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“I swear to fucking Greagor, if any more of those shit-eating, ugly-arse critters jump us again, I’d…” Biast’s diatribe trailed off into a string of expletives that, many years ago, would’ve made Clive blush, but being in the company of death-dealing, war-crazed Branded lowlifes for a decade had long desensitized Clive to even the crudest of profanities.
“Ease up, Biast,” said Tiamat as he led their crew across the dry, hot sands of the Velkroy and back to Dalimil. “Our erstwhile employer is a man of great means and has promised us a restful stay at his inn and the services of his…ladies of the house in exchange for our mission’s success.”
Aevis snorted as he wiped traces of fiend guts from his pauldron and checked the daggers attached to his belt. “He screwed us over,” he muttered. “Seven bandits in the cavern system, he said. Seven. He didn’t mention they kept Antares and Bloodfang pets. When I said bandit-hunting was far below our skill grade, I didn’t mean we should get ourselves ambushed by beasts.”
“If you took our employer’s word at face value, you’ve only yourself to blame,” said Tiamat. He was smirking slightly.
Tiamat guarded their flank when they went into the caverns, so he hadn’t dealt with the beasts at all, and when the bandits came into the fray, he picked them off with magic spells from a distance.
His combat uniform was dusty but otherwise stain-free, unlike Clive and his two other comrades, who were soaked up to their smallclothes in insect slime and wolf innards.
Tiamat had turned to Clive then and nodded approvingly at him. “Look at Wyvern here. The picture of competence. Not a word of complaint.”
“Piss off,” Biast groused, sending Clive a scathing look. “He never complains.” Then, his brows lifted slightly in a somewhat hopeful expression when he turned back to their sergeant. “Are we really getting whores tonight? Because that’d make all this shit worthwhile.”
Tiamat rolled his eyes. “Yes, a room and bed for each of us,” he said, and he seemed happiest about it, “full meals until the morn and our pick of the finest ladies of ill repute Dalimil has to offer.”
Aevis cast Tiamat a doubtful look. “And Sir Frederick will be fine with that?”
“Sir Frederick is currently getting his balls raked through the coals for mixing up our targets in Kostnice,” Tiamat responded. “Lord Bailey has been assigned to be our acting commander in the meantime.” He turned around, easily walking backwards in the sand without losing his step, and he gave them all a meaningful look.
“Thank Greagor’s tits,” said Biast, his mouth widening into a delighted smile.
Lord Bailey, like many members of the Sanbrequois officer pool, received his executive consignment by knowing (or being related to) the right people and not so much because he was a particularly skilled fighter. He didn’t have a strong head for military leadership either, but he made up for it by being more charitable than the rest. He didn’t quite mind if his Branded soldiers and conscripts were rewarded with some “recreation time” so long as they had a sponsor and wore suppressive manacles while off duty.
Their company had the pleasure of being under Lord Bailey’s authority just twice before. The first time, they’d taken out a Sanbrequois lord, a wealthy heir to one of the Norvent estates, who was an outspoken critic of then High Cardinal Sylvestre Lesage. He died to Tiamat’s blade, and their employer, who’d been brother to their mark, expressed his gratitude by handing them off to a newly appointed Captain of the Imperial Army: Lord Bailey, who then rewarded them with a single night of fully paid debauchery at Northreach’s most irreputable district.
That was about five years ago. At Biast’s encouragement—nay, dogged insistence, Clive laid with a woman for the first time that night. It was supposed to have been pleasant. Clive spent himself twice, so it must’ve been pleasant, but all Clive truly remembered was a feeling of weightlessness, of emptiness, for while his comrades thought the discomfort of the manacles a small price to pay for indulgence, they muted all the remaining warm parts of Clive, the parts that were Joshua’s gifts.
All Clive could remember was the longing that ate at his skin and the coldness that spread through him as the grief and despair and all the empty, raw places Joshua left behind became impossible to ignore.
The next day, right before they reported back for duty, Biast had slung an arm around Clive’s shoulders and thought to enrich Clive’s vocabulary by recounting his night in sordid detail and then prodding Clive to do the same.
When Clive had refused, Biast looked genuinely hurt. “Come now, Wyvern. Tit for tat. We’re brothers, aren’t we?”
“We aren’t brothers,” Clive had answered.
“Fucking rubbish, Wyvern. I took a crossbow bolt in my arm for you two days ago,” Biast had said, his forehead creased in irritation. He’d drawn away from Clive then and pointed an accusing finger at him. “I’ve pulled out critter thorns from your thigh. Tiamat even made me piss on your foot when that fanged bell fish stung you through your boot last year. Don’t I always make sure your arse gets to live another day? We’ve shared beds and shabby tents for years. We give each other shit. We even shit in the same mudhole a few times. I’ve seen your prick. And let’s not forget, you got that prick wet by a professional-grade cunt last night because of me. You’re saying we aren’t brothers?”
Clive didn’t know how to respond, and he hadn’t needed to anyway. After his rant, Biast had punched him—painfully—in the arm, reaffirmed that they were brothers before marching away because Clive was “sucking all the joy out of me like you always do with that sullen face.”
Since then, Clive eventually did come to think of Biast as a brother, the kind of brother one grew with, fought with, and maybe trusted with their life sometimes. But no number of years sharing near-death experiences and habitation could make Clive love anyone like he loved Joshua—Joshua who was Clive’s brother.
He was gone, but he would always be Clive’s brother, the kind of brother that had been Clive’s whole world. Even after his death, Clive still breathed for him, survived for him.
On one of their deployments to Kanver, Biast had gone off to take care of a secondary mark on a high-risk mission, and Clive had bid him farewell and hoped he returned safely.
Clive would’ve never let Joshua go off on his own.
I should have never left his side at Phoenix Gate, Clive thought then, his chest tightening with near-debilitating remorse. He’d let Joshua go, had asked him to look after their father, entrusted his safety to other Shields.
That was when I lost him.
Biast had gotten his heart broken once by a beautiful Veil courtesan, and Clive had joined Aevis and Tiamat in calling him a lovesick fool before letting Biast wash the pain down with cheap ale.
“She was far too good for you,” Clive had said. “But at least this ale isn’t. Take comfort in that.”
Clive didn’t know what he would have done if he’d been faced with a broken-hearted Joshua.
And I would never have the chance to know.
Perhaps if Joshua lived, Clive would’ve learned to tease him, too. But no. No one would have ever been too good for Joshua. If Joshua lived and had his heart broken, Clive would have folded him in his arms instantly.
“If they are so foolish as to not love you and remain devoted to you completely and forever, then you may just content yourself with my love and my devotion,” he would have said.
But I would never have the chance to say it.
Joshua was gone, and no amount of hardship could ever restore Clive’s world. He only had the fantasy of revenge and the company of his brothers-in-arms now.
And for those brothers, Clive would have to tolerate the suppression manacles a second time.
The manacles fit snugly around his forearms, above a protective leather layer, and they made the air feel so much colder and thinner the moment they snapped shut.
“You’re to report to the Briar’s Kiss at sunrise,” said Lord Bailey’s sergeant, turning away from their company as soon as he’d ensured they were each rendered magically crippled.
Biast and Aevis were the first to seat themselves at a table and gorge themselves on roasted meat, ale, and their sponsor’s generosity, with little regard for how their still-soiled clothes reeked.
Tiamat, meanwhile, prioritized ensuring their client hadn’t gypped them of their promised rooms.
Clive followed Tiamat’s lead, eager to wash up. Their company had spent the past moon catching sleep by aether-fed fires and on hard, sandy earth. On top of all the filth that stained his uniform from their latest mission, Clive had so much sand and dirt in places sand and dirt weren’t supposed to be. Even his earring had been so thoroughly dirtied with debris that wearing it made his earlobe redden and itch.
Clive’s room was small and only had a single window that looked to the east, but it had a proper bed, one that was long enough and wide enough to fit Clive. It also had a wash basin stocked with liquid soap and oils.
The basin had to be replenished two times before Clive had been satisfied.
Cleaned of all the built-up grime on his person, Clive carefully set his newly washed earring aside to dry and then threw on a threadbare tunic and trousers before rejoining his comrades at the tavern downstairs.
Biast and Aevis were still in their dirtied uniforms, but the two ladies pouring them drinks didn’t seem to mind all that much. Their employer probably paid them in advance. Tiamat would’ve seen to it.
Clive took his place at the end of the table and started eating as much as he could, fully understanding the value of a fresh cooked meal. It almost made him forget how cold he felt having the Phoenix’s Blessing silenced.
Tiamat sat across from him, looking clean and put-together, and he’d just waved off a lady that had offered to keep him and Clive company.
“What’s this? Not eager for a warm body tonight?” Aevis asked, scooting closer to Tiamat and raising an eyebrow at their sergeant.
Tiamat made a face and leaned away. “The night is still young. I’ll get to it in a leisurely manner. Now, have a modicum of respect for yourself if not for your bedpartner and wash that stink off.”
“Pisspot,” Aevis shot back at him, but he had on a good-natured smile, and he’d stood up and headed for the stairs to do as he was told.
Biast, on the other hand, wasn’t paying them any attention at all, completely preoccupied with his two fully compensated ladies now that Aevis had left their company.
Clive felt Tiamat’s eyes on him and waited to be addressed, wiping crumbs and oils from his fingers before drinking some water. He’d lost his taste for spirits once he realized that he could never quite get drunk, which meant there was nothing for him to gain from drinking piss-poor ale.
Biast had valiantly tried to test Clive’s limits once, when Lord Bailey allowed them to be sponsored a second time by a high-ranking Sanbrequois client with deep pockets, and since they only had barely half a night’s respite, their generous commander hadn’t even bothered having their magic suppressed.
Clive remembered feeling relieved, and he also remembered Biast being incredulous.
“Greagor’s fucking teeth, you’re inhuman, Wyvern.” Biast had been wildly drunk himself, and yet he’d consumed only a third of what Clive had. He’d been impressed, and then he’d felt sorry for Clive that he’d clumsily cajoled a lady nightwalker to spend some time with him.
“You might as well take advantage. No way I’m getting my prick up,” Biast had muttered.
The lady he picked for Clive had long, curly dark hair and deep grey eyes lined heavily in kohl. She felt soft and plump under Clive’s hands when she mounted him.
She’d also looked quite disinterested at first, and then she took a good look at Clive and became much more enthusiastic.
“Have fun, have fun—it’s—it’s all on my…all on my…,” Biast had rambled as he collapsed onto the straw bed beside them and promptly passed out.
The lady had been a hard worker, and Clive hadn’t wanted to be rude to her even if she hadn’t bothered sharing her name when Clive asked.
“Call me whatever, love,” she’d said before unlacing his trousers and pulling his cock out. She’d gotten it wet and stiff with her mouth, and she was very good with her hands. Clive remembered it feeling good, warm. But he also remembered feeling tense the whole time.
When he still enjoyed the luxuries of royalty, he often spent his free time with Joshua, poring through books in the castle’s main library. Joshua loved reading fantastical tales and then figuring out how fictional magic and political systems could work. He’d get lost in the logistics of it all, and then he’d forget about the stories altogether as he busied himself sketching out maps and charts on paper.
Clive never lost interest in the stories though, especially the romantic ones, the tales that spoke of all forms of love, the tragic ones and the fleeting ones and the ones that lasted forever. It was easy, somehow, to put himself in a lover’s shoes, to understand how love made people happy, how it inspired devotion, how it made life feel more meaningful, how it could also make fools of men, especially when they offered their love to an unworthy partner, how it could break the heart and the spirit and the mind, how it could mend it all.
He read, too, about how love could set alight the fire of desire, could feed the body unimaginable pleasure. He imagined—fantasized the experience a few times, as his body grew into adulthood, with a partner he could never put a proper face to.
But he wasn’t a prince anymore, and he was far removed from the libraries of Rosalith and forever removed from the warmth of his brother’s love, kindness, and keen mind.
Clearly, he hadn’t been destined to ever enjoy a true lover’s touch, and so he’d let a determined lady provide him with some degree of pleasure, and he tried to be polite and listened to her so that he might provide her some pleasure in return.
And when she’d been done, Clive had curled himself to sleep and again wondered, fantasized, what it would be like to lay with someone he loved.
Even now, it felt so impossible to him, for in all his twenty-five years, Clive only ever truly loved one person with all his heart.
“Our client keeps two…servicemen in his employ, too,” Tiamat said, his voice drawing Clive back to the present. “Maybe you’d be more interested…”
“I’m fine,” Clive said gruffly, turning back to his plate, which was now empty. Clive’s stomach was full, but he was still cold all over. He’d remain cold until the sunrise, when the manacles would come off.
No amount of warmth from another body could make Clive forget that the best parts of him were locked away.
Tiamat shrugged, used to Clive’s moroseness. “Well, at least get a good night’s sleep.” Then, he stood up and left Clive alone, presumably to secure his partner for the night.
Without a comrade to distract him, without the discomfort of hunger or squalor to focus on, Clive felt the familiar stirrings of grief in the pit of his stomach, the kind of grief that always felt devastating anytime he gave it a chance to come to the fore.
Clive tried to push it back with thoughts of vengeance.
He was much stronger now, had learned how to best use the Phoenix’s gifts to his advantage. He’d mastered stealth and even the dagger, so he took some comfort in knowing that he could bring the second Dominant of Fire down if given just the right opportunity.
That was the extent of his progress. He was nowhere closer to discovering who the hateful Dominant was, but, at that moment, with the Blessing of the Phoenix out of reach, he’d rather feel like a failure than a grieving man.
After a while, however, the misery of failure started feeling a bit too much like the misery of loss, so Clive next tried to distract himself with his surroundings.
Tiamat had gone now, and Aevis had returned to retrieve his lady from Biast. Clive could tell they were getting ready to leave, too. Biast directed an encouraging nod toward the two remaining ladies by the barman when Clive caught his eye, but Clive simply shook his head at him and looked away, first to a table of exhausted workingmen eating and conversing in low tones, then to a man who sat in the far corner; he wore a hood and had his face turned away from Clive while his ink-stained hand scribbled wildly on a pile of papers. A thick tome lay open in front of him, beside a half-full plate and a tankard.
Clive frowned. The tavern was noisy and dark, illuminated by too little firelight, not the right place to be reading or writing, yet the man, who only had a single lit candle on his table, didn’t seem bothered at all. His quill glided through the paper in swift, errant patterns.
A servant had come to the man’s table then with a second candle and used a water crystal to refill the man’s tankard. The man turned to her slightly and handed her a small coin—pure Dhalmekian gold as far as Clive could tell.
A rich man. A scholar? A rich scholar.
And then the fire from the second candle flickered wildly, briefly revealing golden, wavy strands of hair that had slipped free of the man’s hood and a smooth, cherubic face. No Brand.
It was the hair that fully caught Clive’s attention, and then he was looking intently and everywhere—at the cut of the man’s unmarred, hairless jaw, at the straight line of his nose, at the slender shape of his wrist as it tapered toward the hand.
Clive wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been staring, but he knew right away when he’d been found out. The man’s shoulders had visibly tightened, and he looked up from his table to give the tavern a cursory survey. His eyes locked with Clive’s almost instantly, and Clive found even more things that demanded his attention: the blue of the man’s eyes and more of his hair—gold and rosy, it seemed, under the subtle gleam of candlelight.
Clive thought the stranger’s face profoundly beautiful, not quite feminine, not quite masculine, but every detail felt important, soft, dear, and as the other man’s eyes narrowed at Clive and at the Brand on his cheek, his suspicious gaze turned more curious, assessing.
The stranger seemed to be measuring the rest of Clive’s person—his shoulders and chest, his hands—before his attention returned to Clive’s face, and all the while, Clive felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom in his chest, not quite like the Phoenix’s magic and not quite like aether-fed flame. It felt like the heat of blood, and Clive soon felt it on his face and the tips of his ears.
The man tilted his head, and his lips, which seemed impossibly dewy and pink, curved up slightly as he beckoned Clive to his table with an outstretched arm. His hood had slid back with the movement, spilling more of his thick wavy hair, hair that framed his face and covered most of his forehead, much like…
Clive found himself moving instantly, slipping quietly into the seat across from the man…boy? He looked much younger up close, no hint of a beard, but his eyes were bright, intelligent, and deep, and when he spoke, his voice, though soft, was low and smooth like the texture of rich velvet.
“Hello, stranger,” said the man. He’d dropped his quill, steepling his fingers in front of him as he addressed Clive. He didn’t seem to mind Clive’s Brand, though his eyes strayed to the suppression bands around Clive’s forearms, and his face tightened somewhat upon, perhaps, realizing what the bands did.
“Hello,” Clive answered back, feeling strangely at ease. He couldn’t stop looking at the man. He couldn’t stop seeing…
“What’s your name?” asked the man.
“Wyvern.”
The man frowned. “What’s your real name?”
“Wyvern,” Clive said again.
The man laughed softly then, and Clive found himself entranced by the press of his lips as he tried to suppress it.
“What’s your name?” Clive asked.
“Margrace.”
Clive dipped his head slightly and gave him a pointed look, and when he saw the man’s lips twitch up again, Clive asked, “What’s your real name?”
The man’s smile widened, and his eyes seemed to brighten even more. “Margrace.”
They shared a laugh this time, and Clive felt his chest and face grow even warmer; he hadn’t laughed in a long while.
“Why have you been staring at me, Wyvern?” said Margrace, half his attention returning to his papers, though only so that he could gather them into a pile. The top page had cartographic markings on them, with grids and citation symbols and drawings of islands.
“What islands are those?” asked Clive with a frown as he tried to make sense of the rough curves on the page. He knew the Twins well, and he was intimately familiar with the shapes of the Iron Islands and the Rosarian coastlines.
Margrace looked down at the page that had caught Clive’s interest.
“Oh,” he said, his cheeks pinking. “These are—They’re the islands of Aeloria.”
Clive’s frown deepened. “Ey-what?”
“They don’t exist,” said Margrace, waving his hand in the air. “Well, they exist but only in tales. From the folklores of Gaia brought in by the continentals…”
“Oh,” said Clive, his eyes widening with realization. “You mean Aeloria, the lands of the Gifted.”
Margrace looked at Clive with surprise, and he sounded delighted when he said, “You know them.”
“I…” Clive pursed his lips. “I read about them. When I was younger.”
“I was trying to make sense of their…history. It wasn’t in the texts, but I wondered where the airships could’ve originated first. I thought mapping out the trade routes would be a good place to start.” Margrace sent him a somewhat sheepish look. “It may seem silly, but I needed to distract myself from… upsetting things.” His eyes widened slightly then, and the pink in his cheeks deepened. “Not that I care what a stranger thinks, of course.”
Clive shook his head, unable to pull his gaze away from Margrace’s face. “It isn’t silly.”
Elwin Rosfield had been a patron of the creative arts. He’d always encouraged Clive and Joshua to find inspiration in symbolic worlds and characters.
Whenever threatened with grief, Clive would turn to fantasy to cope with loss, to find hope in dreams where there was none anywhere else, to find comfort in imaginary people finding happiness when real happiness felt so far away from Clive’s own grasp.
“I suppose you don’t have much to be happy about,” Margrace said softly, and that was when Clive realized he’d spoken some of his thoughts out loud.
“And do you, Sir Margrace?” Clive asked, and he found that he wished for it. He wanted to be told that this man, who reminded Clive so much of… He wanted to be told that Margrace was happy.
But Margrace only turned away, the light in his eyes dimming, and Clive felt his heart constrict.
Eventually, Margrace looked back at Clive and asked again, “Why have you been staring at me, Wyvern?”
“I…” Clive considered offering the candid truth of it, how Margrace felt to Clive like an impossible ghost all grown up and come alive, but he realized even if he could find the words to explain it, he didn’t think he’d be able to voice it, so instead he said, “Like you, I needed to distract myself from upsetting things.”
This seemed to return some of the mirth to Margrace’s face. His eyes glinted once more with amusement, curiosity, and he responded, “So you think me distracting?” He narrowed his eyes at Clive. “Are you hoping I could distract you for the rest of the night? Your comrades seemed to have already secured their bedfellows, and you’d be better off taking their cue. I’m afraid I don’t engage in buggery for coin.”
“I…I don’t—no, I—” Clive sputtered, feeling embarrassed and yet still strangely at ease. Warm. Margrace was smirking at him, teasing him.
“Well, seeing as you seem disinterested in a lady’s company tonight, will you talk to me instead, Wyvern?” said Margrace. His eyes turned slightly pleading, and in response, Clive thought suddenly and somewhat deliriously, I’d do anything he asked.
“I am in dire need of cheer,” Margrace continued. “I’m to begin traveling soon, hoping to find answers to the most wretched of questions, and any wisdom I might gain is unlikely to bring me even the smallest degree of joy.”
“What would you like to hear?” asked Clive, eager to be of service.
Margrace shrugged. “Anything. Tell me stories. Something happy and full of hope. They need not be true.”
And so Clive shared with Margrace a Sanbrequois tale of winged creatures that found their soulmates through song. Afterwards, he narrated a myth from Veldemarke about heroes who died in body and yet whose souls were kept alive by faith, by love.
Margrace listened to them, his eyes growing wet at all the sad and happy moments. And then Clive began telling the story of the water lizard and the firebird.
“I don’t like this one,” Margrace interrupted, nose scrunching up in displeasure.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s an old Rosarian tale,” Margrace answered sullenly. “Shortly before their birth, the lizard and the bird got their eggs separated from their clutches and found family in each other. They played in the dirt and slept on the rocks. They were happy, until the lizard grew gills and had to stay in the lake, and the bird grew feathers of fire and had to keep free of the water. From then, they could only speak to one another, but they could not touch, and no matter what they did, they could not overcome the limitations of their nature, their fate. It’s supposed to teach young children that they need to accept and see things for what they truly are rather than get lost in what they could be.”
Clive felt a tinkling of amusement as Margrace recounted the tale in an almost petulant tone. “You really don’t like the story, do you?”
Margrace glared at him. “I asked for happy stories.”
“My story is happy,” said Clive. “You should let me finish it.”
“It’s already finished,” Margrace argued. “Famously so!”
Clive shook his head and shushed Margrace with a wave of his hand. “Let me speak.”
Margrace eyed him suspiciously, momentarily distracting Clive with the fan of his pale, long lashes, but kept silent.
“Yes, no matter what they did, the lizard and the bird could not be together,” Clive said. “Until the lizard decided to change his fate. He dragged himself through mud and grit, training his gills to breathe through the soil, and then he rubbed his skin raw against the rocks so that eventually they might harden and grow thick scales. He turned himself fireproof, so that when his firebird came close, he would not get burned. But he changed himself too much, and the water began rejecting him. The lizard couldn’t breathe through his gills anymore, and without air, he would die.”
Margrace’s face fell then, but Clive continued, “But the firebird came to his rescue. He tore off his magical feathers of flame and fed them to the lizard’s scales until they came to life like scorching embers. And so the water lizard became a fire lizard, and he could now live freely with the firebird at his side.”
“That’s not how the tale goes,” Margrace protested, but he didn’t sound upset anymore.
“It’s how my tale ends,” Clive insisted.
“And so what lesson does your story teach?” Margrace asked. “That one can change his fate if he tries hard enough?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Clive said smugly.
This made Margrace laugh. “This is a happier story,” he conceded, beaming brightly at Clive. “And a more hopeful lesson.”
Clive shrugged, feeling light, lighter, as he drank in Margrace’s smile. “It’s just a story,” he admitted.
“Sometimes, stories are all people have,” Margrace said, “when the only way forward is to push through the pain.” Then, his voice grew more somber. “Thank you, Wyvern. I never expected I’d find warm company with a kind stranger when I came here tonight.”
Clive lowered his eyes, feeling a tinge of shame. “I’m not a good man, Sir Margrace.”
Margrace’s voice softened even more. “You’ve lived a hard life.”
“You don’t know me.”
“And yet I’m right,” said Margrace. He sighed heavily before retrieving a leather satchel from the floor. Then, he proceeded to pack up his effects, his book and papers, his quills and inkpot, and as Clive watched him move, he felt like he was waking from the first good dream he’s had in years, like all the warm feelings in his chest were gradually dissolving together with Margrace’s imminent departure.
Crestfallen, Clive looked away and spied the other man’s half-full plate on the table. There was some partly eaten, crumbly bread and small bits of meat in it.
The carrots were entirely untouched.
Clive felt his entire body crumple suddenly, grief overcoming him in waves, and instinctively, he curled into himself, knees drawing up to his chest as he buried his face in his arms and cried wet, silent tears.
Joshua.
Clive was no longer at the tavern. He was in the castle hall, trying to talk his brother into eating his vegetables. Joshua was being obstinate, until he wasn’t.
Fine, I’ll eat everything, but not the carrots, Clive.
And then Clive was inhaling acrid smoke, the smell of burning wood and flesh, and it became so much more difficult to take in air. His mind had grown sluggish, but his heart was beating furiously in helpless panic, in anguish. There were no images in Clive’s head, no visions behind his eyes. There was only a crushing press of emotions that battered Clive relentlessly from all sides it seemed, like Clive was drowning, like he was feeling his world shatter again and again and…
There was a hand in his hair suddenly, warm and solid, real. A man’s soft voice was murmuring in his ear, and the melodic cadence of it was lifting the haze in Clive’s mind and easing the pain in his heart.
Clive was back in the tavern, and he found that he could breathe again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Margrace was whispering to him.
“I—I don’t know why—” Clive said haltingly, even if he did know why.
“Our demons have a knack for catching up to us when we least expect it,” said Margrace.
When Clive dared to catch his eyes, Margrace gave him a small, bitter smile. Then, he cupped a warm, gentle palm under Clive’s elbow and began helping him to his feet. “Shall we get you to bed?”
Margrace guided him to the stairs. It surprised Clive to see them nearly of the same height, and as Clive quickly wiped the tears from his face, he felt desperation overtake the grief in his chest. He didn’t want Margrace to leave, not yet.
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Clive wrapped a hand around Margrace’s arm and pulled him along, gently, slowly, so that Margrace knew he was free to walk away if he wanted.
Margrace remained by his side until they were inside Clive’s dimly lit room, and Clive recognized with some embarrassment that the new, clawing warmth in his groin was desire and that Margrace must know what following Clive to his room and closing the door behind them meant.
Clive turned to Margrace then, feeling hopeful. There was no coin to induce Margrace to fall into bed with him, no Biast belligerently egging him on. There was only the hope that Margrace would want to enjoy his company for longer, would be willing to keep him warm for just a tad longer, long enough until the sunrise perhaps, until Clive could feel the Phoenix’s grace once more.
Unfamiliar excitement tickled Clive’s skin as he reached out carefully, still so slowly, to rest a palm against the smooth curve of Margrace’s cheek.
Margrace still hadn’t spoken, but when Clive touched him, he moved his head slightly to nuzzle into his palm, and Clive felt the blossoming heat in his navel spread swiftly, aggressively, throughout the rest of his body. It felt odd, new, exhilarating.
And then Margrace’s eyes turned sharp and defiant, his hand coming up to wrap around the part of Clive’s wrist not covered in suppressive metal. He said, “I’m not taking your coin.”
Clive blinked at him stupidly for a while. “I wasn’t—” Clive was a slave. He didn’t have a single gil to his name.
But Margrace kept speaking. “You told me happy stories, and you were kind to me, and you—” he paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I like you,” he said instead. “That’s why I’m here.”
“All right,” said Clive, and then he gave himself a short while to think about what Margrace said. He frowned. “Happy stories? That’s all it takes?” He felt protective of Margrace suddenly. “How many people have you bedded?”
Margrace glared at him. “Did you miss the part where I said I liked you? And if you must know,” he paused again, his face reddening, though his eyes stayed defiant, “You’d be the first. My first.” He visibly swallowed. “Possibly. If you’d get to it.”
Once more, the unfamiliar fire that had ignited in Clive’s navel pulsed wildly, though it was also quickly tempered by shame. Margrace deserved better than a Branded assassin, and yet Clive couldn’t bear to let the other man go.
Clive wanted Margrace, wanted to experience real comfort, real warmth with Margrace, so he stepped forward, wrapped an arm around the other man’s trim waist—so thin, a little too thin—and found his mouth.
Margrace’s lips felt soft and moist under Clive’s own, and they pressed back against his in a manner Clive would call curious, like he wanted to explore the full curvature of Clive’s lips, to feel every crease.
Clive allowed Margrace to plant brief, tender kisses all over his mouth, his chin, against the rough stubble on his jaw, and then he began craving for more, more warmth, more contact, so he dove in with his tongue, prodding Margrace’s lips to slide open, and then Clive licked into his mouth.
He felt Margrace respond with a soft moan, felt the body pressed against him shudder and hardness dig into his thigh, and when the fire in his loins pulsed once more, there was nothing left to temper it.
Clive surged forward, weaving fingers into the thick locks of Margrace’s hair, spreading the full width of his hand across Margrace’s back so that he could pull him closer, as close as he could, until their bodies were flush together from chest to navel.
Eventually, Margrace pulled his mouth away, breathing hard, and Clive took the opportunity to nose the side of his face and breathe in the faint smell of beeswax.
And then Margrace was gently pulling at the ends of Clive’s tunic.
“Let me see you,” Margrace said, still slightly out of breath.
Clive finally let him go so that he could disrobe; it was quick work, and as soon as he was naked, Margrace’s hands were on him again, his palms radiating heat as they pressed upon Clive’s breastbone and ran his fingers down to fold around his hips.
Margrace’s eyes were wide and bright as he smoothed his hands back up to lay on top of Clive’s shoulders.
“You’re so beautiful, Wyvern,” he said, a hint of wonder in his voice, and then he was leaning in to kiss Clive again, to plant even more of his exploratory kisses along the arch of Clive’s cheek even as his hands trailed downwards to press upon Clive’s abdomen and then further. Margrace began to trace the length of Clive’s erection with his fingers. His touch was dry but featherlight, and Margrace’s skin seemed to radiate with unnatural heat, drawing sweat from all the places the two of them touched.
“What do you want?” Margrace whispered, his lips pressed against the shell of Clive’s ear, hot breath ghosting his skin. His hand continued to very gently explore Clive’s cock and the heavy sacs of his testicles.
Clive breathed in shakily as he once more wrapped his arm around Margrace’s waist and pulled him into a rough kiss, forcing Margrace to halt his leisurely fondling so that he could hold onto Clive’s shoulders.
Clive manhandled him onto the bed, biting at his lips and then licking the tip of his nose before he pulled back to strip Margrace of his clothes.
Margrace’s skin was unmarred, like he’d never suffered a wound in his life, and Clive suddenly felt determined to find a single scratch or welt or scab. He ran his hands greedily across the lean planes of Margrace’s chest, his stomach, his thighs, pulling his legs up so that he could lave a tongue down his shin, kiss an ankle and then run teasing fingers across the sole of Margrace’s foot.
Margrace’s answering laugh was both breathless and giddy, and he kicked at Clive playfully until Clive released him.
“You’re perfect,” Clive whispered, crawling back up for another kiss, feeling giddy himself at how easily, willingly, Margrace had opened his legs to welcome him. “How is there not a single scar on you?”
“I heal fast,” Margrace said, his voice dipping low at the end of his sentence as if he hadn’t meant to say it. Then, he cleared his throat and said, “My scars are unseen, but they are there, and there are wounds in my heart that remain open and raw. I’d like to forget them for a while.”
Clive caught Margrace’s hand and planted a kiss on the inside of his wrist in apology. “Shall I tell you more stories?”
“Make a story with me now,” said Margrace, and his blue eyes turned bright again. Looking into them made Clive feel vulnerable, like Margrace could read every thought in his head.
“Make us a happy memory,” Margrace said, and so Clive did, rolling swiftly off the bed to grab the oils by the water basin. He coated his fingers with them and rejoined Margrace on the bed so that he could align their erections and make them wet and slick with his hand.
“Ah,” Margrace gasped out, baring his neck, and Clive, not one to waste an opportunity, dipped his head to lick at the sweat there, to tease the bend of his clavicle with his tongue and his teeth. All the while, Clive continued to work their cocks with his hand, taking cues from Margrace’s shaky breathing to find a rhythm they both liked, a rhythm that Clive completely lost the moment Margrace turned and breathed, “I want you inside me,” into Clive’s mouth.
“I’ve never—” Clive began.
“I’ll tell you if you’re doing it wrong,” said Margrace, shooting Clive a smirk that looked so self-assured, Clive nearly spent himself. “Use your fingers first,” he said. “One, then two, then three. Use all the oil you need. Go on.”
Clive sat up as Margrace spread his legs wide, fully exposing the beautiful length of his glistening cock and making Clive’s mouth water.
“You said I was your first,” Clive said almost accusingly as he let his index finger glide down Margrace’s taint to the pucker of his ass. “How do you know what to do?”
Margrace snickered and then gasped as Clive’s finger slid into him.
“I’m very well-read, Wyvern,” he said. “Now, do as I say.”
And Clive did. Under Margrace’s direction, Clive opened him up, and under his direction, Clive began sliding into him.
“Wait a moment,” Margrace said once Clive was fully sheathed. His forehead was creased and lined with sweat. He breathed in and then out, and Clive, who had a firm grip on Margrace’s thighs, felt the muscles under his hands relax, felt the delicious, almost painful tightness around his cock ease slightly.
Finally, Margrace smiled at him, and it wasn’t the maddeningly self-possessed smirk he’d been sporting the entire time he gave Clive orders. This smile was sweet, dear. “Move now,” he said softly. “Enjoy yourself.”
And Clive did. He bent forward, arching his back and digging his knees into the mattress, and then he moved.
The bed under them groaned and creaked in sync with Clive’s thrusts, so Clive bent down even further, keen to take in more of Margrace’s near-melodic moaning and feel each of Margrace’s exhales against his face as Clive dug fingers into the other man’s thighs, sank them into the meat of Margrace’s buttocks, and enjoyed himself.
“I will finish,” Margrace hissed, his mouth so close to Clive’s that he felt the air behind each word, “but…even when…I do,” he continued in between keens that seemed to come all the way from his chest, “keep going.”
Margrace wrapped an arm around Clive’s neck and pushed their sweat-slick foreheads together. “Keep going,” he said again, gasping out each word, his other hand reaching downwards to stroke his own hardness. “Until…you are done. Until you…are satisfied.” And with a deep-throated moan, Margrace tightened all around him.
Clive felt a scorching wetness splatter upon his abdomen, and he dug his hands a little deeper into Margrace’s skin to keep himself from losing it completely. Then, he kept going.
Even when Margrace’s grip on him loosened, even when Clive could feel Margrace flinch slightly at each thrust, Clive kept going. Because Margrace told him to, and Clive would do anything he asked.
The pleasure, already a scalding warmth in his belly, in his groin, grew sharper now, and Clive slowed his movements and lengthened his thrusts instead. When he felt the peak coming, he captured Margrace’s lips in a kiss and then he pistoned his hips violently, swallowing every breath and every groan from Margrace’s mouth, until his orgasm shot out of him, sending waves of pleasure throughout his body, and for the first time, even with so much sweat on his skin, not a single part of Clive felt the slightest bit cold.
Before he could pull out, Margrace grabbed the back of his neck and said, “Slowly.”
So Clive slid out and off of Margrace as slowly as he could manage, biting his lip when he saw Margrace wince in pain, but by the time Clive settled beside him, Margrace’s face had smoothed, and he was looking at Clive with the most tender expression.
It made Clive feel vulnerable all over again.
“I need to leave before sunrise,” said Margrace regretfully.
Clive felt his breath catch. There was that feeling of coldness creeping up his spine once more, but it was easier to weather somehow, even bereft of the Phoenix’s gifts.
“I…I have minders, though they’ve felt more like my wardens lately,” continued Margrace. “They’d be very cross if I don’t arrive at the appointed time…,” he trailed off, and then he smiled wryly, “…somewhere.
“If it weren’t so urgent, I’d…” His eyes broke away from Clive’s gaze. “They said they had news of my…family.”
Clive knew better to ask. Margrace was a stranger, and no matter how intimate they’d been, he would leave Clive’s room a stranger, and Clive would never see him again.
“I hope it is good news,” Clive said instead.
Margrace sighed. “I can’t even imagine how…” He trailed off again, and then he scooted closer to Clive so that their foreheads almost touched. “I don’t want to burden you further.”
“You aren’t. You didn’t. You won’t,” Clive assured him.
But Margrace only shook his head and then kissed the tip of Clive’s nose, a tender, sweet gesture that made Clive’s heart bloom warm once more. “Sleep.”
“And when I wake, you’ll be gone?” Clive asked even as he felt the pull of exhaustion take over him.
Margrace had his fingers splayed across Clive’s neck, and they felt so warm, so soothing. Clive felt so terribly comforted that even the thought of rousing to an empty bed could no longer keep him awake.
Clive woke to an empty bed, but he wasn’t alone. Not yet.
It was just on the cusp of sunrise, the window streaming faint shades of orange light into Clive’s room.
“I thought you’d be gone,” Clive said gruffly, voice thick from sleep, though his mind was already alert.
Margrace was sat beside the bed, fully clothed, his satchel already slung over a shoulder, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry.
“I just wanted to make sure,” Margrace began, his eyes fixed on Clive’s face with the same tender expression he wore last night, “that you never doubt this happened.” He smiled then. “You didn’t dream of me. You saw me, and I saw you, and we loved each other for a while.”
Clive felt a lump in his throat and tears prick his eyes.
“When the only way forward is to push through the pain, I hope you can think of me and think of this. Not a fantasy, but a memory. I hope it can bring you comfort,” said Margrace, and then he leaned forward and kissed Clive again and for the last time.
When he pulled away, Clive had to dig his fingers painfully into his palms to keep himself from reaching out.
“Farewell, Wyvern,” Margrace said, and he was gone.
Not much later, Clive and his comrades trooped to the Briar’s Kiss to have their manacles removed and receive a new assignment.
Learning from past mistakes, none had taken much drink last night, and so each was fully at the ready, and Biast was the most refreshed Clive had seen him in a long while.
“You’re looking less…sullen, Wyvern,” Aevis remarked as he massaged his now bare forearms.
“Oh yeah,” said Biast, eyes narrowing at Clive. “Did you get with a lady after all?”
“No,” Clive answered, extending his arms to have his own suppression bands removed.
The bands slipped free in two clicks, and magic coursed freely through Clive’s veins once more, but Clive didn’t feel particularly warmer. His heart was already feeling quite warm from the memory of a kind stranger.
-- End