of his arms slides beneath your knees where they rest on the edge of your seat and his other cradles your back. He lifts you high into the air like you weigh nothing, and you hum happily, pressing your face into the warmth of his chest. The room sways gently with his steps as he carries you across the room to the couch. “Mmm. I could sleep juuuust like this.” 

He laughs and you can feel the deep rumble of it, sense the soft exhale of breath against your forehead as your hair stirs. 

“You’ll be thankful in the morning that you slept laying down.” He places you down on the couch so gently that the transition blends together, the strong support of his arms transforming seamlessly into the plush give of the cushions. 

You keep your eyes closed and roll onto your side, facing the front door. Everything feels so heavy and comfortable. You hear the soft sound of his footsteps as he crosses the room. “Are you leaving?” you ask plaintively.

The sound of his voice is immediately reassuring. “I’ll return in just a moment.” 

He’s true to his word. There’s the soft click of a door opening and closing before you feel the gentle weight of a blanket being draped around you. “Head up,” he says quietly, sliding his palm against your head to lift it and place a pillow beneath it. You nuzzle into the surface. It smells like him. Like that fragrance you found in the bathroom. Though your eyes are closed, you can feel him, standing before you. Hesitating. 

Then he’s stooping, brushing the hair back from your face where it’s fallen across it. He presses a kiss to your temple, featherlight and gone in a heartbeat. 

“Stay with me?” you murmur. You’d kick yourself in the morning for being so clingy, if you’d remember it. But for now, you yearn for his companionship. It’s been so very long since you’ve had someone with you while you slept. So long since you’ve felt safe enough in someone’s company to sleep with them there.

“I have some paperwork to attend to.”

And there’s a small part of your heart that wilts at that, mourns the end of your night, where morning will come and end this time together, but it feels unfair to ask again. You pout a little, turning your face down into the pillow. You hear the soft rustle of pages, his footsteps padding across the carpet, a light metallic scrape, and then - the firm weight of his back against your knees. You crack open a bleary eye in surprise. Kuras is seated on the floor in front of the couch, peering through his glasses at paperwork balanced on his knees before him. He leans against the front of the couch, pressing against your legs. He glances to the side, meeting your eyes. “Go to sleep,” he scolds you affectionately.

That pang in your heart dissipates, replaced with blossoming joy. Joy that he chooses, still, to be with you. Chooses to stay despite the childishness of your request. “You work really hard,” you mumble. You almost miss his reply as you spin into sleep. 

“I must.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The soft sound of clanking metal wakes you, and as you blink your eyes open, it almost feels as if no time has passed at all. The sky through the windows is speckled with stars and the room is still dark and lantern-lit. But a new fire has been started in the fireplace, wood not yet blackened. And Kuras is there, bowed before it, ladle stirring the pot hung once more over the flames. He looks the same as he did when you fell asleep, and you wonder if he slept at all. 

As you stretch, he looks over. “Any nightmares?”

“None,” you yawn, cracking your neck. It’s the most refreshed you’ve been in months. “I guess the tea works!” 

“I am glad to hear it,” he says sincerely. “I’ll parcel some out for you to keep at home.” 

To your surprise, your clothes are folded neatly over the arm of the couch. “How long have you been up?” you say groggily, sniffing them when his back is turned. There’s no fish scent to them, only a faint scent that you’re starting to associate with him. 

“I rise before the sun so I can prepare the clinic for the arrival of patients,” he replies, taking a seat in the armchair nearby. “I’ve already seen my overnight patients this morning, they should be well enough to leave in a few hours. Breakfast is ready if you would like some.”

You head to the bathroom to change back into your clothes but stop in your tracks when you pass the fireplace and see the same murky, oat water from the night before in the pot. Oh no. He must have fed some of this to his patients already. You waver on the threshold of the bathroom.

“I’m good without breakfast today, Kuras. But thank you so much for thinking of me.” “Any coffee or tea?” Normally, you’d have tea or coffee to push back your exhaustion from your lack of quality sleep. Today, you don’t need it. Still, it seems wise to allow him to give you something - lest you have to eat leftover oatmeal. “Whichever is great!” you call back, shutting the door behind you.

When you return, he offers you a steaming cup of coffee, the scent wafting through the air. “It’s good you woke up when you did. I would like to accompany you to the Wet Wick in a few moments when dawn has broken. Leander and his Bloodhounds have a certain… luck for finding lost things in the city. It would serve us well to see if your key has been turned in. And if we leave shortly, I should be able to return to the clinic before any patients arrive.” 

Despite the casualness of his words, his voice is controlled and stiff. There’s something so stern about him, so commanding, that you finish your coffee quickly, gather your belongings (with the addition of the tea and the book he’s lent you), and fall in step behind him without a word like a meek schoolchild. He walks so quickly to the Wet Wick that you have to break into a jog every few steps to keep up. Despite the fast pace, it’s enjoyable walking with him. When you’re by yourself, you have to be constantly watching for the few landmarks you know. Not to mention dodging wheelbarrows and carts in the streets, puddles full of the contents of chamber pots, and vines that seem to grow out of the gutter with the sole intention of tripping you. 

With Kuras at the helm, you can simply trail behind him as a passenger, taking in the flowers, the beautiful stonework on the buildings, and the incredibly enjoyable way his broad shoulders narrow into his waist and muscular thighs. Yes, you’ve always been fond of sightseeing.

The Wick in the morning feels innately wrong, like a vampire came along and sucked all the life out of it. All the dust and grime show up in the harsh light of the rising sun. The many tables and chairs are deserted and the room is unsettlingly silent, save for the soft sound of birdsong. The innkeeper stands behind the bar, her face puffy with sleep, bent over a ledger. As she sees the two of you approach, she nods, and heads upstairs - no doubt to get Leander.

You stand by Kuras’ side, fidgeting. It’s awfully strange to be here so early. When you’d lived here there had normally been a few people playing cards or eating breakfast by the time you got up. Leander thuds down the stairs hurriedly. He looks even more exhausted than usual, hair tousled. Kuras, meanwhile, is the picture of composure, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Leander.” 

“Kuras! I didn’t expect you to be here so early.. and look who you’ve brought along! Thank goodness, I was so worried!”

Kuras frowns at him, and there’s an intensity to his gaze you’ve rarely glimpsed before. “Why is it that you were worried?”

“Because I found her key, of course!! Where in the world did you spend the night?” His eyes move from Kuras’ to yours, and he grabs you by the shoulders, scanning every inch of you. “I’m so happy you’re safe.” He pulls you, bodily, into a hug. You pat his back. You hadn’t meant to worry him. 

“She was with me.” Leander stiffens, brow creasing as he pulls back. 

You nod, smiling awkwardly. “Yes, Kuras was kind enough to extend his hospitality while I was locked out of my place. I made it to his door just in time.”

“You spent the night with him?” Leander pauses, examining you for what, you aren’t sure - before continuing. “In Kuras’ clinic? That’s no place to sleep! You’ll be lucky if you didn’t catch anything, spending time around all those sick people.” He runs his hand through his hair raggedly, distraught. “The Wick was open all night, you know you always have a room here, don’t you? I didn’t sleep a wink, I was so worried about you!”

Your eyes widen, guilt growing. Maybe you should have just come to the Wick instead. Did he really stay up all night out of concern?

Kuras’ hand falls to your shoulder, steadying you. It feels unsettlingly like you’re caught in a battle between the two of them. “The key, Leander,” Kuras grinds out, patience wearing thin. 

“Of course, I’ve kept it right here on me. I wanted to make sure it was safe and didn’t get lost again.” He pulls it from his pocket and hands it to you, eyes sympathetic.  

Kuras feels as resolute as a stone pillar by your side. “Yes, quite fortunate that luck was on your side and you were able to find it. Let us hope that, after today, luck directs itself towards keeping keys firmly where they belong.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Leander replies tersely, mouth downturned. “I’d prefer if she didn’t have to rely on luck to keep track of the key, too. If she lost it from her coin purse, where can she keep it where it won’t fall out?” He turns to you, hand on his hip. “It’s not safe to live on your own if you’re going to end up on the wrong side of a locked door with no way to open it.”

You clench the key tightly in your hand. “I’ll keep track of it.” Your coin purse. The one that’s tucked down the front of your shirt, imperceptible except for a thin cord around your neck. How did he know where you kept your key? Nervously, you brush your bandaged hands over the numerous pockets around your waist. There’s some in your pants and cloak - even in the top of your boots.

Leander looks at you skeptically. “As long as you remember that the Wick is open at all hours. Besides,” he says, gesturing at Kuras. “He’s not at the clinic every evening. It’s risky if you’re counting on him being there.”

“Yes, there are a few rare evenings when I’m not at the clinic.” Kuras nods at him, voice colder than usual. “I will show her my primary residence so she’ll be able to locate me in moments of crisis.”

“... And I’ll keep an eye on my key,” you say nervously, trying to dispel the tension. “That way everything will be fine.” You glance between the two of them. “I lived through the night, ok? I’m thankful that both of you are so generous and want to look after me.”

Your mind shifts again to your coin purse. Leander’s the only one who had gotten close to you yesterday. When he hugged you at the fish stall. Your stomach churns. “Well… I had better drop this off at home and then head to work,” you say, raising Kuras’ book in your hand. “Thanks again to the both of you. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble or worry.” 

“It was no trouble at all,” Kuras says smoothly, warmth returning again to his voice. “And please do drop by later to let me know what you think of the story, when you’ve finished it.”

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Leander says, searching your face. 

You smile back at him, but you’re not certain it reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

Your feet follow the route back to your apartment mindlessly, key in hand and thoughts spinning. It’s mystifying how your key found its way outside of your coin purse. Perhaps Leander had seen the outline of the bag beneath your shirt, or deduced that you wouldn’t keep it in your pocket. There’s a layer of guilt that lays across your thoughts like grease. He’s been so nice to you, and had looked so intensely relieved when he saw you were safe and sound. It feels unreasonable to suspect him of any misdeed. Swiftly, you drop the key into the top of your boot and kick your leg until it rests solidly against the sole of your foot. You’ll try this hiding spot for now. Until your doubts fade. At least the sharp discomfort of it beneath you will be a reminder of the fact that it’s there. You’re thankful, now, that you thought to visit Kuras’ clinic instead of going to the Wet Wick. Like Leander clearly had wanted.

His usually haphazardly thrown covers have been fixed and smoothed more often at your chiding and care. In a way, it's odd to see his bed now: similar to its old state, blanket thrown only across your torso yet holding Princess entirely except her head and tail, pillows at your head and at the foot.

Lips quirking in amusement, Ais steps over creaky floorboards and crouches at the edge of the bed that you're nearly hanging over. There's a book flipped open beneath your hand resting across Princess's back.

She's taken great liking to you and your voice, and "reading time" has become a new nightly go-to after your escapades. Most times you switch with Ais sitting beside you, trading on and off until Princess is asleep or you're too tired to continue. (He won't count this time since he wasn't here, but there's a tracked number of who falls asleep first, and he always reminds you you're losing by a long shot.)

The fourth reading night in, Ais realized he enjoyed your company at home long after city walks and bar hopping.

Silence fills the Seaspring's halls more than he'd like without you.

Even with Princess and the Soulless and occasional visitor, the echo of his footsteps is often only accompanied by creaks or ripples across the red depths. It's temporary noise that always returns to something empty.

Lonely.

It's why he visits the Wet Wick on nights cold enough to deter most from leaving their homes, and likely why his footsteps are quicker than usual when he hears your call.

Ais's expression softens as he takes in your sleeping state, watching your chest rise and fall. Before he realizes it, his hand is reaching for you.

A thumb rubs arcs over the apple of your cheek, gentle to keep you from waking. (Soft as if you might disappear otherwise.)

This is different, he thinks. Your presence. Not suffocating or cold, but warm.

Quiet more than silence.

A huff sounds, then a sniff, two.

Ais pauses as eyes open, and a tail starts to thump against the mattress.

Princess lifts her head to greet him, and his smile brightens while his voice stays low, "Hi, princess."

She clicks and purrs, matching the gravel in his voice.

Her weight shifts and dips enough to stir you awake.

Ais runs his hand through Princess's tendrils as your brows furrow and eyes squint open. Nearer speaking volume, he teases, "Sleep well? Haven't seen my bed like this in ages."

You groan and smush your face into the mattress. Voice muffled, you reply, "Thanks to me."

Princess moves at the sound of your voice, head nudging yours.

"Mm. My saviour. What would I do if no one fixed my blanket so I could mess it up again?"

"Oh, so you'd like me to stop?" You ask, turning to face him with raised brows.

Princess noses your now visible face and pulls a breathy laugh from your chest. Quickly adopting Ais's role and scratching her favourite spots, you pout in dramatic disbelief. "You'd do that to our sweet girl?"

"Our" pokes at Ais's chest.

He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue in return.

"Didn't say that," he replies, a beat slower than intended, with a slight tilt of his head.

"Maybe you should stay here more often to do it,"—his eyes flicker between you both—"for Princess."

The sound of her name gets her attention, and she turns to nudge him once more in affection. He starts to pet her the same moment you falter at his words.

Most times, it's Ais already looking at you by the time you can meet his gaze. This time it's him coming in second, cautioning a glance at your expression.

The poke that followed "our" pokes again when he sees you're already smiling.

The sex isn't quite the way they intended.  Leander is eager, desperate and overly affectionate.  It rattles them, incongruent with the playboy image of a man they thought they were inviting into their bed; the casual escapade they were inclined towards doesn’t seem to be what they received.

They try to exert control—they do exert control, though it feels like a hollow facsimile at best.  He accommodates their whims, accepts and welcomes their harsh treatment even as they dig their cursed nails into his flesh, press bites against his lips when he seeks their kiss.  His eyes never seem to leave theirs, even as they parry and avoid every intimate gesture he offers them.  Their first fuck is rough—a relief—absolution and damnation in equal measure.

They’re high on adrenaline for the second, nerves singing as he sears worshipful kisses against their golden fissures, laces their fingers together with his, murmurs nonsense.

They lose count of the rest.  Their mind is lost in the heat and the sweat, the green haze they wish they could blame on liquor.  It’s a dream—feeling someone so completely, without any of their usual visceral fear.  But it’s a nightmare.  The way they tip their head back to hold back their tears and end up showing their throat, the way they swallow his whispered promises.

Leander doesn’t behave decently.  Doesn’t escort himself out afterwards.  He spends all night crowding them in bed, arms encircling them, his heavy weight trapping them against his chest.  They shove at him, weak and ineffectual, exhausted from the night's activities.  While their eyes droop, fluttering closed against their will, his stare is vibrant, an affectionate smile upon his still-wet lips.  As they drift off they feel the press of his mouth against their temple.  They tell themselves they hate it, lips too numbed with impending sleep to protest aloud.

They mean to rebuke him when they wake.  Deride his terrible etiquette as a one night stand.  Tell him he smothered them with his body heat and hogged the blanket, contradictions be damned.  They spend a long moment internally repeating what they’ll say—studying his sleeping face, the stress he carries during waking hours so obvious now that they see him not bearing the burden.  The moment slips away when he opens his eyes, words momentarily caught in their throat as they admire the color of them, as they listen to his easy pillow talk.  The curve of his smile, the crinkle of his eyes at their stilted responses.  His warm embrace.

He holds them all night only to get on his knees for them in the morning.

The pleasure is so intense, they feel like they’re about to lose their own mind.

They dig their nails into his back when he fucks them, snapping his hips in a rhythm that steals their breath away.  They hold him with the same fervor he held them.  (As if that might be the tipping point—their last ditch effort—they’ve scared away anyone they’ve ever wanted just by wanting—)

And he says it; into their ear: “I love you.”  And his voice is wrecked but he still manages to make it sound like a prison sentence.  “I love you.  I have you, I have you, you can—”

They score a punishing red line down his scarred bicep with one cursed hand, gripping his hair with the other to wrench him away, to make him look them in the face.  He groans low in his chest, eyelashes fluttering—a true masochist—but his gaze meets their own with intent.  He pauses, pulses inside of them but doesn’t come.

“Maybe I have you.”  They spit viciously, though they don’t think they do.

He’s immune to their poisonous tone like he’s immune to their curse.

But they’re weak to whatever he is.  To his soft retaliation.

They try to tug their hands away from his reaching grasp, but he doesn’t even acknowledge their resistance.  He laces his fingers with theirs, saccharine sweet, pressing the backs of their palms into the mattress.

“I’m glad,” he says tenderly.  Affectionate like he has the right, like he’s anything more or less than the worst decision they’ve ever made.  “I want to be yours.”

His absinthe green eyes seem to peer right through them.  

“And you're mine, too…aren't you…?”

The only difference between Leander and the Senobium is the uniforms.

They wonder at the fact that they listened to Vere, believed him wholeheartedly, and still did this.