Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard Characters: Neil Josten, Andrew Minyard, Aaron Minyard, Nicky Hemmick, Renee Walker (All For The Game), Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Allison Reynolds (All For The Game), David Wymack, Original Dog Character(s) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Epistolary, Flashbacks, neil runs, And then Neil Returns, Andrew Minyard Has a Service Dog, References to Canon Traumas, Mental Health Issues, Hopeful Ending Summary:

One summer, Neil and his mother hid out in a baseball town. One summer, he made some friends, sold some hot dogs, and fell in love. One summer, Neil became real, for the first time in his life.

Before autumn, he was gone.

Now, everything in his life has fallen apart, and all he's left with is the memories of a place that was the closest thing he can imagine to home. But can he ever really return to all that he left behind?

Read it here!

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Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard Characters: Neil Josten, Andrew Minyard, Betsy Dobson, Aaron Minyard Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Sexual Situations, Adoptive mother!Bee, Homophobia, Hand Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Demisexual!Neil Josten, Sexual Humor, Anal Sex, First Times, excessive use of lube Series: Part 4 of High School Science Summary:

In their last year of high school, Andrew and Neil start exploring each other. It doesn’t always go quite as expected. Or, 5 times intimacy doesn’t go according to plan, and one time it does.

It’s finally finished!  Sorry again for the delay for the last chapter, but I hope you all will think it’s worth it.  Our boys finally get some uninterrupted alone time, and on Christmas no less!

Fantastic last chapter in this work about Andrew + Neil exploring each other + the whole idea of intimacy. It’s a great +1! Love @fuzzballsheltiepants‘ way of weaving together adolescent awkwardness, tender first times, great jokes + thoughtful reflections. 

Thank you Cory!

If anyone has been holding off reading it until it’s complete, and wants to start from the beginning, here it is!  

Fun with Wounds: A Writer’s Guide to Realistic Injuries

Hello from your friendly neighborhood Doctor of Non-Humans!  I’ve been thinking about how to help writers to write medical scenarios, specifically wounds, more realistically for a while.  @yourwritersblock encouraged me to go ahead and post something, so here goes.  Going after the cut as it’s going to be longish and kinda gross.  Also please excuse the formatting, Tumblr heartily objected to the nicely formatted version I tried to cut and paste in.

Keep reading

A modern day suture packet, out of its foil wrap.  Note how the suture material is attached (”swedged”) onto the needle.  (They don’t all look like this, some of them are coiled up in a plastic holder.)

A Suturing kit, containing from top to bottom: thumb forceps; rat tooth forceps; sharp/sharp scissors (probably iris scissors); needle holders; and suture scissors

Simple interrupted suture pattern:

Reblogging this b/c @tntwme were just talking about it.  If anyone ever wants to talk more about writing injuries or wounds realistically (or other medical conditions) please feel free to hit me up!

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 23

This chapter is a little different; it covers 2 days in Terrasen.  There is some moderately graphic violence (canon-typical) and it’s a little NSFW.  The next chapter will get back to Rifthold.  As always, comments, feedback, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!  Tagging: @manoncrochanblackbeak  @mylifeisafangirl  @bluephoenix222    Read the rest:   Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16.  Chapter 17.   Chapter 18.    Chapter 19.  Chapter 20.    Chapter 21.  Chapter 22.

Aedion sat on his horse on the ridge, looking down at the dots of tents below him.  By some miracle they had made it through to this site on the westernmost margin of the Allsbrook lands, north of Rosamel, without incident.  Well, without injury.  Several fresh ghost leopard skins were currently spread out to dry, prizes won over the past week by his soldiers being quick with their bows.  He and Cathal had each bagged one, and had engaged in a friendly argument for most of a day as to whose was bigger (Cathal’s, but he wouldn’t tell him that).  

Kemp’s family managed the land they were on.  They had been storing and drying food all winter to help feed the soldiers after Kemp had told them about Millar’s rejection of their overtures.  He couldn’t see their house from here; another ridge barred his view.  In the other direction, trees blocked the village that lay between here and Millar’s camp.  He, Grant, Kemp, and Gillies had just returned from there, having found a page to bring a letter to Millar, requesting a meeting, and return with the colonel’s response.

There was movement below him, like large insects weaving through the dots, pausing next to smaller insects.  No doubt Grant, Kemp, and Gillies talking to Dewar and Cathal and probably Raedan, though he couldn’t identify them from where he sat.  They all seemed so far away but he didn’t ride down; it was easier to think up here.

Grant had the letter with Millar’s response.  It had been succinct:  “Traitor Prince: May Hellas take you.  There shall be no negotiations.”  At least he hadn’t killed the page.

On the way back, Aedion had told the men to double the perimeter patrol, and use buglers in case of a night attack.  It was like a seismic shift in his brain, every piece of defensive strategy brought to the forefront.  Now, up on the ridge, watching the fires being lit, a different shift was occurring.  Suddenly, he was calm.  Not peaceful; no, this was the calm of deep, certain rage. The painful unease he had felt for months was gone.  These were his men down there, and he would not let them fall.

A couple of the insects were heading in his direction, so he clucked to Marcra and they began picking their way down the steep slope.  As he got closer, the insects enlarged into Cathal and Raedan, as he had expected; both looked grim, also expected.  Cathal searched his face, and he saw his same calm settle on those beloved features.  He swung a leg over Marcra’s back and dropped to the ground.

“Millar’s a fool,” Cathal said, and Raedan nodded earnestly.  

“So it would seem,” Aedion replied.  Cathal led him towards the tent he had put up for them, and Aedion picketed Marcra and untacked him.  The three of them grabbed food and gathered around one of the fires with some of the other men, who went silent when they saw who had arrived.  Aedion waved a hand at them in encouragement, and after a few awkward moments one of the men resumed his story hesitantly.  Aedion recognized the tale; it had been Quinn’s favorite, and he started to grin.

“So this fae warrior, right, he snaps a leg off the table and impales the man with it.  Can you imagine?”

“That is such a lie,” one of the others scoffs.  “There is no way anyone could kill someone with a table leg, except with a lucky blow to the head.”

Aedion spoke up.  “No, it’s true.”  Everyone gaped at him except Raedan, who true to form just started to laugh.  “But you’re not talking about any fae warrior, you’re talking about Rowan Whitethorn.  One of Queen Maeve’s most trusted warriors, and probably the most powerful fae male in history, right?”  There was some dumbfounded nodding and Aedion put his plate on the ground so he could gesture with his hands.  “And I think he’d been injured, too, but maybe that’s a different story.  Anyway, he’d been stripped of all his weapons and clapped in iron so he couldn’t use his magic, so what does he do?  He breaks the leg off the table,” Aedion mimed the action, “and you know wood can get pretty sharp when it’s broken, so he takes the broken end and just jabs it right through the man’s stomach, so hard it ends up embedded in the stone wall behind him.”

“I still don’t believe it!” the soldier insisted.  “These things always get exaggerated.”

“You could be right,” Aedion shrugged, “but that’s the way one of my uncle’s men always told it.”

“I bet you could do it,” someone said from the far side of the fire.  Aedion grinned and waved his hand dismissively.  “No, seriously,” the man, Linton, said.  “Can we test it?”

“Well, I’m not killing anyone here, I like you all too much.”  Everyone laughed.  “Besides, I might be big but I’m not exactly built like a fae warrior.”

“You’re still young,” Cathal said thoughtfully at his side, and Aedion looked at him, surprised he was speaking up.  “Probably another ten years though and you could give any of them a run for their money.  Even the legendary Rowan Whitethorn.”

Raedan got up and disappeared towards the trees.  Aedion had assumed he was going to take a piss, but he returned with a branch off an oak tree just as Aedion was finishing his food.  “This is about the thickness of a table leg,” he said, hefting it in his hands.  “And it’s not rotten, it looks like lightning took it down recently.”  Indeed, one end was split and charred, but the wood felt solid and heavy when Aedion took it.  He observed the expressions of the men gathered around him, and every one of them wore an identical mix of awe and skepticism.  Standing, he eyed the length of branch, then snapped it off about three feet from the end.  

With a fierce grin, he turned and strode through camp, his little gathering scrambling to follow him.  They collected more people as they went, and he wandered along the edge of the woods until he spotted an enormous beech tree.  “Well, I don’t have a body, and I don’t have a stone wall, but let’s see how I can do here.”  Closing his eyes briefly, he grounded himself, finding the strong stable place in his core where the lava of his anger was simmering, then with a deep breath he opened his eyes and lunged, driving the branch before him.  There was a loud crunching noise, and shocking reverberation through his branch.  He released it and looked behind him at the sudden silence.  Fifty men stood staring at him, at the tree, their mouths gaping open.  He looked back at the tree.  About a foot and a half of branch still quivered in front of him; the rest had been driven straight through the trunk.

“I take it back,” said the original skeptic shakily.  “You could definitely kill someone with a table leg.”  Everyone backed away as he headed towards them, and there was quiet muttering in his wake.  Cathal and Raedan followed him, both laughing immoderately, Raedan clapping him on the shoulders.  

“Brilliant!”  Raedan was bubbling over.  “Absolutely amazing.”  Aedion looked at him flatly; the reaction he’d gotten from the men had been more fear than anything else, and that hadn’t been his intention.  “Seriously, Aedion, you just put yourself in the same category as a fae warrior these men grew up hearing stories of.  Everybody here is going to brag for the rest of their lives that they watched you do that.  They’re all thanking their lucky stars that they’re on your side.”

“He’s right,” Cathal said. “You have no idea how unbelievable that was to watch.”  He studied Aedion’s face for a second.  “Come on.  Sit back down at the fire, they’ll come around.”

Surprisingly, Cathal was right.  It took a few minutes, but pretty soon the crowd around their fire was triple what it had been.  Stories and jokes flew fast and furious, Aedion participating with everyone else.  A runner came in, heading straight for Aedion.  “Sir, Millar’s camp is gathering, they’re readying for battle.  According to Ellis, they should be ready to march in the morning.”  There was a long pause, and Aedion got heavily to his feet.

“Warriors!” he yelled, and his voice carried far in the damp spring air.  The whole camp site quieted.  “Colonel Millar has rejected our offer to unite the Bane.  His men ready for battle.  We march at dawn!”  A beat of silence, then an eruption of cheers and shouts and beating of shields.  There was singing and laughter; the atmosphere light, almost joyful.  It struck Aedion as odd.

He said as much to Cathal when they retreated to their tent.  Cathal looked thoughtful as he stripped off his shirt, then bent to unlace his boots.  Aedion sat on his bedroll to do the same.  “It seems pretty normal to me, really,” Cathal said, joining Aedion on his bedroll.  “We can’t change anything about tomorrow, so we might as well enjoy tonight.  I used to have a man under my command who brought his fiddle to every battle site.  He’d play long into the night, dances and ballads and light happy songs.  I loved it.  Then after the battle was over, he’d cry for an hour, then play again.”  

Aedion kissed him in reply, somehow hearing the faint playing of music though he knew there was none.  Not fiddle, but harp, vibrating up through the soles of his feet.  Cathal undid both bedrolls, joining them back to each other so they could share.  They kissed with fierce intensity, though their hands on each other were more gentle, drawing pleasure out slowly.  At Cathal’s first hitch of breath, Aedion whispered in his ear, “Can I fuck you?”

“Not tonight,” Cathal murmured, upping the tempo of his hand slightly until Aedion was the one breathing harder.

Aedion didn’t want to voice that they might not have another chance.  “When, then?” he demanded in another whisper.

“After tomorrow.”

“Are you trying to bribe me into surviving with fucking?”

“Consider it incentive.”  There was a smile in his quiet voice, and Aedion remembered his own words to Cathal last fall, the first time they’d kissed before Cathal had gone to Millar’s.  He huffed a laugh, until his attention was drawn back to what their hands were doing and he let go of his mind altogether.

*****

Cathal sat on his horse, a hundred yards and a hundred men separating him from Aedion. The prince was silent as he looked down the ridge at the rock-strewn valley that sat between them and Millar’s forces. Grant was on Aedion’s far side, invisible to Cathal; the other officers were dotted among the men spread out behind them. The quiet was oppressive, even the occasional stamping of a hoof or shifting of a weapon seeming muffled.

Dragging his attention to the far side of the valley, Cathal could make out the mass of soldiers that crowded that gentler slope. Neither group had the high ground; meeting in the middle was inevitable; but Millar’s group would have the easier area to defend. Yet from what he could see, it appeared his side outnumbered Millar’s by close to two to one. He looked at Aedion again; even from this distance he could feel the calm fury radiating from him, as it had since the previous night.  Aedion, sitting there on a horse so ugly it should be illegal, in plain armor that didn’t even fit him properly, but nonetheless looking like a king.  Not like Orlon, wise and gentle  and serene; but like a king from a storybook, a fae king of old, beautiful and regal and untouchable.  He suspected Millar’s advantage in ground would mean absolutely nothing in the end and felt a savage grin spread across his face as across the valley the men begin to move.

Cathal forgot everything else with the first swing of his sword; there was nothing but the weapon in his hand, the horse underneath him, and the man who had lunged up at him falling back with his sword arm severed.  A cluster of three men grappling with each other got within range; he recognized one of his men and swung at his opponent, catching a glancing blow against his shoulder armor to sting his arm.  This allowed Baran to gain advantage, and Cathal turned his attention to someone rushing at him from the other side.  The fool grabbed at Chance’s bridle and as predictable as clockwork Chance reared up and struck out; the man dropped as a steel-shod hoof clapped him in the head.  Another man darted in, avoiding Chance’s quick hooves, and struck at Cathal’s leg, hitting his thigh plate hard enough to dent it.  The reverberation up his armor made his teeth sing but he dispatched the man quickly and looked around for the next challenge.

There was a horse running loose, and he recognized Marcra and cursed under his breath.  Before he could locate Aedion a thrown dagger struck his shield; he yanked it out and threw it back at its owner, where it bounced harmlessly off the man’s armor.  The man swung at Chance next, and though the horse was nimble on his feet he couldn’t quite get out of range fast enough; he squealed and then spun and kicked out with both back feet and Cathal felt him connect with something.  Cathal looked down as Chance kicked out again, and could see a large flap of skin hanging from his horse’s shoulder.  The man who had attacked them was down and not moving, so he hopped off his plunging horse as quickly as his armor would allow it.  Chance quieted once Cathal was on the ground; the wound was deep enough slow him down but wouldn’t be fatal.  Before he could mount up again, he heard someone rush him; his horse reared up and the attacker backed off long enough for Cathal to organize and engage. 

He spun his sword, shifting his grip to adjust to being on the ground just in time to have his shield up to meet the other’s charge.  The man was almost as tall as Aedion and twice as wide.  Something gave in his wrist as the man hit his shield with his body, too slow to get his sword up.  Cathal almost laughed as he spun away and the man stumbled over his feet and fell; a quick swing and the man was twitching his last.

And so it continued; he had no idea how long he parried and struck, parried and struck; his wrist burned and his leg burned and his arms stung; his throat was dry and his lips were cracked and he could taste nothing but blood and smell nothing but blood and shit and piss; his ears were full of the crash of metal and the screams of men.  It was all a blur of unimportant sensation until he heard the bugles blaring.  Everyone stopped, and hundreds of men turned as one.

He couldn’t see what he was supposed to be looking at, just a sea of men; he could hear shouting but not words.  He began weaving his way through the soldiers, and they were all his soldiers.  When a cheer went up in a wave tears started in his eyes and he started to run: it was over, it was over, it was over…

Then he heard Dewar’s voice, saw him plunging through the crowd on his huge horse.  When he saw Cathal, he yelled, “Rosach!  Go stop your boy before he bleeds out!”

Cathal stared at him in confusion, the words not making any sense, then Dewar was in front of him and urging him up on the horse.  He sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, ignoring the bolt of pain as he peeled it off his arm.  “The stupid fucker doesn’t seem to know he’s injured, he’s still walking around, get up there!”  Dewar pointed in a direction and Cathal kicked hard.  The mare pinned her ears and leaped forward, scattering men from both sides as she galloped towards the hill where he saw a flash of gold; he got closer and the flash expanded into a man, into Aedion stumbling down the hill.  Aedion dropped to his knees as Cathal approached and flung himself off the horse.  As he ran the last couple feet, he could see the blood staining Aedion’s hands, soaking through his tunic underneath his armor and beginning to pool on the grass, and Cathal fought against the blackness that threatened to swamp him.  This was not the same, Aedion was not Luthias, and his turquoise eyes were burning triumphantly, not staring sightlessly at the sky.

*****

It was strange, really, how easy it was to flip from man to animal.  Much easier than spooling the animal back in.

The instant that Millar’s men had begun to move, he had shifted into the predator that had always lurked beneath his skin.  Marcra had actually leaped the first line of men they came to, and Aedion’s sword had already been swinging as the horse’s front feet had touched down.  Every move Millar’s men made as they came at him, he could see telegraphed from miles away.  He realized after just a few minutes that he would be more effective on the ground than on the horse; his leaping dismount landed on one of his opponents, and a quick slash with his dagger had him moving no more.  

Men were falling before him before he realized he’d struck with his blades.  The smell of blood upped his frenzy, until everything was a red haze.  He was fighting his way up the hill, cleaving through the opposition as though through water, when three men launched at him at once from the higher advantage.  As his sword bit into the body of one, his arm was forced open, leaving him with his dagger to parry another.  The third lunged for the exposed area his ill-fitting armor had left on his abdomen.  

He spun away on pure instinct as the knife bit into him, slashing with his left hand across the throat of the man who wielded it.  The soldier fell, his hand still spasming onto the hilt of his knife, dragging it down through his navel and below.  Another move and the last man was down, and Aedion straightened, looking up into a pair of cold eyes that he instantly recognized as Colonel Millar’s.

He didn’t think, didn’t let himself feel, just leaped up and took Millar right off his horse.  The animal spun away as the two men hit the ground; by the time they finished rolling, Aedion had Millar in a hold with a knife to his throat.  He got to his feet, dragging Millar with him.

“Surrender or die,” he snarled, and the inhuman sound of his own voice startled him back into his body.  With a rush, the pain in his abdomen hit him, weakening his knees, and he wanted to glance down to see if his intestines were still in his body but he didn’t.  

Millar didn’t sound defeated when he replied; no, he still had the contemptuous defiance in his voice that Aedion had imagined from Cathal’s story, from the previous day’s letter.  “You can’t kill me.  You’ll never lead these men without me.”

“I just did, you fool.”

A man rushed at them, sword drawn, only to fall a few feet away with Aedion’s dagger in his throat.  Millar tried to pull away, but Aedion lifted him off his feet, holding him against his chest with one arm, his other hand cupping his jaw.  Several others approached more cautiously with their empty hands raised; Aedion recognized the man who had come for Conor Shaw among them, looking much the worse for wear.

“I will ask you again, Colonel.  Surrender or die.”

There were hoofbeats and footsteps and yelling, and a swarm of Aedion’s own men were coming up the hill to him, meeting no resistance.  A wave of relief hit him when he saw Raedan among them, untouched; the rear guard had pressed through, then; they had won.  Millar was looking at his men, and he stiffened up in Aedion’s hold, trying to drive an elbow into his injured gut.  “I will not surrender,” Millar said, defiant unto death.

Aedion looked at the other men where they stood, grief and fatigue and resignation on their faces.  “You heard him choose,” he said to them.  One of them nodded.  With a quick motion, he snapped Millar’s neck; his limbs kicked out reflexively then went still.  Gently, Aedion laid him down on the grass, still hearing the crack echoing over and over in his ears; he pushed back up to his feet and met the others in the eye, one by one.  “I’m giving you the same choice,” he said, just loudly enough for them to hear.  

“We surrender,” the man who had nodded said wearily.  A bugle sounded from behind him, then another, and another, and the notes of victory were still hanging in the air as the commotion in the valley stuttered to a stop.  Aedion glanced down at himself for the first time, seeing blood soaking his front but nothing that should be inside his body sticking out.  Good.

Raedan dismounted and was heading for him at a run but he turned, looking for the best spot to address his men.  Seeing a large rock jutting out of the hillside, he headed to it, Raedan and a handful of others falling in behind him.  Someone on a gray horse rode up, yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear them, or wouldn’t; there were two things he had to do before he could stop.

Clambering up on the rock, he surveyed the valley.  The vast majority of people below were standing, looking up at him; relatively few bodies dotted the grass, and the surge of relief gave power to his voice as he roared, “Soldiers of Terrasen!  Members of the Bane!  Today we join together to create one force! One force to serve our people!  One force to protect those who can’t protect themselves!  Are you with me?”

A cheer rose up to him, deafening him even where he stood.  He scanned the faces below, but he couldn’t see Cathal or Chance; he had to find him before he could rest.  Raedan grabbed at his arm, saying something, trying to push something at him, but he lowered himself off the rock and began walking down the hill.  His feet were clumsy and rocks kept pushing up out of the grass for him to trip over.  As he neared the valley floor more and more people were heading in his direction but none of them were the one he needed.  A familiar gray horse scattered the developing crowd, and his eyes skipped over the rider.  But something made him look back, and it wasn’t Dewar on the horse but Cathal.  He was alive, he was whole, and Aedion’s knees finally gave out as he saw the fire and fear in those dark eyes.

Raedan was on him in a flash when he hit the ground, fumbling with the straps of his armor.  Other fingers began working on the other side, then the armor was lifted off just as Cathal reached him.  “You’re alive,” Aedion said stupidly.

Cathal nodded.  “It’s over,” he said, “it’s over.”  Aedion hadn’t even noticed that his shirt had been cut off of him but he barked a curse when something was pressed over the wound on his abdomen.

“Don’t move,” Raedan snapped.  “Craig is getting one of the healers.”

“I’m all right,” Aedion said.

Cathal made a familiar frustrated noise.  “You’re a rutting fool, is what you are.  Didn’t you realize you’d almost been gutted?”

“It’s not that bad.”

Sighing, Cathal shifted so he was behind him, wrapping a careful arm around his chest, coaxing him back.  The movement pulled a little at the wound but once he was leaning against that body he felt a sudden easing of pain he hadn’t yet acknowledged.

People around him were talking but Aedion wasn’t tracking it.  Cathal was gently stroking his hair off his forehead, and he felt his eyes drifting closed despite the noise and the chill and the spattering of rain that was beginning to fall.

“Aedion.”  Cathal’s voice was sharp and Aedion started awake.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t know why he was apologizing.  “I’m just so tired.”  There was muttering and someone handed Cathal a flask.  He held it up to Aedion’s lips and he sucked down the water greedily.  His mind began to clear.  

“Not too much, or he’ll vomit.”  He recognized Kelso’s voice.   The flask disappeared and he wanted to protest but the words were lost on the way to his mouth.  People came and went and there was talking, always talking.  Finally yet another man he didn’t recognize knelt down next to him and gently peeled back the blood moss Raedan had pressed to his wound.  He jerked involuntarily, and Cathal hissed quietly but held him fast.  

He felt lips at his ear, and Cathal began talking, quietly enough that only he could hear.  “You’re brilliant, do you know that?  Absolutely rutting brilliant.”  He kept murmuring the whole time the healer examined the wound, then as the blood moss was replaced and bound with strips of linen.  

The healer rose to his feet.  “The wound will need to be sutured, but it’s not life-threatening, it only got the first layer of muscle.  You’re a lucky man, Prince.”  Aedion nodded in acknowledgement while the others began discussing how to get him off the field.  

“I can walk,” Aedion said, shifting to get his feet under him and gritting his teeth against the lancing pain.  There was a round of cursing from everyone around him and then several people helped him up.  It was harder to get his balance than he expected and he grabbed onto Cathal’s arm.  Cathal’s flinch was full-body but he didn’t pull away, just stepped in closer to use his shoulder to keep Aedion upright, his face revealing nothing.

The healer had noticed it though.  “Are you injured?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” Cathal said.  “It can wait,” he clarified, when the healer stared at him skeptically.  Aedion wanted to address it but it was taking all his concentration to remain on his feet now that the adrenalin of the fight had worn off.  He drank more water, and then with Cathal under one arm, Raedan under the other, he walked down the hill and across the field to where the healer’s tents had already been set up.  

Once on level ground, he was able to support himself, much to his relief.  His path to the tent was lined with men bowing, reaching out to touch him; most were familiar but there were a surprising number of Millar’s men - no, his men now.  Cathal was hyper-alert at his side but there was no need; it appeared the surrender had been absolute.

He was ready to drop by the time he reached the tent.  Dewar called to Cathal; when he hesitated, Aedion nodded at him.  “I’m all right.  Go.”  With a searching look, Cathal returned the nod and disappeared.

*****

It took Cathal a ridiculous amount of time to catch his damn horse after Dewar had finished settling the plans for incorporating the new soldiers.  The healthy men would all go south to the tent camp, rather than north to Millar’s camp.  The wounded were going to Kemp’s family’s farm for care once stabilized enough to travel the couple of miles.  A hundred men from both camps had volunteered to catalog and bury the dead.  They had already begun gathering the casualties.  Cathal didn’t watch too closely, especially when he realized he recognized a handful of the bodies.  Distantly, but he still had to shove back against the darkness.

Chance was having too good of a time cropping grass to want to be caught, and more than once Cathal had to dodge flying hooves, but finally he had the fool horse in hand.  He tethered him next to the other officers’ horses, then checked in.  He was relieved to see Grant when he walked over to where the majority of the officers were massed, though he was grim-faced and drenched in blood.  Not his, it turned out; Gillies’s.  Cathal’s former friend had lost his hand and nearly his life; the camp healer was still shaking her head over him.  

He had forgotten how long all of this took.  Longer than the battle itself, always; usually days longer.  When he finally, finally ducked into the tent Raedan was sitting next to Aedion while the healer stitched him up.  “Where the hell have you been,” Raedan demanded.  But Cathal ignored him, so caught up in the pain dimming Aedion’s eyes as he turned to face him.  

He stepped over cautiously, not wanting to disturb the healer.  As soon as he was close enough he extended his hand and Aedion grabbed it.  Settling in at Aedion’s shoulder, he let his eyes drift to where the healer was working.  The laceration was long and jagged and thankfully more than half closed.  Looking back at Aedion’s face, he said, “I’m glad that bloody knife didn’t go any lower.”

Raedan rolled his eyes but Aedion’s lips twitched up.  “Not as glad as I am.”

Cathal squeezed his fingers.  “No, I think I’m pretty much exactly as glad as you are.”

Aedion’s breathed laugh turned into a grimace of pain and Cathal felt a twinge of guilt.  The healer glanced briefly between them before returning to his job. “Don’t make him laugh,” he said mildly.  “And then you need to let me look at that hand.”

Aedion looked at the hand he was holding, then turned his head to see the other but couldn’t from where he was laying.  “What did you do?”

Cathal shrugged.  “My shield got jammed back into it by someone with more size than skill.  I think it’s sprained.”

There was a short silence, broken mostly by Aedion grunting.  “Why are you in so much pain?” Cathal asked.  “Weren’t you given a tonic?”

Raedan snorted, his expression torn between anger and exasperation.  “What do you think?  The fool wouldn’t take it.”

Aedion looked unrepentant.  “I didn’t want to have something clouding my judgement right now.”  Cathal understood when he saw the ghosts in his eyes.  Better to be aware and in pain than unable to defend himself.  

“Will you take something now?”  He brushed his lips against his forehead, ignoring the presence of the others.  

“Later.  After you get taken care of.”  Cathal sighed.  At least it was a compromise of sorts.

“What’s going on out there?” Raedan asked, and Cathal explained about the plan.  He talked for a while, keeping Aedion distracted, but kept skirting around the casualties until finally Aedion flat-out asked him.

“I’m not sure overall, to be honest.  I know of five of our men are gone, and a few major injuries, but we mostly got out of there with cuts and bruises.”

“And the other side?” Raedan asked.  Cathal suspected he was directing them away from who exactly was gone.

“So far they’ve counted sixty losses, not sure how many serious injuries.”  

“Who died?” Aedion asked.  Cathal looked at Raedan, and Aedion caught the look, turning abruptly from injured lover into commanding officer.  “Tell me who died, now.”  

Cathal sighed.  “Niven, Riach, the other Craig, Tulach, and Hay.”  The last name twisted a knife in Cathal’s chest; Hay had been a gift, always cheerful, always smoothing rough edges.  Aedion’s jaw worked, and Raedan put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.  Cathal bent and pressed his lips to Aedion’s forehead again.  Aedion squeezed his eyes shut in response, and tears trickled silently down his cheeks.

The healer finished and carefully bandaged him.  Then he turned to Cathal, who held out his left arm with resignation.  Even the gentle touch of the healer’s experienced fingers sent bolts of heat and cold up to his shoulder, and as those fingers prodded down his hand he could feel an unstable creak.  He focused all his energy on keeping his face impassive, knowing Aedion would catch every flicker.  

He couldn’t hold back the breath of relief when the healer released his hand.  “You thought this was a sprain?” the healer asked skeptically.  Cathal shrugged and the man sighed.  “You warriors are all the same,” he muttered as he walked over to his kit and began pulling lengths of material out.  “You fractured two bones in your hand and probably at least that many in your wrist.  Now hold still.”  He carefully cleaned the blood and mud off his arm, then measured and trimmed and wrapped until after an eternity Cathal’s arm was immobilized below the elbow.  Raedan left while the interminable bandaging was still going on, and once the healer had finally left with strict instructions to Aedion to avoid exertion Cathal settled onto the ground next to the cot.

The flaps rattled, and it wasn’t Raedan who pushed through but Dewar.  He was closely followed by two men Cathal didn’t recognize, and he leaped to his feet and reached for his dagger.  Aedion touched his arm lightly as he pushed himself into a sitting position.  All three men bowed, and Aedion inclined his head in response.

“Sir,” one of the strangers said, “please forgive us for disturbing you.  I am Kieran Harper, and I would like to offer you the service of our carriage and wagons to aid in getting the wounded to a better location for recovery.”  

Cathal could tell Aedion was as surprised by this as he was.  When he realized what Aedion intended, he extended his good hand to him, and pulled him to his feet.  “Thank you, Kieran,” Aedion said, with a small bow that no doubt was excruciating.  “We’re going to Kemp’s, correct?” he said, turning to Dewar.  Receiving confirmation, he turned back to Harper.  “When can you have them ready?”

“They’re here now, sir.  We,” he gestured to the other man, “went back to get them as soon as the plan was clear.”

The other man was introduced as Ellar Weir, and at Dewar’s insistence Aedion was loaded into the carriage.  A couple of other men with deep sword wounds were added, then Kemp hopped in to smooth the transition with his family.  Cathal climbed to the driver’s seat along with Harper.

The few miles passed slowly, Harper driving cautiously to avoid jostling the injured men.  Cathal warmed to him as a result.  He was a captain as well; had fought under Millar for years before the takeover, and had stayed with him afterwards.  “After you came last fall,” he said, “we tried to talk to him.  We wanted to at least see what Ashryver had in mind.  But…well, the colonel hadn’t been the same since the war.  I think he was just so convinced it was a trick, or that Ashryver was just a figurehead.”

“And what do you think now?”

Harper gave a grim laugh.  “I just saw that man cut down twenty capable soldiers in a matter of minutes.  He’s not a figurehead, that’s for damn sure.  But,” he shrugged, “then he gave Millar two chances to surrender.  This wasn’t a mindless slaughter.  I’m looking forward to seeing what he plans going forward.  From what Marks told us, I don’t think he’ll hold us against our will.”

Cathal’s respect for Harper rose dramatically.

Though the sun had not reached its apex before the battle was over, it was sinking below the horizon by the time they reached the Kemp farm.  Aedion had tightened up in the carriage, and Cathal felt horrible for making him climb out.  Still, it was a relief to be able to wash and get into clean clothes and even more to eat something.  Best of all was following Aedion into the room Kemp’s parents had prepared for them, thoughtfully having placed a cot near the large bed.  It had surprised him, how ready they were for the mob of injured men who had descended upon them, but Mrs. Kemp had shaken her head sadly when he had commented.  “This isn’t the first battle what’s taken place near here, and it won’t be the last.”  

As soon as the door was closed behind them Aedion had taken his face in his hands and kissed him fiercely, despite the fact that he was swaying on his feet.  Cathal was near tears by the time they broke apart; he hadn’t realized how terrified he had been that they would never be able to do this again until that moment.  “I love you,” he whispered, well aware that the house was full of people.  “Thank you for not dying.”

Aedion laughed and then clenched his teeth, moving to press a hand to his abdomen but thinking better of it.  Cathal kissed him again, softly this time; an apology.  “I’m comfortable now that I have this club on my arm,” he said; it was mostly true.  “So take the pain tonic and get some sleep.  I’ll be here.”

Aedion agreed without grumbling, a sign in itself of how much pain he was in.  Cathal poured a little into a glass of liquor and Aedion downed it in one go, grimacing.  He carefully arranged himself under the blankets, then patted the spot next to him.  Unbuckling his dagger, Cathal lay down on top of the covers, trying to keep a few inches between them but Aedion tugged him closer.  Cathal kissed him, gently but thoroughly, until Aedion began to droop with sleep.

He was still awake, fretting that nobody had come to report yet, when Aedion woke up a few hours later.  Before he could even ask how he was feeling, Aedion grabbed his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss.  It started out soft but didn’t stay that way; when Cathal finally broke away they were both breathless.

“I think you promised me something,” Aedion said.  

Cathal raised an eyebrow at him.  “Did I?”

“I distinctly remember you saying I could fuck you after the battle.”

“Only you would be thinking of that with a ten inch long wound in your abdomen,” Cathal laughed.  “You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s not the word I was thinking of, but it works.”  His eyes softened as he reached up and touched Cathal’s face.  Cathal turned to kiss his palm, unable to put a name to the feeling that swamped him.  Love, but not just love.  Gratitude too, and yet still more.  Love and gratitude, want and need, comfort and hope and deep, unshakeable joy.  

Cathal kissed him again, first on the lips, then trailing his mouth down his jaw to his neck and lower, brushing against his exposed collarbone.  Reaching down, he palmed Aedion through the blankets and found him already hard; he smiled against his skin.  “I really do want to fuck you,” Aedion murmured, brushing fingers lightly through his hair.  

“But do you want to be the one to tell the healer that you undid all his hard work because my mouth isn’t enough for you?”

He could hear Aedion’s grin in his voice.  “Well, if you put it that way…”

Cathal got off the bed and locked the door.  When he returned, Aedion had started to push back the covers; Cathal grabbed them and flipped them back, then sucked in a breath.  Aedion’s abdomen above and below the bandage was an array of blue and blackish purple.  He didn’t even want to know what it looked like underneath the white wrap.  “Maybe you should’ve turned out the lights?” Aedion asked lightly.

Cathal met his eyes, trying to read him.  There was desire there, yes; but there was something else harder to recognize.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, kneeling next to him and cupping his jaw, feeling the roughness under his fingers.

“I know,” Aedion replied, leaning into his touch.  He looked like he was going to say more but ended up just closing his eyes.  Cathal brushed his cheek with his thumb, then his lips.  Abruptly he remembered another night after another day of pain and loss; another’s skin under his hands, and being burned up by his own need.  This, he understood; the need to prove one’s own survival, to affirm what was worth going on for.  Pressing his palm over Aedion’s heart, he felt the steady thump, the vital realness of him, and his desire surged.

“You have to tell me if I do.”  He took Aedion’s mouth with his own, swallowing his acquiescence, allowing himself to become lost in the heat, the slide of his tongue, the faint burn of stubble against his chin.  Aedion kissed him back with almost bruising force, gripping the back of his neck, holding on as if Cathal might somehow dissolve into nothingness.  “I’m here,” he murmured against Aedion’s lips.  “I’m here.”

When Cathal moved his mouth to Aedion’s jaw, those fingers finally softened and with it the edge of desperation.  He wanted to taste every inch of him, but that would have to wait until he wasn’t more bruise than man.  Instead he shifted to kneel between Aedion’s calves, running his fingers lightly up the insides of his legs.  Aedion’s breath caught, and Cathal followed his fingers with his mouth until Aedion growled his name.  

The moan that Aedion let out when Cathal finally took him in his mouth got Cathal’s own blood stirring.  Bracing his splinted arm awkwardly on the bed, he grasped the base of Aedion’s cock in his good hand and worked him with his hand and his mouth until Aedion was gasping.

The knock on the door made them both jump, and Cathal gagged and had to take his mouth off Aedion.  “Colonel Ashryver?” came an unfamiliar voice from the hallway.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Aedion managed to grind out, his hands fisted in the blankets and his legs trembling.

“Do you need a pain tonic?  I can fetch you one,” the unknown man said from the hallway.  Cathal started grinning as he resumed working Aedion with his hand.

“No, thank you,” Aedion said, struggling to make his voice sound even remotely normal.  “Captain Rosach will give me something to help me out.”  Cathal started laughing, muffling the noise in his shoulder and losing his rhythm.

There was a short pause in the hallway, then, “Very well, sir.  I’m right down the hall if you need anything.”

Footsteps sounded, and there was a muffled click of a door.  Cathal crawled up alongside Aedion to kiss him, still chuckling.  “You need to be quiet,” he whispered.

“You need to be less good at this, then,” Aedion replied.  “At least you locked the door.”

“Yes, at least one of us knows how to do that.”  Aedion bit his lip gently in retaliation for that comment and Cathal returned to his version of providing pain relief.

Afterwards, when the lights were out and Aedion was sleeping off yet more pain tonic and alcohol, Cathal lay next to him still unable to sleep despite his own exhaustion.  Every time he closed his eyes he saw Aedion falling to his knees, his blood soaking into the grass.  This was different than before; this was not Luthias; this was not the end.

But in a way it was.  If Aedion had died… he couldn’t even imagine what his reaction would have been.  Didn’t want to imagine.  He feared his dagger would have looked too friendly in that situation.  So he lay there counting the breaths next to him, and began to wonder if perhaps…perhaps there were gods who looked out for him after all.

He was just beginning to feel himself drift away when there was a quiet knock on the door.  A glance at Aedion showed him still sleeping soundly, so he eased off the bed and went to answer.  It was dark, but he recognized a weeping Kelso and he stepped into the hall and shut the door.

“Rosach, oh gods, it’s Gillies -”

Cathal was moving before Kelso finished, and the lieutenant scrambled to lead him to another guest room, one that was packed with injured men.  Gillies was struggling to breathe, his lips pulled back from his teeth, body arching with the effort.  His face looked odd, ghostly; those lips were blue and his eyes were staring wide but unseeing.  The healer was at his head, trying to hold him up but he was straining too hard.

Weaving between the cots, Cathal reached him and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Henry,” he said, and tears stung his eyes when he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d said his name.  “Henry, I’m here.”  Gillies’s agonized face turned towards him though Cathal doubted he knew who he was.  “Henry, it’s Cathal, I’m here.”  Slipping an arm under his shoulders, Cathal pushed him up into a half-sitting position then sat behind him, holding him up with his own body, and after a long moment his breathing began to ease.

Dewar crashed through the door with the Kemp’s healer on his heels, making everybody flinch.  “What the hell is going on?” Dewar demanded, shoving his way over but not reaching out to Gillies so as to allow the healer to step up to him.

“He’s lost so much blood,” the camp healer said, tears in her eyes.  “I think he’s starting to clot where he shouldn’t.  His whole right lung, he’s not moving air through it.”  The other healer made his assessment, and when the two of them looked at each other, Cathal knew.

Dewar didn’t see it; maybe couldn’t.  “What can we do?”

She shook her head helplessly.  

Cathal turned his attention back to the man in his arms, ignoring the quiet but fierce discussion between the major and the two healers..  He thought Henry’s lips were looking worse, rather than better, even though he wasn’t struggling as hard.  

With nothing else to do, he just started talking.  He didn’t really know what he was saying at first, but then the stories from their long-ago friendship began pouring out of him.  Speaking barely above a whisper, he recalled all the trouble they got into as boys new to the army, all their fights that seemed silly now, the girls they had flirted with, the time they stole liquor from Dewar and drank themselves into a stupor.  As he talked, he felt Henry relax against him until he seemed to be sleeping, though his breath still came in short puffs.  Eventually, Cathal ran out of the good stories and fell silent.

He wasn’t paying attention to the low hum in the rest of the room until it suddenly stopped.  Looking up, he saw Aedion standing in the doorway, pale-faced, looking twice his age as he took everything in.  Coming into the room, he nodded acknowledgement to the murmured “Colonel” from everyone else as he carefully picked his way through the crowded space.  Aedion stopped right next to Cathal, brushing his back lightly with his fingers while the healer filled him in on the situation.  

Aedion asked if they should move either Gillies or the other men, so they could get some rest.  The healer didn’t want to move Gillies, but Aedion offered up his room for anyone who wanted sleep.  Not a single man moved; Sillar spoke up.  “Respectfully, sir, we want to hold this vigil with you.  Captain Gillies would do it for us.”  Aedion nodded as the others murmured their agreement, and not another word about moving anybody was said.

While they were talking, Gillies suddenly began to thrash and choke; pink foam started to pour out of his mouth and nose and Cathal reflexively rolled him onto his side.  The healer helped support him until he was finished, and then his breathing was slightly easier.  Blinking, he looked up at Cathal, seeming surprised to see him.  “Rosach,” he whispered.  “Rosach, where’s Luthias?  He was just here.”  

Cathal didn’t know if Gillies was hallucinating, or if Luthias’s ghost was really there in that moment; or perhaps Henry was so close to the veil separating the worlds that he could catch glimpses through it.   He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, but there was no way to brush them away without disturbing Henry so he let them fall where they would.  Aedion’s eyes were on him; he didn’t know what to say.  Henry got more agitated, calling for Luthias again and again, and the healer asked quietly, “Who is Luthias?  Can we fetch him?”

“No,” Cathal answered.  “We can’t fetch him.”  His voice broke, and he struggled for a moment before he went on.  “Luthias was our friend.  He…he died in the last battle against Adarlan.”

Aedion put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and began to speak in another language.  Really it was somewhere between a chant and a song, more than speaking, and after a few words Cathal recognized the Old Language.  It was beautiful in Aedion’s rich baritone, and Henry settled down, eyes trained on Aedion’s face.  

Henry stayed calm as long as Aedion continued chanting, though his breathing became progressively more labored. Everyone in the room was mesmerized by it, even as Aedion’s voice grew hoarse; the Old Language words seemed to draw peace out of the air, or out of the people themselves.

The calm made it so that nobody but Aedion, Cathal, and the healers noticed when Henry slipped unconscious for the final time, his eyes half-closed and suddenly empty. Cathal could feel when Henry’s body got heavier, a split second before the gasping began anew. This time, though, there was nothing frantic about it. It was slow, almost random; as if even though his soul was gone, his body could not quite accept its disappearance and so kept on breathing for a few minutes out of habit.  Aedion’s eyes were unfathomably sad as they met Cathal’s, but he didn’t break off. Henry’s soul still had to be sung on through the veil.

It took Cathal sliding off the cot and laying Henry gently back before the rest of the room realized. Dewar stumbled over and fell to his knees next to him, cursing in dry, ragged sobs. Aedion’s voice lifted, finding strength again. “Bafheidir go bhfaidigh tu siochain agus gloire ar an taobh eile.” Cathal didn’t know the meaning, but he had always loved the soft syllables of the Old Language, and he found the stabbing pain in his chest lessened just a little as the song came to an end.

He was startled when he stepped away from the cot that held a body that was no longer Henry Gillies and realized day had come; somehow he had missed the brightening of the room.  One by one, the soldiers who could walk approached and touched their fingers to their lips then to Henry’s forehead.  Not just the handful who had been in the room with them, but dozens more who must have been scattered through the farmhouse.  Cathal allowed himself to be gently but inexorably shoved out of the way.

Once out in the hall, he walked numbly to the room he and Aedion had made love in hours or days or a lifetime before.  He stood in the empty room feeling nothing in particular aside from a bone-deep weariness that he knew would not let him sleep.  After a minute he turned and found Aedion standing in the doorway, turquoise eyes burning.  Some distant part of him was surprised; he supposed he expected Aedion to stay with the others.  He moved to close the door and Aedion stepped past him to allow it.  The latch clicked with a sharp finality, and the fragile walls that had been holding him together shattered.

He fell forward, bracing his splinted forearm against the door and Aedion was there, arms tightly around him, pulling him close as his body shook with the force of silent sobs.  He didn’t know how long Aedion was whispering his name before it registered, before he could feel the light trail of lips against his throat.  When he finally hiccoughed himself into calm they just stood there in each others’ arms, Aedion’s cheek resting on his head.

“I think I might be a horrible person,” Aedion finally murmured.  Cathal pulled away just enough to be able to look at him in silent question.  “As sad and angry as I am about the men we lost, all of them… I’m just so grateful it wasn’t you.”

Cathal drew a shaky breath.  “Same.”  He gave a short laugh without humor.  “We can be horrible together, I suppose.”  He nestled back in, careful of Aedion’s injury.  “I’m just… I wish I’d forgiven him sooner.”  Aedion replied by cupping his face in his hands and tilting it back to meet his lips, and Cathal didn’t know if it was Aedion’s tears or his own he was tasting.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 21

Mildly NSFW.  As always, comments, feedback, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!  Tagging: @manoncrochanblackbeak  @mylifeisafangirl  @bluephoenix222    Read the rest:   Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16.  Chapter 17.   Chapter 18.    Chapter 19.  Chapter 20. 

Aedion had just finished up his daily meeting with the officers when one of the young recruits came to fetch him, stating that there was a visitor asking for him.  His mind was still mostly on Colonel Millar as he followed the man; he knew by the muttered curses coming from his right that Cathal’s mind was similarly occupied.  The night’s rest had brought no more clarity on the situation to any of the officers and the meeting had been tense and irritable.

The visitor was a lone man with military bearing who stood straight and proud next to his horse.  Aedion’s men were in a loose circle around him, and they all bowed when he walked up.  The stranger did not move but held Aedion’s eye.  “Captain Marks, I believe,” Aedion said.

When the stranger did not bow, Grant spoke up from behind Aedion.  “Marks, I have known you since you were a boy.  You will bow to Colonel Ashryver or I will make you do so.”  Aedion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the consternation that crossed the man’s face as he slowly dipped into a bow.

Aedion returned it, then asked, “What brings you here, Captain, this close to snowfall?”

“Your men took something that doesn’t belong to them,” Marks said.  “Colonel Millar will not stand for that.”

Aedion glanced at Cathal, who looked as lost as he was.  It really wasn’t in the character of any of the men to steal anything; well, perhaps Cathal in a younger life, but not now.  He looked back at Marks.  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“The weapons maker.  Shaw.”

Surprise ran through Aedion, followed quickly by fury.  “I must have missed the part where Conor Shaw was anything but a free man, able to make his own decisions.”

Marks took an involuntary step back before clenching his hands and raising his chin.  “We are responsible for Shaw making it out of Orynth.  We are the ones who set him up with that apprenticeship.  He belongs to us.”

Aedion huffed.  “Conor Shaw belongs to nobody but himself, Captain.  My men paid off his apprenticeship, which he was miserable in by the way, and he chose to come with them.”  He cocked his head, not trying to suppress the menace in the movement.  “Or are you under the impression that apprenticeship and slavery mean the same thing?”

“You are a fool, Ashryver.”  At that, three dozen men reached for their weapons.  Aedion lifted his hand and they all quieted as he stepped into Marks’ space, a hands-breadth away from him, fixing him with a glare.

“Raedan,” he said, not turning away from Marks, “fetch Conor.  Let’s see what he makes of this.”

“Yes, sir.”  Aedion was too furious at Marks to smile at the honorific that Raedan had never before used in addressing him.

“You see, Captain,” Aedion said softly, so only Marks could hear, “I have been held against my will.  For two and a half years, I was held.  If you or Colonel Millar thinks for one moment that I will allow that to happen here, to a citizen of Terrasen, you need to think again.”

Marks quailed before his rage, choosing to study Cathal’s knees, evidently.  They stood in silence for the couple of minutes it took for Raedan to return.  At Raedan’s polite cough, Aedion took a step back and angled himself to address Conor.

“This is Captain Marks,” he said to the young man, to his one-time friend who would not meet his eyes.  “He was sent by Colonel Millar.”  Conor shifted on his feet, just a subtle movement before stilling.  “He is under the impression that we brought you here against your will.”  Conor didn’t move, didn’t seem to be breathing even, and he didn’t speak.  “It is your choice, Conor,” Aedion said, raising his voice to carry over the gathering crowd.  “In front of all these witnesses, I swear to you, if you want to stay here, we will protect you.  If you want to go to Colonel Millar’s, we will allow you to go unmolested.  If you want to leave and go anywhere else in the world, we will support you.  I will swear this with my blood if necessary.  This is your life, and you are free to live it where and how you wish.”

Finally, Conor lifted clear eyes to meet Aedion’s.  “I want to stay with you, Prince,” he said, bowing deeply.  “I want to serve you.”

Aedion turned to Marks.  “He made his choice.  Go along now and relay it to your colonel.”

Marks rounded on Conor.  “You don’t know what you’re doing, Shaw,” he growled.  “You’re turning your back on your people, you’re spitting on your father’s memory -”  He broke off abruptly as Aedion’s hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him off the ground.

“You heard him,” Aedion snarled.  “Your presence is no longer needed here.”  He set him carefully back on his feet, and Marks stumbled backward a few steps, pulling his startled horse with him.  

“Colonel Millar will not be happy about this, he claimed Shaw years ago,” Marks gasped.

“My condolences,” Aedion said, stalking closer.  “You can inform him that I will not be happy if I hear that he is keeping men as chattel.  A person is not to be held or coerced, they must serve freely or be released.  Or does he completely reject the legacy of Orlon that he fought so valiantly for in the past?”  When Marks did not reply, he turned to Cathal.  “See him out, please.  If he doesn’t leave quietly, deal with him.”

Cathal gave a wolfish grin as he stepped up to Marks, hand on his dagger hilt.  Grant joined him at Marks’s other shoulder, and Kemp, who had been watching intently in the first row of the circle, moved to the captain’s back.  

Conor was staring at him, and Aedion shoved his fury down mercilessly before walking over to him.  “I mean it, Conor,” he said quietly, holding out his hand.  “You are free to do as you please.”

Slowly, Conor reached out to clasp palms.  Aedion grinned at the feel of those rough callouses against his own.  “I don’t want to cause trouble, sir,” Conor said.  

“You never did, did you?  Even when we were boys you were always the peacemaker.”  Conor looked up at him in surprise.  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you yesterday.  I should have.”

“It’s been a long time, sir,” was the shy response.

“Not that long.”  Aedion released his hand and turned towards the armory.  “Now.  You need to tell me what supplies you need so we can get them.”  He looked back when he realized Conor wasn’t following him.  “Are you all right?  I meant what I said, if you want to leave you can.”

Conor shook his head, his throat bobbing as he swallowed audibly.  “I just…I can’t believe you’re here.”  His voice cracked and he shook his head again.

Aedion didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t understand the look in Conor’s eyes.  It looked like hope.  It broke his heart.

*****

Captain Marks was quiet and sullen as he was escorted through the gates of the camp.  Once they were well clear of the walls, Grant grabbed his arm.  “This is why,” he said.

Marks glared at his hand for a moment before dragging his eyes up to Grant’s face.  “Why what?”

“Why we follow him.  Oh, I know you’re all wondering why Dewar and Kelso and I fell in line, but you just saw it.”

“I just saw a soft-hearted boy, nothing more.”

Cathal snorted, but before he could retort, Grant spoke again.  “You really missed the point of that, didn’t you.  You think he’s soft-hearted?  No.  He just understands.  He sees everyone in that camp - every single gods-damned person, from the kitchen lads to the blacksmiths to me and Dewar, as equals.”

“Then he’s just the fool I took him for.”  

“Not as equals in rank or talent, you imbecile, but equally deserving.  He won’t ask anyone to do something he wouldn’t do himself.  That’s why there’s a thousand men in there who haven’t known him six months but who would follow him anywhere, even unto death.

“Look, Marks, I’ve always liked you.  You’re a good soldier, a good man.  What Ashryver’s doing… He’s being realistic about how to minimize damage to Terrasen.”

“He’s turning us all into lapdogs for Adarlan, you mean,” Marks snapped.  “He has no idea what he’s doing, how could he?  He’s never fought in a war, not really; and you are all pretending like some, what, seventeen, eighteen year old boy can handle the Bane?  Is that a rutting joke?”  

Grant studied him for a while before answering.  “You want to know when I knew he could handle this?  When he and Rosach here came to see me, I’d had some warning from Dewar.  I’d heard all the same bullshit you had, and I wanted to see him for myself.  So I had them jumped.  Five armed men against two who have no warning.”  Grant laughed, and Cathal found himself smiling a little grimly at the memory.  “Ashryver had four of them disarmed and on the ground without ever pulling a weapon while Rosach took care of the fifth.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  And Ashryver was furious; not with them, but with me.  Not for testing him, but for putting my men at risk.  He could’ve killed them, and he knew it, and that was unacceptable to him.  And if you still can’t see why that is precious, why it’s worth following, then you deserve what you’ll get if you and Millar try to take him on.  Us.  Take us on.  Because you won’t win.”

“You’re setting us up for a civil war, Grant.”

“No.  I’m trying to preserve King Orlon’s legacy, that apparently you and Millar are looking to destroy.”

“Ashryver’s not even related to Orlon, not by blood.”

“That’s not what I meant.”  Grant cocked his head and tapped his chin once, twice while he examined Marks.  “What do you think King Orlon would have to say about you coming and acting like you own young Shaw, like you have some claim to him?”  Marks stared at him wordlessly, face reddening.  “What do you think King Orlon would say about you spending the past three years hiding in the mountains, not doing anything to help the innocent people who keep getting sentenced to slavery or death for minor crimes?”

“Don’t try to claim you’ve done anything different, Grant.”

“I’m not.  I haven’t.  I haven’t been like Rosach, who has been helping get people out of the city when they’ve been in danger.  I haven’t been like Lord Darrow, who’s been feeding the poor under the noses of the garrison.  But the thing is, when I saw a way of helping these people ride into my camp, I dropped everything to join him.  Colonel Millar won’t even talk with him when a peaceful invitation was extended, he’s too obsessed with holding onto power.  Am I wrong?”

Marks was staring at his horse’s feet.  “Millar is keeping us in fighting shape.  He’s preparing us, in the event we can start to push back.”

“If you think Ashryver’s doing any different, you’re the one who’s a fool.  Did you even look around the camp?  Now get on your damn horse and get out of my sight.”

Marks did as he was told; the three men stood and watched him go.  Once he was out of earshot, Cathal turned to Grant.  “That was an impressive dressing down.  I feel like joining up all over again.”

Grant laughed.  “It won’t make any difference, but he pissed me off.”

“Remind me to stay on your good side.”

“You can’t stay somewhere you’ve never been, Rosach.  I’m only tolerating you for Ashryver’s sake.”  But his smile was warm, and Cathal thought back to that final battle, when the fighting had paused and he had begged Grant to be allowed to go look for Luthias.  Though he had no memory of what happened afterwards, Grant’s wise, sad eyes when he had nodded permission were burned into his brain.

They walked back to the camp, and Cathal found Aedion at the forge in the armory, talking to an still awestruck Conor Lynch.  Cathal nodded hello to the other two blacksmiths, who were listening intently as Lynch expounded on how adding some sort of fancy metal into a blade made it less likely to chip along the edge.  The four men were discussing how to source it, but Cathal tuned them out; all he could think about was when could he get Aedion alone, all he could hear was the hitch of the breath when he had grazed Aedion’s jaw with his lips.  

It took too long; he had to go do archery training before Aedion was finished, and then it was mealtime and the general bustle of shift change reporting.  At least Aedion got to eat in peace while Cathal and the other captains heard the reports; it seemed like the one time of day where there wasn’t a queue of people vying for his attention.  Cathal wondered how he kept it all straight.

After dinner, Dewar snagged Aedion to bitch about something and Cathal went back to the house alone.  While he bathed, he wondered which room he should go to afterwards; he didn’t really know what Aedion would prefer, and the gods knew the man did enough for everyone.  He didn’t want to be just another person to be accommodated.  

He had just started scrubbing his hair when he heard a door close, and a few seconds later the bathroom door opened and Aedion came in.  Before Cathal could say anything, or even do more than sit up in surprise, Aedion had knelt next to the tub and taken Cathal’s face in his hands.  His mouth was not gentle, and neither was the response he elicited.  

“There is no way we will both fit in there,” Aedion said against his lips.

“I’ll hurry.”

Aedion went back into his room while Cathal rinsed in record time.  He was toweling off to the gurgling music of the draining water when Aedion returned, stripped of the thick layers the cold weather was requiring and frowning vaguely.  “I should bathe too,” he said, sniffing at himself.

“I don’t care,” Cathal growled.  Aedion smiled his crooked smile at him and took hold of his elbows to pull him in close.  Cathal didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he kept them planted on Aedion’s arms until he was so lost in his mouth, in the slide of his tongue, that he let them wander up to brush the back of his neck and tangle in his hair.

Somehow they ended up stumbling into Aedion’s room.  And if Cathal had not already surrendered himself wholly, the deep moan Aedion made as Cathal took him in his mouth, the light twitch of fingers in his hair, the stuttering breaths as he reached his climax would’ve done it.    There was something about the way he let himself become completely undone; then the way he undid Cathal in his turn.  It was too much; it would never be enough.  Laying tangled together afterwards, with weighty limbs and slow kisses, Cathal let a stealthy peace creep into his heart, and prayed to nonexistent gods that it would never end.

*****

Avis was sitting on the couch, ostensibly reading a book, when Delaney let herself into Mikkal’s apartment.  Only the fact that her eyes were fixed, not following words across the page, gave her away.  Maida leaped up from her spot on the floor where she had been practicing writing and greeted Delaney with a hug before leading her over to the notebook Cherise had given her.  Delaney praised her neat letters warmly, but couldn’t stop her eyes from darting to Avis, especially when she noticed the bottle clenched in her hand.  

Once Maida was returning to her work with satisfied enthusiasm, Delaney went to sit next to Avis, who still didn’t acknowledge her presence.  “Did you take it?” Delaney murmured.

“Yes.”  

It was amazing, Delaney thought, how one word could mean so many different things.  How “yes” could be an exclamation of the greatest joy, or an indication of the most terrible heartbreak. She had no idea what the right response was.  Selfishly, she was happy that her sister wasn’t going to try to bear this when she was so young.  But she knew it wasn’t that easy, that there was some part of her sister that hadn’t want to make this choice.

She settled for the conventional.  “Are you feeling all right?”

Avis shrugged.  “Just some cramping, kind of like my usual monthly cycle.  Maybe a little worse.”

Delaney debated whether to keep her mouth shut, and ended up losing the battle.  “What made you decide?”

“Mikkal.”  Finally Avis looked at her, and must have read the surprise and confusion in her eyes.  “He was telling me about his mother, about how he had been worried she’d be upset about him being in love with Aedion?”  Delaney nodded vaguely.  “And then when he finally told her, she was only sad that he had to leave.  And I guess I realized that I don’t think I can do that.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Avis turned her palms up, the amber bottle flashing in the lamplight.  “I think right now I’d be more like our mother than his.  And I don’t want to have a baby until I can be like her.”

Delaney thought about that.  About how it had been she, not their mother, who had made sure the girls and Raedan had gotten enough to eat, had taught them to read, had soothed bumps and bruises and settled fights.  Most of the time she hadn’t even known where their mother was or what she was doing.  A fragment of a memory, from so long ago she couldn’t place it, floated up from somewhere: Mrs. Ferrars, soothing her over some unknown hurt, and her mother coming to take her away; her screaming and crying and clinging to the major’s wife until finally her own mother had given up and left her.

She leaned over and kissed Avis on the cheek.  “You’re so brave, honey.”

Avis tried to snort in derision, but it came out more as a hiccough, and then she was weeping.  She was sobbing so hard it seemed as if her body would break apart, and Delaney wrapped her arms around her, squeezing, trying to hold the pieces of her sister together.  Maida came over and stood in front of them, her face uncertain, confused tears swimming in her eyes.  When Avis’s shuddering finally quieted enough that she could talk, she confessed, “I don’t feel brave.  I feel like a coward.”  Her voice hitched, but she went on.  “I feel sad, and weak, and stupid for falling for it.  Falling for him.”  

Delaney spent a long minute brushing Avis’s hair back off her face.  “And that’s what makes you brave, sweetheart.”

Avis was silent, almost limp in her arms, her breathing deep and slow as if in sleep though her eyes were open.  When Delaney shifted a little, Avis clutched at her, and she settled back in.  They were still sitting like that when Mikkal came home, and he gave her a small smile as he walked past them towards the kitchen, Maida bubbly at his side.  Delaney didn’t miss that his fingers trailed lightly along the back of the couch behind Avis, and she thanked him in her heart again and again.

*****

The room was just beginning to lighten when Aedion drifted awake, warm and comfortable.  He opened his eyes and looked at Cathal laying next to him, at the curve of his ear, the outline of his shoulder, the thick muscle of his arm where it lay outside the blanket.  He could just make out the dark shape of the tattoo on his shoulder blade that Aedion had memorized.  Two birds, a meadowlark and a swallow, dancing on the wind.  Muire and Luthias, Cathal had told him when he’d asked.  Every morning for weeks now, he had woken up like this, and it felt like it had always been that way.

Cathal stirred next to him, and Aedion pulled him closer, brushing his lips against the back of his neck.  He made a quiet, contended noise in response, rolling himself halfway over to look at Aedion with one dark eye.  “Please tell me we don’t have to get up yet.”

“Not yet,” Aedion said.  Cathal rolled the rest of the way over, pressing a kiss to Aedion’s shoulder before resting his head on it.

Aedion closed his eyes again, relishing the feel of Cathal’s body pressed against his side, his arm around his chest, leg hitched over his hip.  It was like he had melted into the mattress; it was glorious.

Cathal shifted, and Aedion dropped his chin to meet his mouth.  They kissed languidly, their intensity spent after hours and days exploring each other with their hands and mouths.  For someone who had managed to be celibate for three years, Cathal was certainly proving to be surprisingly insatiable.  Not that Aedion was complaining.

Sleep was pulling at him; he couldn’t remember when it had been this easy to fall asleep, but it was getting close to dawn and he knew he shouldn’t succumb.  A calloused hand dragged lazily over his ribs, and he turned onto his side to face Cathal.  “Can I ask you something?” Cathal murmured.

“Mmm.”  

“Without you getting pissy?”

Aedion’s eyes snapped open at that, and he raised himself up on one elbow.  “Doubtful, if you’re going to put it that way.”

Cathal glanced away for a second before meeting Aedion’s gaze and reaching up to cup the back of Aedion’s neck in his hand.  “Are we ever going to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About what happened to you.”

Every muscle in Aedion’s body went taut and he sat up.  Cathal mirrored him, unconsciously blocking his exit.  “What the hell, Cathal?”

“It doesn’t have to be now.”

Aedion’s chest was tightening, and his hands clenched around the blanket.  “I don’t see why it has to happen at all,” he ground out through his teeth.

“This is why,” Cathal said, gesturing at him.  Aedion glared at him; Cathal’s face was serious, concerned.  “Because it hurts you so much.”

“And what, you think talking is going to help?  Or do you just want the details.  Do you want to hear about how they called me in, how they knocked me out and tied me down, how they -” He broke off, breathing as if he had just run his laps.

“No, Aedion, I don’t want that.”  He squeezed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Damnit, I don’t want to know any of that, not unless it helps you for me to know.  But I think pretending nothing happened isn’t doing you any favors.”  

“And what, you’re some sort of expert in talking about shit?” Aedion spat.  “You never talk about Muire and Luthias.”  It wasn’t true, though; ever since that day in the summer when Cathal first told him about Luthias, he had started mentioning them.  Not often, but enough.  Little bits and pieces, memories and thoughts, casually dropped in.  And slowly the pain had been leaching out of his voice and peace had been suffusing it.  Aedion hadn’t realized it until this moment.

Cathal didn’t bite, though.  He just said calmly, “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

Aedion pressed his fingers into his eyes until he could see stars hurtling in the blackness behind his lids.  Dropping his hands, he started to climb over Cathal’s feet to get out of the bed.  

“Did you realize you won’t touch my ass?”  

Cathal’s question froze him.  He sank back down on the bed.  “Is that what this is about?”  Aedion gave a bitter laugh.  “Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you if you want me to.”

“Thank you for constantly proving my point, Aedion.”  Cathal shook his head, blowing out a frustrated breath.  “I’m more than content with the way we make love.  But it kills me, it absolutely kills me, to know that your worst nightmare is that someone might want to fuck you.”  

Cathal might as well have punched him in the gut.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; could only stare at his hands where they had fallen uselessly in his lap.  Seconds or minutes passed before the mattress shifted and Aedion felt gentle fingers touch his hair, then lips brush his forehead.   “I’m sorry,” Cathal murmured.  “I shouldn’t have said anything, I have no right to push.”

Aedion shook his head, not knowing what exactly he was trying to convey, comfort or censure.  Even now he was struggling to breathe against the roaring in his ears, to force down the surge of nausea.  A large part of him wanted to pull away, to lash out; it would be easier.  But if Cathal didn’t have the right to push him, who did?  So instead he leaned back, let those strong arms wrap around him for long wordless minutes until the breaking day forced them to move.

Of course it was snowing.  Every other day seemed to add to the growing mounds, and Aedion was already chafing against the need to be inside.  South of the Staghorns there was always snow in the winter, but rarely enough to limit outdoor activity for long; but up here, the uncleared areas were already up past his knees and winter had just begun.  And now he was going to have the argument with Cathal chasing him all day.  

Not that it was obvious; Cathal sat in his usual spot to Aedion’s right at meals and at meetings, and they continued to fumble around with attempting training in the mess hall in between.  They couldn’t afford to lose any ground, not with Millar’s plans unknown, but schooling footwork on snow and ice seemed to be begging for injuries.  Practicing in the hall was the best alternative they had come up with, but it felt like the men spent more time moving tables and chairs out of the way and then back again than they did actually training.

After the evening meal, Raedan dragged him to the armory, where Conor shyly showed him the first several blades he had produced.  They all had plain hilts, just a simple guard, grip, and undecorated round pommel, but Aedion brushed off Conor’s apologies.  “Didn’t you ever see the sword of Orynth?” he asked.  “The hilt was undecorated, the pommel just a fragment of bone.  But the blade…the blade was a work of art.”  

He tested the weight and balance of each one carefully.  Some were rejected immediately as too light; Raedan played with those, looking impressed.  Finally Aedion narrowed it down to two and went outside to do some of his routine exercises.  One of them was almost perfect, so close he wanted to keep it but Conor showed his bit of spine and refused.  “Not until it’s right,” Conor insisted, refusing to hear Aedion’s argument that it was much better than the piece of shit he’d been carrying.  “Just give me a couple more days, and you can test it again.”

The mess hall sounded raucous as he walked past, so he and Raedan joined Grant and a couple of other men in the meeting room for a last glass of ale before heading back to the house.  When he entered his room, Cathal wasn’t waiting for him as he had expected.  He pushed into the empty bathing room, then turned back into his room.  There was a note on his desk in Cathal’s rough scrawl.  I understand if you don’t want me here tonight. 

Aedion turned and roared, “Cathal!” in the direction of his room.  When there was no response, he stomped through the bathing room and shoved the door open.  Cathal wasn’t in his room, but he had dropped his papers on his bed and his dirty clothes were still in a heap in the corner.  Going out into the hall, he pulled up short when he saw the doors at the end of it were open and Grant and Bridie Dewar were poking their heads out in concern.

“Sorry,” he called.  “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Grant laughed and pulled back into his room, but Mrs. Dewar came down the hall to meet him.  “It’s all right, dear,” she said, “we know him.  We know how pig-headed he can be.”  She patted his arm and he abruptly felt like he was about eight years old.  “But right now he’s with the Major, I’m not sure what they’re doing.”  Aedion always thought it strange she referred to her husband that way, but as far as he knew Dewar didn’t have a first name; at least, he’d never heard one.  “Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”

He started to protest but she was leading him inexorably downstairs to the small kitchen.  Before he knew what was happening he was sitting in a chair, water was heating, a plate of cookies was in front of him, and she was spooning chamomile into a teapot.  Attempting escape was tempting but unlikely to be successful, so he surrendered and took a cookie. “Now,” she said, pouring the water into the teapot then coming to sit across the table from him. “I know you can fight your own battles, we all know that. You mustn’t take him being so protective as any kind of an insult.”

Aedion looked at her blankly. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s just his way. He won’t hear a bad word spoken of anyone he cares about. And he’s not used to having someone like you, either.”

He was completely out of his depth at this point. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, Muire and young Breck, they needed his help, you see.” She got up to pour the tea into cups and handed him one. His fingers curled reflexively around the warmth. “And of course you don’t, but he’ll never see that, not really.”  She cocked her head to the side as she smiled at him, looking for all the world like a sparrow in an apron. “I can’t imagine he’s an easy man to be with, especially for someone so young and inexperienced.”

There was a gust of cold air as the front door opened then, and two pairs of stamping feet, then Dewar’s voice calling hello. “Thank the gods,” Aedion muttered under his breath as he stood up, still clutching his cup. “Thank you for the tea,” he said, with a small bow to Mrs. Dewar. She beamed at him and handed him the plate of cookies. He stared down at it for a second then fled, nearly crashing into Dewar and Cathal where they were knocking off snow in the entryway, each bearing an armload of firewood.

“Help,” Aedion mouthed at Cathal as he half-ran up the stairs, trying not to spill anything. He heard Dewar and his wife greeting each other, then the sound of wood hitting the stone in front of the fireplace before a heavy tread followed him more slowly up the stairs. He had just set the plate and cup on his desk when the door closed, and he turned to find Cathal leaning against it.

“Dewar already gave me a tongue-lashing, I don’t need another one from you,” Cathal said drily.

Aedion wondered if he had stepped into another dimension, or if there was a whole layer of shit that went on in this camp that he was blissfully ignorant of. He was musing on that when he smelled blood, hidden beneath the fresher scents of cut wood and smoke. “What the hell?” He closed the distance between them in one stride and began examining Cathal, who stood passively, just watching. The source was Cathal’s right hand, bruised and swollen with mangled knuckles. Suddenly Mrs. Dewar’s ramblings made a lot more sense. “Seriously, what the hell happened?”

Cathal’s neck and ears flushed a dark red. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, did you break your hand?” Aedion felt gingerly along the bones, but nothing gave that unstable creak that always made his knees weak, even when it wasn’t his own fracture.

“No, I didn’t break it,” Cathal said impatiently. “I’ve been fighting longer than you’ve been alive.”

That earned him Aedion’s evilest glare. “And are you going to tell me why in Hellas’s name you’re punching people? If you haven’t noticed, these men are all on our side.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t be arrogant pricks.”

Aedion turned away to rummage in one of his drawers. He had kept some of the poultice the healer had given him after he’d returned from Garvey’s, and he pulled it out now and sniffed at the herbs wrapped in the cloth. They still smelled fine, so he went into the bathing room and dampened them, then came back and took Cathal’s hand, resting the cloth across his knuckles. Cathal watched all of this with a distant expression, looking almost as if it was happening to somebody else.

“All right, now talk. Tell me what happened.”

Cathal pushed away from the door, moving to sit on the bed. Aedion followed, standing in front of him, arms crossed. “I don’t know if you know the way some people talk about you?”

Aedion shrugged. “I’m not sure how much I care, unless they’re plotting to kill me.”

Cathal’s mouth tightened. “What if they were talking about whether they could get you bent over a bed, do you care then?”

Aedion’s heart stuttered for a second. “What?”

“What if they were speculating how hard it would be to get you drunk enough to get down on your knees?”  His voice was deep and coarse with rage.  “Or imagining, quite vividly might I add, how your mouth will look on them? That doesn’t bother you? Because it bothers the hell out of me.”

“Shit.” It came out as little more than a whisper as Aedion rubbed a hand up the back of his neck. It had never occurred to him that men – his men – would even think about him like that. “Did you kill them?” At that moment, it seemed a reasonable assumption.

Cathal snorted. “No, though I don’t think they’ll talk about you like that again, at least not while I’m in earshot. Well, one of them won’t be talking much at all for a while.” Aedion looked at him quizzically. “The healer’s wiring his jaw at the moment.”

A memory of a sunny field popped into his head then, with Gillies telling him Cathal was invaluable in a fight. He shook his head, struggling against a smile. “You could’ve just told them, you know,” he said, inching closer until he was standing between Cathal’s knees. Cathal looked up at him through his eyelashes. “What my mouth looks like on you.” He bent down, brushing Cathal’s nose with his own in silent question. Cathal buried his uninjured hand in Aedion’s hair as he stretched up to meet his lips. “And that you don’t have to get me drunk to get me on my knees. That might’ve been just as effective.”

“Less satisfying, though,” Cathal said against his mouth. Aedion knew what he meant; could almost feel the crack of bone under his own knuckles.  He pulled back, and he saw it then in those dark eyes that were so unlike his own, saw what he had always felt but never understood enough to put into words.  It was the same feeling that had driven his need to swear the blood oath to Aelin, that still dogged him even now that she was gone.  Seeing it in Cathal was like hearing a harp string plucked that resonated perfectly with the one vibrating in his heart.  His hand was trembling slightly when he touched Cathal’s cheek and he didn’t even try to hide it.

*****

It was strange, how easy it had been to get used to this, Cathal thought as he lay with his head cushioned on Aedion’s shoulder.  He could hear Aedion’s heart beating; it was slightly out of synchrony with the throbbing in his bruised hand, just enough to keep him awake.  It didn’t help that he was still kicking himself for their argument that morning, for his clumsiness especially.  As usual, he had brought a sword to a wood-carving contest, and he had done the unforgivable and hurt Aedion in the process.

He flexed his fingers, relishing the pull at the splits across his knuckles.  He had been ignoring several of the younger members of the camp who had been speculating about Aedion for weeks; rather unfortunate for them that they chose that day to drink a little too much and get a little too explicit in their conversation.  Not that he wouldn’t have knocked them around for speaking of any of the officers that way at another time, but he probably would’ve stopped before breaking bones.  Maybe.  Though remembering the worst of what they’d said, the things he hadn’t been able to bring himself to repeat to Aedion… No, he wouldn’t have stopped.

Some of his restlessness must have been transmitting, because Aedion dropped a light kiss on his hair and murmured, “Are you hurting?”  He could’ve laughed at that, at the idea that something so insignificant, so well-earned, could be enough to bother him.  At his denial strong fingers began making circles up his spine.  Most likely Aedion meant it to be soothing but it had the opposite effect.

He shifted his hips away from Aedion’s thigh; they had settled in only to sleep by unspoken agreement, and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile trust lay between them.  Those fingers stilled, then moved to trace the tattoo on his shoulder, the one he didn’t need to see to know every curve and line of it.

“What kind of bird would I be?” Aedion asked.

Cathal considered for a long moment.  His first thought was some sort of bird of prey, a hawk or an eagle, but even they were subject to the whims of the winds.  “You’re not a bird,” he said, twisting to try to look at Aedion’s face, feeling the flash of hurt even in the dark.  “You’re too grounded, too…solid.”  He paused again, tapping his fingers absent-mindedly against Aedion’s chest, in the rhythm of his heartbeat.  “You can’t be blown off course.  No.  You’re more of a wolf.”

He felt the rumble of Aedion’s chuckle more than he heard it.  “That’s funny,” Aedion said, “that’s how I’ve always thought of you.”

Cathal settled back down into his comfortable position, but only for a few seconds before another thought occurred to him.  “What was going on when I got back tonight?  Why were you so flustered?”

Aedion barked a laugh.  “Mrs. Dewar took it upon herself to explain to me your protective nature, and,” he started laughing harder, “sympathize with me on how my ‘inexperience’ would make it more difficult to understand you.”

“Wait, what?”  Cathal sat up and spun to face him, then started grinning.  “Did you tell her that you’ve fucked more people in a week than I have in my entire life?”

“Of course not!  I didn’t say anything!  She was throwing tea and cookies at me and patting me on the arm and what the hell was I supposed to do?”

The image of tiny Bridie Dewar utterly cowing a completely baffled Aedion when she barely came up to his ribs had Cathal laughing himself senseless.  Finally an exasperated Aedion gave up on him and grabbed his arm and pulled him back down, tucking him in against him.  Cathal had finally quieted down, was beginning to feel the lull of sleep, when Aedion murmured, “She’s not exactly wrong about the experience, though.  I’ve fucked a lot of people, but this isn’t about that, is it?”

The hesitation, the uncertainty in his quiet voice caused a cramp in Cathal’s chest that was more painful than his throbbing knuckles.  He took Aedion’s hand and lifted it to his mouth, kissing the palm gently before answering.  “No.  No, this isn’t about that.  This is much more.”  

*****

Aedion ducked through the doorway to the healer’s quarters.  Three of her beds were occupied, the men shrinking away as he entered.  Ignoring them, he crossed to where she was sitting at her work table and greeted her warmly.  “I don’t suppose you have any extra poultices lying about?  Captain Rosach could use some, and I gave him my last last night.”

She tutted and started digging through her drawers.  “Does he need me to pay him a visit?”

Aedion grinned.  “I think he’d have my head if you did, he insists he’s fine.”  He glanced over his shoulder.  “How are these three idiots?”

“Broken jaw, concussion, and I think just bruised ribs though there could be a stable fracture,” she said, pointing at each bed in turn.  “The Captain doesn’t pull his punches.”

“No, he sure doesn’t.”  Accepting the bag she handed him, he strode over to the beds.  The men glanced up at him then looked away as one.  

“I’m going to assume that you understand why you are all in this predicament,” he said, waiting for their nod.  “And I hope that you also understand that it is unacceptable for you to talk about anyone in that way.  Not just me or the other officers, but anyone.  If I hear that you’re talking about a stable boy, or one of the kitchen maids, or another regular in that fashion, there will be trouble.  You are all adults, and you owe every single person here respect.  If you are interested in someone, talk to them like a normal person.  If they say no, walk away.  You do not try to trick someone, or get them drunk, or harass them.  If I hear otherwise, you’ll be dealing with me, and I promise you, I will make Captain Rosach look merciful.  Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said two of the men.  The third made an indistinct noise that Aedion took as agreement.

“Good.  Now heal up.  I need you on those lines come spring.”  He nodded at the men, then turned on his heel and headed out into the cold winter sunshine.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 19

I managed to finish it!  Sorry it’s a few days late, my schedule sucks right now.  As always, comments, reblogs, and feedback are greatly appreciated!  Mildly NSFW.  Read the rest:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16.  Chapter 17.   Chapter 18. 

Aedion didn’t know why he had expected anything different.  Gritting his teeth as Dewar pushed back yet again, he tried to tell himself that he would feel the same way, he would resent someone so much younger and less experienced suddenly outranking him.  After all, it was only his second time meeting with the other officers since his promotion and it was probably a miracle the others were falling in line so quickly.  So he listened and ignored the hint of condescension, and when Dewar paused for breath, said, “I understand that we need to get Adarlan out of the cities, I agree with you.  But I can’t ignore my orders from Adarlan and expect to remain in Terrasen.”  

When Dewar opened his mouth to argue back, Aedion went on as if he hadn’t noticed.  “They will either pull me or kill me if I don’t at least make a show of this.  I can’t help you if they don’t trust me, and at this point I’ve done precious little to deserve that trust.”

“You haven’t done a hell of a lot to earn our trust either,” Dewar snapped.  Cathal, who had been uncharacteristically silent up to this point, bristled.  Even Gillies and Kelso looked uncomfortable.  All three settled back into their chairs at a look from Aedion.

“Fair enough,” Aedion said calmly, though with steel in his tone.  “I thought perhaps you might have appreciated that I’m responsible for the thousand men who are sitting on the other side of that wall instead of scattered to Hellas knows where.  I thought you might have noticed that I established a training program for soldiers who had been farming and tending bar and selling goods for the past three years.  I also thought it might have piqued your interest that thanks to me Adarlan funded the building we’re sitting in at the moment and will be paying for the food these men need to get through the winter.”  He planted a hand on the table in front of him, leaning towards Dewar but leashing his snarl.  “But you’re right.  I haven’t done enough for Terrasen, not yet.

“The thing is, you’re asking for me to basically drive Adarlan out of the country immediately.  We have a thousand soldiers.  They have a hundred thousand.  We have no more monarch, no universally recognized ruler.  They have a king whose family has ruled for a thousand years.  I’ve only been back in Terrasen for seven months and I have no right to the throne.  If I want to help for more than the three weeks it would take for them to send some assassin up to kill me, I have to work within their orders, not openly against them.”

Grant spoke up when Dewar sat back, still fuming.  “We knew, my friend,” he said quietly.  “We knew that a direct confrontation was impossible.  You were the one who always said it would only end in slaughter.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why it’s the eighteen year old who’s being the rational one of the two of you,” Cathal interjected.  “You’ve always harped on me for my hot-headedness but you’re looking to send us on a suicide mission.  You haven’t been living in the city so maybe you don’t understand, but if we attempt to drive the garrisons out now we’ll all die.  Why do you think we were so reticent these past years?  Laziness?”

Dewar lifted up a sheaf of paper, then let it drop back on the table.  “More people have gone to the butchering blocks.  More people are being sent to die in Endovier.  If we can’t stop it, what’s the point?”

“The numbers are going down, at least in Orynth,” Aedion said.  “If you’d talk to Raedan, he’d explain.  But we need to pull the rebels out of the cities entirely or convince them to stand down.  Hirons can only control so much, and only in Orynth.”

“It’s interesting you put so much faith in your Adarlan officers,” Dewar sneered.

Aedion shrugged.  “There are still some good men in Adarlan,” he said.  “The men I brought are just as unhappy with the treatment of innocents as we are.”

Dewar looked around the table, at the men he had known for years all rallying to Aedion’s side.  “Fine.  Fine.  But we can’t sit here all winter and do nothing.”

“What do you propose?”  Aedion asked the whole table, and was surprised when it was Kelso who spoke up.

“You said that you had received information about a rebel camp north of Rosamel, right?”  Aedion nodded, and Kelso went on.  “What if that’s Colonel Millar?”  Everybody looked startled at that possibility, and Aedion nodded encouragement.  “Whats-his-name, the traitor, he said he believed Millar is still alive, but when we sent the riders east there was nothing.  We,” gesturing to Grant and Cathal, “didn’t go that far north, and we didn’t hear any rumors, but that part of the Staghorns isn’t well-settled.  So I propose we send riders to that location to scout and see who’s there.”

Grant nodded thoughtfully.  “That would be a decent hiding spot, close to the wolf tribe.  Lots of ghost leopards though, we better send someone who’s a good shot.  Not you,” he said to Aedion.  “We’re not risking you again.”

“How many do you think we should send?” Dewar asked, not willing to let the other men take over too much.

“No more than five,” Aedion said, “and we need to get them on the road within a week.  Get me a list of ten candidates and we’ll whittle it down from there.  We done here?”  Everyone nodded and rose to their feet when he stood.  He left the room first, clapping Kelso on the shoulder as he passed, and headed to the kitchen to snag some food.

Raedan intercepted him.  “We’re going into town,” he announced, steering Aedion towards the corrals.  The sound of hammering got louder as they approached, and Aedion was relieved to see good progress being made on the rough stables they were putting up.  He hadn’t been to the small town near camp yet, and Raedan gave him an incredulous look when he commented on that fact.

Aedion stopped before the gate, studying the milling horses within.  Raedan ducked between the rails, then turned back when he realized Aedion wasn’t following.  “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t ridden since I got back,” he said, relieved he managed to keep the roughness from his voice.

“Seriously?  It’s been what, six, eight weeks?  Have you ever gone more than two days without riding?”

Aedion shrugged, aiming for casual but failing.  “It’s just…I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Raedan walked back and leaned on the top rail.  “I get it.  I do.  I know she meant so much to you.  But you need to ride, Aedion.  And not just for practical reasons.”  

Sighing through his nose, Aedion grabbed a halter and found the gelding who had brought him home.  Evidently someone had been attending him in Aedion’s absence, as his coat gleamed and his shoes were new.  Aedion took some time fitting him to one of the saddles, since his own was gone with his mare, and borrowed a bridle.  He’d have to get new equipment, but for now he’d keep this horse.  The gelding had, after all, saved his life.  

They spent the ride debating what to name the horse.  Raedan’s unflattering suggestion of “Jughead” was nearly met with violence despite its accuracy.  Aedion finally settled on Marcra, an Old Language word he had always liked.  They entered the small town, looking around with interest.  There was a tavern and a general store, a tailor and a shoemaker, and a small bakery.  After tying their horses, they went into the bakery first so Aedion could stuff a large sweet roll into his mouth.  Next was the general store and Raedan led Aedion straight to the small selection of books.

“I noticed you didn’t have any,” he said, gesturing to the shelves.  “I figured you better get comfortable here if you’re going to be spending the winter.”  

It was such a small gesture, but it reminded Aedion why he always felt better when Raedan was around.  With a broad grin, he perused the titles and found a couple that interested him.  He then browsed through the rest of the store.  He really needed to replace the dagger he had lost, as the one he had gotten from the camp armory was of barely average quality and didn’t sit right in his hand, but of course there was nothing of the kind to be had.  

After paying for his books, they went to the tavern.  Only a handful of people were inside, and while they looked at Aedion curiously they didn’t approach.  During the meal, Aedion told Raedan about the meeting with the other officers.  It still irritated him that Dewar had made it clear Raedan wasn’t welcome - he was a lieutenant, after all, even if he hadn’t had the formal training - but Raedan laughed when he said as much.  “It’s not like you don’t tell me everything anyway,” he said.  “And no doubt they talk more freely without me there.”    

They were nearly done with their meal when three young women entered the tavern, and Aedion’s focus immediately fixed on them.  One in particular caught his eye, dark haired and dark eyed and curvy.  A different sort of hunger than that he had been sating stirred in his abdomen, and he had trouble keeping in his seat when the woman met his look with an appraising one of her own.

Raedan noticed, of course.  “I take it I’m riding back alone?”

Aedion shrugged, not looking away from the women.  “Or you could partake as well.”

When Raedan didn’t reply, Aedion tore his gaze away to look at his friend.  “Kenna,” was all Raedan said, shrugging.  Aedion’s brows went up but he didn’t comment.  “How long has it been, anyway?” Raedan asked, nodding his head in the direction of the women.

“Um.”  Aedion thought.  “Since Orynth.”

“What?  You’re joking.”  

Aedion shook his head.  “Not a lot of available women around.”

“Yeah, but that’s not your only option, is it?  I mean, you said Cathal wouldn’t, but I’d put money on Gillies being willing.”

“I can’t fuck Gillies.”

“Why the hell not?  You’ve never been fussy before.”

Aedion thought of having male hands on him that he didn’t love, and shuddered.  “I just…can’t.”  Imagining Cathal’s horrified reaction added to his reluctance, but he couldn’t explain that to Raedan.  Thankfully he didn’t need to.

“Well, you’ve got to figure something out.  You’re much less of an ass when you’re getting laid regularly.”  Aedion barked a laugh and finished his meal, though his eyes rarely strayed from the table the women had settled at.

An hour later, Raedan was on his way back, and Aedion was in the black-haired woman’s small house, exercising all his self control to keep from pushing too far, too fast.  He was grateful that Ailsa seemed nearly as eager as he was, her work-roughened hands finding their way under his shirt as their tongues slid along each other.  They didn’t even make it to her bedroom, settling for the couch in the dark front room, and he relished tasting every inch of her as he stripped her.  Only when she was writhing under his hands and teeth and tongue, nearly begging him, did he let himself sink into her.  He growled, low in his throat, as he lost himself in the slick warmth, forgetting himself completely as deeper instincts took over the ripple of his muscles and drove him towards release.

*****

Cathal grumbled to himself as he headed back towards the mess hall.  Aedion had disappeared after the meeting had concluded hours ago, and Cathal had been looking for him since he hadn’t shown up for the evening meal.  A check at the corrals showed his bay horse was missing, and the guards reported with some concern that he and Raedan had left, but nobody knew where they went.  Cathal wanted to strangle him for his irresponsibility, though despite the guards’ fears he was no doubt safe with Raedan.

The hall was still full, the soldiers needing to eat in waves as it had not originally been built to accommodate this many.  He ate with a handful of Grant’s men and mulled over the plan to head west.  They had perhaps a month before snow closed the passages through the Staghorns, and of yet they still didn’t know if the camp in question was in the mountains or north of them.  

He headed back to their tent.  There was a house being built for Aedion, Dewar, and Grant to share but it wasn’t ready yet.  The debate about a separate house being built versus stuffing the high-ranking officers into the private wing of the barracks had been long and vociferous.  True to form Aedion hadn’t cared either way so it was up to the others to decide what was more appropriate.  

As he neared the tent, he saw a lone horse crossing the camp and a split second later recognized Raedan.  Picking up a jog, he intercepted him.  “Where’s Aedion?” he asked, not trying to keep the bite out of his voice.

“In town,” Raedan replied.

“You left him there alone?”  Cathal was incredulous at the stupidity.

“Yes, he told me to.  And before you get yourself in a snit,” Raedan went on as Cathal opened his mouth furiously, “Aedion can take care of himself.”

“Not always.”

Raedan’s flare of surprise was brief then a mask settled over his face.  “Nobody can best him without poisoning him, and nobody is going to risk that this close to camp.”  

“I don’t care, I’m going to get him.”  He had gotten several steps away when Raedan called after him.

“Cathal.”  Reluctantly he turned back.  Raedan’s expression was amused.  “I told you once to leave him be and you didn’t listen.  I’m telling you again, leave him be.  He’ll be back in a bit.”

It took a few seconds for Cathal to catch up.  “Are you kidding me?  He stayed in town because he’s fucking somebody?”  Raedan nodded.  “I can’t believe he’s wasting time on his cock with all the work we have to do.”

Raedan’s brows went up.  “Would you be saying that if it was your bed he was warming?”

A chill ran over Cathal, followed by a flash of heat.  “Go to hell, Raedan,” he spat.  Spinning on his heel he stormed back to his tent where he threw himself down on his cot and fumed.  After a while he began to feel like an ass, and opted to pull out one of his favorite books on strategy to distract him.  It didn’t work.

Aedion finally returned, looking so relaxed Cathal’s temper spiked again.  “I hope you had a nice time in town,” he said sourly.

“I did, thank you,” Aedion answered after a moment’s hesitation, dropping a packet onto the table.  Cathal glared at him for a while before Aedion asked, nettled, “Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem,” Cathal answered through clenched teeth.  Aedion’s mouth twitched but he waited.  “I just don’t understand how you can risk everything we’ve been working for just to exercise your cock.”

“Excuse me?”  The words were polite but even Cathal couldn’t miss the shift from amused friend to predator.  He knew he should keep his mouth shut but that had never been a strong point.

“You know how much work we have to do better than anyone, but you just took off without telling anyone to go fuck some random girl -”

“You don’t get to do this, Cathal,” Aedion interrupted.  “You don’t get to judge me.  I have done nothing wrong, and I will not let you try to make me ashamed.”

Cathal dug his fingernails into his palms and tried to make his tone reasonable.  “But Aedion, you’re a colonel now.  What you do matters, and you can’t afford to make people think you’re not fit to lead.”

“Is that a rutting joke?” Aedion snarled, taking a step closer.  “Nobody gives a shit, you self-righteous bastard.”

Cathal got to his feet.  “You’re the last member of the royal family.  People notice what you do.”

“And why should I care?”  Aedion laughed, and Cathal flinched.  “You think Aelin is unhappy with my behavior from the next world?  You think Rhoe - who I might remind you had quite a reputation himself before he met Evalin - is disappointed?”  His voice was raw as he went on.  “There are three people in this world who give a shit about me, and none of them care if I make a woman moan for an hour.”

The words were a knife in the gut.  “Everyone cares about you, Aedion,” Cathal said, mouth dry.

The knife twisted.  “No.  Everyone cares about the officer, or the prince.  I’m talking about me, what I need.”  He tapped himself on the chest.  “Not what I can do for you, or for Terrasen or Adarlan.”  

“I care, Aedion, you know that,” Cathal snapped, stung.  “I just don’t understand how you can prioritize getting off over Terrasen.”

“Go to hell, Cathal.  The day I actually prioritize anything over this country, you can talk to me.  But I’m putting my life at risk every gods-damned day, and the fact that you…”  He stopped, breathing heavily.  “You know what?  Get out.  Get out, and don’t come back until you’re willing to act less like a jealous lover.”

Cathal reeled back a step, then turned and ducked through the flaps out into the brisk night.  He felt like he had been flayed open by Aedion’s lancing words, and he pressed a hand to his abdomen as if he expected to feel a wound.  Yet for the first time in three years he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, could feel the cold air through every inch of his lungs.  It was like waking up from sleep he hadn’t known he’d fallen into.

When he pushed back into the tent, Aedion was still standing, head bowed, fingertips resting on the wrapped package he had brought back from town.  He looked weary and so much older  than his years when he turned his brilliant eyes on Cathal.  Before he could give himself time to think, Cathal took two strides to stop in front of Aedion.  Reaching up, he took Aedion’s face in his hands and dragged him down to meet his lips with his own.

For the span of three heartbeats, Aedion did not react.  Cathal started to release him when he heard a sudden intake of breath and strong fingers twined in his hair.  Then Aedion was kissing him back and Cathal was lost to him.  

He had never let himself imagine this.  Never let himself think about the warmth of those lips, the smooth glide of that tongue against his, the tenderness where he expected brute strength.  He had forgotten this burning feeling, the tingling of every nerve that swamped him, drowning out time and sounds and obligations.

They were both panting when they finally pulled apart, and Cathal ran his tongue over his swollen lips.  Aedion didn’t let go of him but kept his hand at the back of his head, keeping him close and dropping his forehead to rest on Cathal’s.  Pressing a palm to Aedion’s chest, Cathal could feel his heart hammering and felt a flash of satisfaction that he was not the only one so affected.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Aedion finally said huskily.  

“Because…”  Cathal cleared his throat.  “Because I know that I can’t have you, not really.”

“Why not?”

It was such a simple question, asked so honestly.  Cathal wanted to tell him.  Wanted to explain all the reasons the bastard-born son of the streets could never be enough for the sole remaining member of the royal family.  Wanted him to understand that the mere thought of a blade against Aedion’s skin made Cathal want to set fire to the world, but that was a liability no soldier could bear.  Wanted him to know that his nightmares were now of Aedion lying sightless under the sky.  But he couldn’t find the words.  So he shook his head and took a step back, then another, ducking out of the tent and out into the star-filled night.  

*****

Mikkal rolled out of bed with barely a glance at the man still sprawled, sleeping, under the sheets.  He felt a twinge of guilt as he bathed and started water heating for tea.  He had to stop doing this.  No amount of mindless fucking was going to make up for Aedion being somewhere in the far north while he was stuck here teaching singing to girls with no interest in music.

It had been a few weeks since Fulke had finally heard of Aedion’s safe return to his camp.  Fulke’s connection in Terrasen had not heard what had happened, only that Aedion had not found the soldiers he had been seeking, but at least he was safe.  And it had been one of Mikkal’s friends who had told him of Aedion’s promotion a couple of days later.  The drinking jag Mikkal had gone on afterwards had led to the situation he was currently in.

Footsteps sounded and Darrin staggered into the kitchen, looking adorably disheveled but still half-drunk.  He muttered something unintelligible on his way through to the bathing room and Mikkal sighed as he poured eggs over the chopped tomatoes and mushrooms he’d been cooking.  It was a mystery to him how he could despise someone so much and still want to fuck him but here he was.

Darrin returned just as Mikkal finished the omelet, coming over and pressing up against his back.  Mikkal grimaced a little at the smell of old liquor.  “You should take a bath and eat something,” he said, trying to sound politely concerned.

“I’ll eat something,” Darrin murmured into his neck before taking Mikkal’s shoulders and spinning him around.  Undoing the front of Mikkal’s pants, Darrin reached in and stroked him until he was hard, then dropped to his knees and took him in his mouth.  Mikkal let his head fall back, closing his eyes and losing himself in the sensation, letting himself imagine he was still back at his father’s camp.  Still happy, or as happy as he ever got.

Afterwards Darrin finally left and Mikkal went off to deal with more spoiled young women.  He hated the aristo families he was working for.  The singing, on the other hand, he loved.  He wondered if he could ever be good enough to forget about the teaching and just sing for a living; he’d have to talk to Fulke, who somehow seemed to know absolutely everyone in the city.

That night he met Delaney at her bakery to walk her to Fulke’s.  Apparently the ruse was working well, her coworkers accepted his presence with broad smiles and unsubtle nudges.  Delaney herself seemed buoyant.  Mikkal watched her as they walked, her animated gestures and brilliant smiles, and wondered if she had found someone.

Fulke had no news of importance, so Mikkal told him what little he had heard about troop movements.  Soldiers continued to head south, but apparently a significant number had been sent into the White Fangs.  That group had included a lot of other types of workers, more than regular fighters.  Otherwise there was nothing to report.

After the meal, he walked Delaney back again.  He debated several times asking her if she had a lover, but bit back the question every time.  It was none of his business as long as it didn’t disrupt the charade they were playing.  Her sharp gasp as they rounded the corner and her bakery came into sight had him reaching automatically for his dagger, but then she was running, not away but towards a ragged figure standing in front of the bakery.

Mikkal jogged after her, reaching her just as she swept the other girl into her arms.  “Avis, Avis.” Delaney said the name over and over, tears gushing down her cheeks.  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice muffled in Avis’ long hair.

“I got out,” Avis said simply.  “I brought Maida with me.”

Delaney looked around herself frantically.  “Where is she?”

“I left her at the stable with the horse we st-, er, took,” Avis said, looking warily at Mikkal.  He smiled at her and she shifted away from him, putting Delaney between them.  Taking the hint, he backed several steps away from her and turned to watch the empty street.  There was no question this was another of Delaney’s siblings; the girl looked just like Raedan.  His heart was aching at her obvious fear and desperation, so he stood quietly and listened.

*****

Delaney had thought she was hallucinating when she had turned the corner and seen Avis.  But now, holding her sister in her arms and feeling her trembling, she was hoping the reality wouldn’t prove a nightmare.  She thought rapidly about where to put the girls; there was no room for them in the loft she shared above the bakery.  And Fulke had too many people coming and going at all hours.  Not letting go of Avis, she turned her head to look at Mikkal.

“Can we stay with you for a few days?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Of course,” Mikkal said without hesitation, and Delaney thought again that she understood why Aedion loved him.

“No,” Avis said fiercely.  “We’re not staying with him.”

“Honey, it’s all right.  I don’t know where else to go.”

“Not with him.  He’s a soldier.”  Delaney wondered how she knew, but a glance showed her Mikkal’s posture, the ease with which he kept his hand on his weapon.  Of course Avis knew, she’d been watching soldiers all her life.  “I’ll…I’ll rent a room or something.”  There was so much anguish in her voice that Delaney looked to Mikkal for help.

“I”m not a soldier anymore.  I won’t hurt you,” he said, soothingly.

Avis snorted, her disdain sharp as a knife.  “That’s what they all say.”

Delaney’s stomach understood before her brain did, and she had to fight to keep her dinner.  Mikkal seemed to catch on immediately and he took his hand off his dagger and came over with his hands up in front of him.  Several steps away he stopped and crouched down so he was at eye level with Avis.  “You’re Delaney’s sister, right?”  He waited for confirmation, and eventually she nodded.  “I’m friends with Raedan and Aedion.  They trust me with Delaney, and I have never laid a hand on her.”  Avis still looked skeptical and he studied her for a moment.  With a quick glance at Delaney, he added, “If it helps, I don’t fuck women.”

That did surprise Avis, and her rigid posture softened slightly.  “But…”

“Aedion and I were lovers while we were stationed together.”  He flicked another glance at Delaney.  “I hope your sister doesn’t mind that I shared that.”

Delaney shook her head mutely, astonished but grateful.  Avis just looked stunned, but she didn’t argue when he stood back up and gestured expansively.  “Lead the way to your sister,” he said, and Avis turned slowly and set off towards the public stables.

Once there, Avis bade Delaney and Mikkal to wait outside while she entered to get Maida.  Delaney hoped they weren’t going to just disappear out another door, but Mikkal’s calm expression made it easier to breathe.  “You really don’t mind?” she asked.

“Not at all.”  He tapped a finger against his dagger hilt for a moment.  “Would it be easier for your sister if stayed elsewhere?  I’m sure I can visit a friend for a bit.”

Delaney didn’t know what would be better, so she answered honestly.  “Maybe, but I’d rather you stayed if that’s all right.  I’ll feel safer having you there.”

“That’s fine.  I only have the one bed, but it’ll fit the three of you.”  Before Delaney could protest, he added, “I’ll sleep on the couch.  It’s not unusual for me to do that anyway.”  She subsided, her stomach in knots so tight she didn’t have it in her to argue.

Just when she was starting to panic that the girls had slipped out a different exit, Maida shot out of the door and crashed into her, wrapping her arms around her waist and sobbing.  Delaney rubbed her back, unable to believe this was her baby sister now nearly up to her shoulder.  After a few minutes Maida quieted, and she turned to survey Mikkal.

“Who are you?” she hiccoughed.

“My name is Mikkal,” he said with a bow.  “I’m a friend of your brother’s.  You’re going to stay with me for a little while.”

Maida accepted that without comment and they all followed Mikkal through the streets.  Delaney wasn’t surprised he lived in one of the better neighborhoods; not fancy, but comfortable and safe.  He led them up two flights of stairs and let them into a clean, sparse apartment.  There was a decent-sized living area with a long couch and two chairs clustered around a fireplace, then a small kitchen, a bathing room, and a bedroom with a large bed.  

The girls hadn’t brought anything with them, and after conferring Delaney ran back to the bakery to grab some clothes and bread.  On her way out, she grabbed a packet of day-old cookies as well.  Her roommates were kind and understanding, and Naise, who was tiny, gave her some of her own clothes for Maida.    

When she got back to the apartment, she was surprised to see Maida sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchen with wet hair, wrapped in an enormous robe that must have been Mikkal’s, talking to him while he cooked.  Her lisp was gone, and somehow Delaney found herself mourning it.  Avis was in the bedroom, standing at the small window, looking at the people on the lamplit street below.  Delaney dumped her bag on the bed.

“I brought you clothes, honey,” she said quietly.  Avis nodded but didn’t answer.  “Why don’t you take a bath and eat some dinner and then you can get some sleep.”  

Avis picked up the bag and disappeared into the bathing room.  Delaney rubbed her hand over her face, fighting for control.  She didn’t know how she had managed to fail the girls so badly, but the agony of knowing she had abandoned them - had left Avis to the nonexistent mercies of the officers - almost brought her to her knees.  It was as bad as watching Malins and Aedion.  Worse, even.  Aedion was a soldier; he was trained to break men, to kill them.  Avis had been soft and sweet and gentle.  It was going to kill Delaney that this frozen hardness was all her fault.

After a while there was a quiet knock and Mikkal entered.  “The girls are eating,” he said, perching on the foot of the bed.  Delaney nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak.  After a moment he stood and went to the door, but he turned back before leaving.  “They’re here, Delaney.  They’re safe now.  You gave them a place to come to.  Whatever those monsters did…that’s not your fault.”  When she didn’t respond he slipped out and closed the door behind him.

She wondered idly how he knew what was eating her alive, but her exhaustion overwhelmed her.  The bathing room was empty save for the bag of clothes she’d brought, a stack of towels, and steam.  After quickly washing her face, she unbraided her hair and pulled on her nightclothes, then returned to the bedroom and crawled under the covers.  She lay there, her mind a swirling fog, unable to form a coherent thought, unable to sleep.  Only once her sisters joined her and she had Maida wrapped tightly in her arms was she able to quiet the maelstrom in her mind and sink into the peaceful dark.  

*****

Cathal hadn’t come back to the tent after his unexpected kiss, and Aedion didn’t know where he had slept.  Not that he had gotten much sleep himself; the whole situation had confused the hell out of him.  Yet he found himself scanning the mess hall for Cathal and struggling to keep the grin off his face when he spotted him at the end of one long table.  He looked rumpled, like he’d slept under a bush somewhere, and the stretch of empty chairs around him indicated he must have been in some temper.  Aedion dropped into the seat next to him and ignored the small jump he gave.

“Did you get any sleep?” Aedion asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

Cathal’s mouth tightened, but he answered.  “A couple hours in the barracks.”  Aedion raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.  “I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but you were gone, and then…”  A dull flush crept up his neck and Aedion bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face.

“And then we learned that you’re a jealous bastard,” he said lightly.  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I think I should be the one to go scout for the others.”  Cathal watched for a reaction and, getting none, went on.  “I know the area, I’m a good shot, and I know ghost leopard habits.  If it really is Millar, well, Major Ward was under him, that might buy me some recognition.”

Aedion nodded, chewing thoughtfully.  “Do you think he’ll react as well as Dewar did when you punch him in the face, or can I expect some sort of retribution?”  Cathal huffed, and Aedion went on.  “Really, you could have just asked.  You didn’t need to seduce me first.”

“Aedion…”

“Though I can’t deny your methods are effective.  Do you know if Millar has the same weaknesses I do?”

“Aedion.”  There was a warning in his tone that Aedion chose to ignore.

“Really, I don’t know why you didn’t try this sooner.  You know I’m a slave to my cock, you would’ve been able to get whatever you wanted.”  He was expecting the punch Cathal threw next, and caught it in his hand.  The force behind it was impressive but he kept his face impassive.  

“You’re a bastard, Aedion,” Cathal snarled.

“I know, I know.”  Shifting his grip to Cathal’s wrist, he stood and began walking towards the exit, ignoring Cathal’s yelp as he got dragged along.  He was well aware of everybody’s eyes on the two of them but pretended he couldn’t see them as he shoved Cathal through the door in front of him.  A second shove once they reached the grass had Cathal stumbling away from him.  Once he caught his balance, he tugged at his clothing to straighten it before facing Aedion with crossed arms.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Cathal demanded, oblivious to the fact that a crowd was gathering.

“Half a dozen sentences and you were ready to to start a fight.  Damnit, Cathal, you make a rabid wolf look like a master of self control.”  There was a smattering of laughter that went abruptly silent at a look from Aedion.

All the fight had dropped out of Cathal, and Aedion walked over with a grin and draped an arm across his shoulders.  “Come on.”  He led him around to where the house was being built.  He hadn’t been by there for at least a week, and it was nice to see it had a roof and walls now.  Hammering was echoing from inside, and he wondered briefly what it was like building something for a living.  

“I can’t believe all that bullshit was a test,” Cathal said when they stopped in front of the house.  Aedion expected him to step out from under his arm, but he didn’t.

“Only partly.”  Aedion shot him a grin.  “I also know you have avoiding people down to an art form.”  Cathal huffed a grudging laugh.  “I mean, I still haven’t seen you say two words to Gillies.  Actually,” Aedion went on, “I should take lessons from you.  I mean, I think I went a month once without speaking to Raedan, but you see how well that lasted.”

Now Cathal did pull out from under his arm, but only to stare at him in shock.  “You’re kidding!”  Aedion shook his head, his smile fading.  “Why?”

“He ripped into me about Mikkal.”

Cathal’s brow furrowed.  “I thought he liked Mikkal.”

“He does now, but at the time…”  Aedion had to think for a moment.  “Let’s just say he didn’t understand why I would get involved with him.”

“Huh.  I didn’t think he’d have that sort of prejudice.”

Aedion shrugged and walked up the rough steps to peer in through the doorway of the building.  There were actual walls up on the inside too, and he could see how it was shaping out.  Turning back, he hopped down to the ground and walked to where Cathal was still standing, watching him.  “It’s looking good,” Aedion said, gesturing over his shoulder.  They started walking towards the meeting room where the other officers would be heading once breakfast was over.  “And no, Raedan’s not prejudiced like that.”

“Then why did he get so upset?”  

Aedion glanced over at the people filtering out of the mess hall.  “It’s a long story, but I’ll explain sometime, I’m sure.”

“I could always ask Raedan,” Cathal threatened, teasingly.

Aedion laughed, but even he could hear the grim note.  “You won’t get that story out of him, believe me.  Now, let’s go convince everyone you’re not going to kill the mysterious Colonel Millar for looking at you wrong.”

With a rude gesture, Cathal preceded him into the room.

*****

Delaney woke from dreams she couldn’t remember with tears in her eyes.  Maida was still sound asleep next to her, but Avis was nowhere to be seen in the gray light filtering through the windows.  She could hear subtle sounds of movement in the other room.  Slipping out of bed she crept to the door on silent feet, listened for a moment then eased the door open.

Mikkal was asleep on the couch still, his long legs curled so they wouldn’t hang off.  Delaney sat in one of the chairs and waited.  A couple of minutes later, Avis tiptoed into the room, looking over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door.  She was dressed to go out in Delaney’s clothes and her own ratty coat, clutching a small purse that Delaney had not seen the day before.

Avis turned to navigate the furniture to the door and jerked to a stop when she saw Delaney.  All color drained from her face, and surprise and fear flickered across it before her lips tightened into a bloodless line.  

“Where are you going?” Delaney whispered, not wanting to wake Mikkal.  His eyes fluttered open and he glanced at her, then closed them again with barely a hitch in his breathing.  

“Nowhere,” Avis whispered back, drawing herself up.  Delaney just looked her up and down and waited, arms crossed.  “It’s none of your business.”

“Avis, I’m your sister, I want to help you, just tell me what you need.”

The look Avis gave her was scathing.  “You’ve only ever run and hid, Delaney.  You don’t know how to help anyone but yourself.”

The words pelted into her like stones, and Delaney caught her breath at the sting of it.  “I wrote to you, almost a year ago.  I wanted you to come here, to get out of there.  Why didn’t you come?”

Avis looked away.  “I have to go.”

“Are you coming back?”

With a glance at Mikkal’s still form, Avis asked, “Were he and Aedion really…?”  

Delaney nodded and waited, watching her sister’s bitter mask for any sign of the girl she had raised.  Avis chewed on her lip for a moment.  “I’ll be back.”  Her eyes met Delaney’s, cold and hard.  “I can’t trust you to keep Maida safe.”

Stuffing her purse into the pocket of her coat, she crossed the carpet and let herself out.  Delaney was left, heart bleeding, trying to figure out how a conversation that was so quiet could wound so much more deeply than any shouted curse.

As soon as Avis’ footsteps had passed hearing range, Mikkal sat up and looked at Delaney, face tight with concern.  “Are you all right?”  Delaney shook her head, unable to speak.  He crossed to her and put a cautious arm around her.  His solid warmth enveloped her, and after a moment she relaxed into it.  She took one deep breath, then another.  Just as she thought she was under control, she remembered the fury in her sister’s eyes and she was lost.

Her racking sobs overwhelmed her, and for long minutes all she could feel was her body shaking apart with the force of her weeping.  Eventually she registered a strong arm still banding around her ribs, a firm hand rubbing soft circles into her back, a deep voice murmuring reassurances.

When she finally quieted, he held her for a long time, resting his cheek on her head.  “You know,” he said, and she could feel his voice rumbling through her chest, “Raedan wrote to them as well.  Your sisters.  He asked them to come to my father’s camp.”

She wasn’t sure why he was telling her this.  “How do you know?”

“He asked me first.  It would’ve been about a year ago now,” he said thoughtfully.  “It was right before I left.  I was visiting him in the infirmary.  I checked with my father, he said it was fine…”  He trailed off.

Delaney didn’t want to talk, she wanted to go after Avis and make up for abandoning her.  She wanted to go back in time and take her family with her when she fled.  She wanted to tear Pennington’s camp and every soldier in it apart with her bare hands.  But since none of those were an option, she just asked, “So?”

He jolted, and she wondered where his thoughts had gone.  “So why didn’t they go?  Aedion was able to pay for the transport.  If things were that bad, why wouldn’t they go to Raedan, or to you?”

She moved to stand up and he let his arm drop, watching her as she walked into the kitchen.  She wasn’t hungry, felt like she was going to vomit, but she started mechanically making breakfast anyway, as she needed to leave soon to get to the bakery.  The entire idea of going to work was probably ludicrous but she didn’t know what else to do.

Mikkal silently joined her and helped, and soon the bedroom door opened and a tousled Maida emerged, sniffing hopefully at the smell of frying bacon.  Delaney did her best to smile at her, and Maida padded over and hugged her around her middle.  Mikkal ruffled Maida’s hair as he passed by with the teakettle, and she rewarded him with an open grin.  

After a breakfast she didn’t remember eating, Delaney numbly hurried through the rest of her morning ritual.  A glance at Mikkal’s clock showed that she was running late, and she hoped her roommates would make her excuses to Luk.  The last thing she needed was to lose this job…

When she rushed back out to the living area, Maida was sitting primly on a chair with her shoes and shabby jacket on.  “I’m coming too,” she announced as soon as she saw Delaney, who exchanged quick looks with Mikkal.  It was actually the best option, as he had to work in a couple of hours, but she didn’t know what to do about Avis.

“I’ll leave a note for her if she doesn’t return,” Mikkal said, reading her mind.  

“Avis’ll be back soon,” Maida said confidently, and Delaney studied her intently for a moment.  Maida had not asked about her sister’s absence, had not seemed surprised or concerned.  Sighing, she put her shoes on.  Mikkal handed her a key as she straightened, and she stared at it in surprise.  

“I’ll have more copies made,” he said, and she nodded her thanks.  

It was a silent walk to the bakery.  Delaney wanted to ask a million questions, but Maida was distracted by all the people and the bustle.  When they reached Luk’s - just a minute late - he welcomed Maida without question and she was warmly accepted in among the bakers.  Soon she was running around fetching flour or eggs or cinnamon while Delaney set to work on her cookies.

A couple of hours passed before Avis appeared, ushered back into the kitchen by Naise.  After washing up carefully, she joined in the fray, quickly settling in at the sink washing equipment.  They morning went by in a flurry of activity.  When it was time for her break, Delaney asked her sisters whether they wanted to join her in the square or remain at the bakery, and both chose the latter.  it may have had something to do with the chocolate-filled pastries that Pamela had shoved into their hands a few minutes earlier, but Delaney was grateful.  She wanted to tell Cherise about her situation without the girls there.

The painful knot in her chest eased a little the second she saw Cherise.  Outwardly, their relationship hadn’t changed despite their stolen hours spent in shadowed corners and doorways.  But they both felt the shift.

Cherise’s face was uncharacteristically serious as Delaney explained about her sisters.  “Let me help,” she said immediately.  

Delaney wanted to kiss her for that.  “Thank you.  I’m not sure what we need though, honestly.”

Cherise smiled, but there was a little exasperation behind it.  “Money?  Clothes?  A place to stay?  Maybe a job for Avis?”

“I can manage the first three…”

“By staying with Major Paget,” Cherise snorted.  “I’m sure he’s a very nice man, but it doesn’t sound like your sisters are so happy with that, and I can’t imagine a man like that enjoys having three girls invade his apartment.”

“Ugh, you’re right,” Delaney said after a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose to try to ward off the impending headache.  

“When do you get out of work?” Cherise asked.  

“In three hours.”  

Cherise nodded and they finished their meal in rare silence.

Somehow, Delaney was not surprised when Cherise met them at the bakery at the end of her shift.  The girls appraised the stranger and evidently found in her favor, as even Avis was willing to talk a little while they walked.  Cherise steered them towards the handful of stores that were open later, and then refused to let Delaney pay for the outfits and nightclothes they selected.  She then accompanied them back to Mikkal’s apartment.

He was there with a meal ready, and he greeted them with some relief when he saw Avis with them.  With his usual courtesy he invited Cherise to stay and eat, but she bowed out with slightly mocking politeness.  Avis ate quietly and retreated to the bedroom immediately, and Delaney followed her in, ignoring the way Avis kept her back to her.

“I need you to talk to me,” Delaney said.  Avis acted as if she hadn’t heard her.  “I need to know why you ignored not just my invitation to come here, but Raedan’s to join him and Aedion.”  Avis whipped around, mouth open whether in shock or to protest, Delaney didn’t know.  But as she met Delaney’s eyes her face crumpled and she started to weep.

Gathering her sister in her arms, Delaney sat on the foot of the bed and rocked her, her own tears falling lightly onto Avis’s hair.  When Avis finally quieted with some hiccoughing breaths, Delaney waited for her to begin speaking.  Instead, her breathing smoothed out and she fell asleep, curled in Delaney’s lap.  Sighing, Delaney kept her arms caged around her, not sure what nightmares she might need to ward off but ready to fight.

*****

Cathal woke in the dark, gathering his pack as silently as he could.  He was leaving at first light, heading west with three of the regulars from that region.  He didn’t want to wake Aedion, not when he had enough trouble sleeping at the best of times, and when they still hadn’t really done anything about what had happened the other night.

The creak of the cot as he reached the opening of the tent had him turning, and he almost crashed into Aedion who was somehow immediately behind him.  He cursed, and there was a flash of teeth in the dim light as Aedion grinned.  “I know you weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye to the tent,” he said in a voice still rough from sleep.

“To the…to the tent?” Cathal asked in confusion.

“Well, by the time you get back the house will be finished.”

That hadn’t occurred to Cathal, and for some reason it bothered him.  After all, they had been sharing sleeping quarters for the majority of the time since they left Orynth.  He glanced up at the canvas overhead.  “I guess I should move the stuff I’m not bringing to the barracks, then.”

Aedion made a noise, amusement or irritation Cathal couldn’t tell without being able to see his face clearly.  “What?” Cathal asked.

In response, Aedion cupped Cathal’s jaw in his hands and took his mouth with his own.  Somehow this kiss was different.  With Muire and Luthais, he had always felt like he was the one holding on.  This was an equal give and take, a question and an answer.  It was possessing and being possessed; it was the water that raises the boat and the rope that anchors it.  Though in reality it lasted mere seconds it seemed to open a gate to eternity.  

“Fuck,” was all Cathal could come up with when Aedion pulled away.

“Fine with me,” Aedion replied, and that was definitely humor in his voice, “but I think the others might come looking for you.”

“Damnit, Aedion.”  Cathal tried to steady his breathing.  “What…why now?”

“Consider it incentive to come back.”

“Duly noted.”  Cathal stumbled over his own feet as he moved to leave, cursing the sudden loss of blood to his brain.  

“Oh, and Cathal?” Aedion called from behind him.  “If you’re not back in a month I’m going looking for you myself.  Remember that.”

Cathal nodded, barely resisting flipping him off as he staggered as if drunk towards the stables.  Twenty minutes later he and the others were saddled and ready, and as he rode Chance through the gates and turned away from the dawning sun all he could think of was the feel of rough stubble on his face and a nearly overwhelming surge of homesickness.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 18

Read the previous ones:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16.  Chapter 17. 

Cathal stood on the edge of the small patch of grass they were using for training.  Too much of the rest of the available space was taken up by tents, but the barracks were nearly finished.  Everyone was looking forward to being indoors again, and the officers were planning out their training grounds in anticipation.  But for now, they were making due with targets set up along the fence and an area just large enough for sparring.

Fulton appeared along the edge of the cleared area, and Cathal ignored him while he tweaked the footwork of one of the men he and Grant had gathered from the mountains.  None of them were up to snuff.  Once Terrasen had fallen they had all allowed their skills and fitness to fade.  With almost three weeks of intensive training, though, they were regaining some of their former abilities.  

After several minutes he stopped the men for a water break.  Fulton still had not moved, and finally Cathal shot him an annoyed look.  He took that as invitation and approached.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but did you know Ashryver was back?”

“What?  When?”

“He arrived a little over half an hour ago.”

Cathal began moving without even thinking, heading towards the mess hall.  Fulton followed, getting in front of him once he realized where he was going.  “He’s in your tent,” Fulton said, and Cathal stopped at the concern in his voice, searching his scarred face.  “He…he doesn’t look good.”

Cathal took off, half-jogging through the tents until he reached his own, one of a cluster of larger tents the officers shared.  He pushed through the flaps into the sweltering tent to see Aedion passed out on his cot.  An empty plate and pitcher rested on the small table between the cots.  Aedion’s bare feet were filthy, and he was wearing odd clothes that were too small for him.  It was his face that made Cathal catch his breath; it was tight even in sleep.  With his beard grown in he looked so much older than his years it was startling.  But he was alive.  Silently, Cathal turned to leave; he could get his answers later.  

“Cathal.”  Aedion’s voice was quiet and cracked, and Cathal pulled back in and faced him.  His eyes were still closed but there was alertness to his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Cathal said quietly.  “I’ll come back.”

Aedion shifted on his cot and beckoned to Cathal in response.  As soon as Cathal reached the cot, Aedion’s hand shot out to grab Cathal’s arm.  That was when Cathal noticed the black metal around both Aedion’s wrists.  Shackles.  He cursed under his breath as Aedion dragged him down onto the cot, releasing him only to snake that arm around him and pull him tight.

Cathal sat awkwardly on the edge of the cot, trying to keep from leaning against Aedion’s body.  Aedion didn’t say anything more, just kept his arm firmly around Cathal’s abdomen until he fell back asleep.  Long minutes passed, and Cathal spent the time studying Aedion, trying to figure out what got him into this state.  He reeked of urine and vomit and unwashed body, enough that Cathal’s eyes stung.  There were sores under the shackles, though not severe ones.  Cathal wondered how he had escaped from wherever he had been restrained.  When he was done cataloguing he started to become too aware of the heat of Aedion’s body against his back, of the light touch of calloused fingers against his wrist.

Cathal shifted, gently pulling himself out of Aedion’s hold.  He told himself it was only so he could get him more food for when he awoke, and had nothing to do with the pulse he could feel pounding all the way to his fingertips.  The movement had Aedion startling up, eyes wild.  “It’s all right,” Cathal said, holding his hands up, “I’m just going to get you something to eat.”

Aedion groaned and flopped back down, immediately falling back asleep.  Cathal watched him for a moment before slipping from the tent and heading to the mess.  Dewar saw him and jogged over.  “How is he?” Dewar asked as soon as he caught up.

“He’s exhausted.  I don’t think he’s ill, but I don’t know what happened to get him into this state.”

Dewar looked grim.  “Fulton said he looked like he’d been held captive.”

Cathal nodded.  “He’s got broken shackles on, but he hasn’t talked; he’s just sleeping.  I left to get him some food, I don’t know what he’s been surviving on but it hasn’t been enough.”

Dewar started to say something, then hesitated, looking torn.  Cathal stopped just in front of the mess hall.  “What.”

“Fulton…”  Dewar stopped again, mouth tightening, and Cathal stepped towards him, hands fisted.  Dewar glanced at them and started again.  “Fulton just took Hoyle into custody.”  Cathal looked at him in surprise.  They had questioned the man who had sent Aedion north a few times already about what he had heard about Millar and why he had suggested Aedion go there, and his answers had seemed benign enough.  

“Does he think Hoyle set him up?”

“Yes.  Cathal,” Dewar said, grabbing Cathal’s sleeve as he started turning, fists already clenched.  “Let Fulton do what Fulton does.  If there are answers to be gotten, he’ll get them.”

Cathal knew Fulton was a better interrogator than he was, but he didn’t want to ask questions, he wanted to beat answers out of the man.  He stood, seething, until another touch on his arm drew his attention back to Dewar.  “Make yourself useful and take care of Ashryver.  He’ll accept that better from you than anyone else right now.”

Grinding his teeth, Cathal hesitated a moment longer before turning back towards the mess hall.  He returned to the tent loaded down with food to find Aedion awake.  Cathal set the plates on the table and turned to face him.  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally.  “Gillies has been driving me mad.”

“You’re really here,” was Aedion’s odd response.  Before Cathal could respond, Aedion turned to the food, smelling it carefully then falling on it like a starved wolf.  While he ate, Cathal began digging through his pack, finally pulling out two tiny instruments.  He crossed to Aedion and knelt next to him.

“Let me get those off of you,” he said, and Aedion looked at him in brief confusion before holding out his hand.  Cathal inserted his lock picks into the pin holding the band around his wrist and popped the lock in a few seconds.  Aedion raised his brows but twisted to give Cathal his other hand.  The second one followed the first, and Cathal tossed them both near the entrance.

“That’s a handy trick,” Aedion rasped.

Cathal laughed.  “A handy way of getting into trouble, really, but it has its uses.”  He looked from the iron rings to Aedion.  “Are we going to talk about how you ended up with them?”

A muscle twitched in Aedion’s jaw.  “I need to get cleaned up first.”  Cathal nodded and moved out of his way, but Aedion was looking at the foot of the cot in consternation.  “I don’t have any clothes.”  The disconsolate way he said it made the problem seem insurmountable.  Cathal went to him and touched his arm.

“It’s all right,” he said.  “Let’s go see Brydie.  She’ll figure something out.”

Naturally Dewar’s wife had no trouble finding Aedion clothes, and Cathal felt no small amount of satisfaction when he reappeared at the tent, for once not wearing that gods-damned uniform.  Dewar and Grant shoved themselves into the tent after him and Cathal stifled his irritation.  They had just as much a right to know what happened as he did, or so he told himself.  

Aedion didn’t seem to mind their presence, though it was Cathal he watched as he talked.  Several times Cathal was unable to keep to his seat but rose and paced the few steps he could manage in the small space.  He didn’t know what to think, what to feel as Aedion finished his story; he was torn between fury at Garvey and gratitude to the unknown girl and pride in Aedion for figuring out how to break free.

Grant, true to form, began with minute questioning about every detail of the compound, the cell, how Aedion had found his way home, totally oblivious to the exhaustion creeping into Aedion’s voice.  Before Grant could start asking how Aedion took a shit Cathal interrupted.  “That’s enough.  No,” he went on at Grant’s and Dewar’s startled looks, “he’s told us enough for now.  He’s not going anywhere, you can ask more tomorrow.”  Aedion looked a little bemused at Cathal’s interference but didn’t protest, and after exchanging glances the officers left.  Cathal followed them out but ignored them, moving to snag the nearest soldier to ask for dinner to be brought to the tent.  

*****

Aedion flopped back on his cot and draped his arm over his eyes.  He was still exhausted but could feel a hint, just a hint, of familiar restlessness prowling under his skin.  When Cathal pushed back into the tent, Aedion murmured, “Thank you.”  He didn’t want to encourage more conversation, but he knew Cathal wouldn’t push it.  

He felt Cathal stop by his cot, and freed his eyes to grab Cathal’s wrist and pull him down next to him.  He had a vague memory of having done this already, but when he had awakened the tent had been empty; he still wasn’t sure if it had been real or a dream.  Right now, though, he was undisputedly awake, and he savored the feel of Cathal’s strong arm under his hand, his weight on the edge of the cot.  Inhaling deeply, he took in the familiar scent of resin and leather.  That was what had been missing in his hallucinations, and it grounded him now.  

There was an extra note to it, though, a hint of what he thought was fear.  Opening his eyes, he took in Cathal’s tense position perched on the cot, the tightness around his mouth.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, confused.

“I’m not worried about that,” Cathal snapped, glaring at him.  

“What are you worried about, then?”

Cathal didn’t say anything for a moment, then, “You should see the healer.”  At Aedion’s surprised look, he added, “You might not have noticed that you’re limping, but I did.  You took an arrow to the leg, and it wasn’t tended for weeks.”

“All right,” Aedion agreed easily.  Cathal remained rigidly perched on the cot, his forearm still taut under Aedion’s hand.  It reminded Aedion of Delaney and Raedan at first, how they would nearly flinch from his casual intimacy; so unlike Mikkal, who had never shied from him.  He released Cathal’s arm and drew his hand back, but there was no softening to Cathal’s posture.  

“Why do you keep wanting me to sit here?” Cathal finally asked, just as Aedion was starting to sink under his exhaustion again.

Aedion blinked a few times.  “Oh.  The drug they put in my water, it made me see things.  Sometimes I thought you were there, but you kept dissolving.”

Before Cathal could reply the tent flaps rustled and he rose to meet an unfamiliar young man who was carrying two plates.  Aedion sat up and rubbed a hand through his shaggy hair, trying to dismiss his fatigue.  Cathal wordlessly set the food down on the small table between their cots and sat down to eat.  After cautiously smelling his own and finding nothing amiss, Aedion set to as well, ravenous even though it had only been a couple of hours since he’d eaten.

Cathal finished and set his fork down, sitting back and looking at Aedion with an unfathomable expression.  “Did you really hallucinate me?” he asked at last.  Aedion nodded.  Cathal stood and made to leave the tent.  “I’m going to get the healer,” he said by way of explanation, and ducked out.  

They hadn’t even had a camp healer when Aedion had left, and he didn’t know where the woman had come from, but she was gently professional as she checked him over.  The abrasions on his back from being dragged were nearly healed, so she ignored those but cleaned and dressed the sores on his wrists.  Cathal looked more than a little sick as she drained fluid from the ugly wound on this thigh and poulticed it, but he remained even after Aedion told him he could go.  After she left, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and let himself drift off listening to Cathal’s breathing.

The next morning, a grim-faced Dewar brought Fulton to the tent as Aedion and Cathal were finishing breakfast.  Aedion shifted so his body was slightly between Fulton and Cathal.  He had never minded Fulton, or Gillies for that matter, for his own sake but there was no need to push Cathal at the moment.  Fulton spared Cathal a quick glance before turning his attention to Aedion.  

“I’ve been speaking with Hoyle,” Fulton said, and anger sparked in his good eye.  Aedion had to think for a moment before placing Hoyle as the man from Suria who had told him about Millar’s camp in the far northeast.  “Evidently he’s had a long association with Garvey.  He knew exactly what he was doing when he sent you up that road.”

Aedion’s brow furrowed.  “But why?”

“According to Hoyle,” Dewar interjected, “Garvey doesn’t want the Bane to gather.”

Aedion recalled his first conversation with the man.  “He said something like that to me, but does Hoyle know why?”

“It’s bad for business,” Dewar said.  “If you and the Bane take control of the cities, it’ll be harder for him to do the type of trade he specializes in.”  At Cathal’s blank look, he added, “Poison, illicit substances, and flesh.”

Cathal’s face darkened but he remained silent.  Fulton added, “On the plus side, he does believe that Millar is still alive, and may have actually gathered some of our missing soldiers.”  He paused, looking between Aedion and Cathal, before saying hesitantly, “But he was a bit startled to learn you were still alive.”

Aedion beat Cathal to the tent opening, blocking his exit.  “It’s all right,” he said quietly.  “I’m all right.”

“It’s not all right,” Cathal spat.  “He’s a traitor.  He was more than happy to sell his country’s best interests out, and your life in the process.”

Aedion dropped a hand on Cathal’s shoulder.  “I know, but let’s not rush to judgment.”  But when he looked up, Dewar and Fulton were exchanging glances.  “What.”

Fulton squared up to Aedion, lifting his chin, stubborn righteousness in his face.  “I executed him.”

Surprised fury rose in Aedion’s throat like bile.  “You executed him?” he snarled, and now it was Cathal stepping in front of Fulton, pressing a strong hand to Aedion’s chest.  “On whose authority?”

“Mine and Grant’s,” said Dewar.  “We heard him, and we got all the information he had.  If we had let him go he would have betrayed us all.  And let me remind you,” he added as Aedion turned to him with clenched fists, “that at the moment I outrank you.”

“Shit.”  Before he could rip into them, Aedion turned and pushed through the flaps.  He started heading towards the corrals but pulled up abruptly when he realized Avenar would not be there to greet him with her low nickers.  “Shit,” he said again, blinking hard against the stinging in his eyes.  He heard footsteps behind him but didn’t turn to acknowledge Cathal.

“Why are you so pissed off?” Cathal asked.  Aedion shook his head and resumed walking towards the corrals anyway.  “They did the right thing.”

Aedion didn’t even know how to answer him.  He had killed several men without thinking just a handful of days prior with no more justification than Fulton had had.  He just wished he could have looked Hoyle in the eye and asked him himself.  He wanted to hear the answers from Hoyle’s own lips.  

Reaching the corral, he rested his arms on the top rail and looked over the dozen horses within.  The red bay gelding he had stolen was swishing flies comfortably with Grant’s gray, looking no worse for the grueling pace he’d set.  Cathal stood next to him, almost close enough to brush arms.  “I’m sorry about Avenar,” Cathal said.

“Thank you,” Aedion said quietly.  His lost horse left a crushing ache in his chest, yet with each blink it was the girl’s terrified face he saw instead of the animals in front of them.  “The girl…she saved me, and I don’t even know what her name was.”  

Cathal was silent for a long time.  “I grew up with Luthias,” he finally said.  “You had asked me about him once.”  Aedion turned to face him, but he was staring unseeingly into space.  “My background…it was not like yours.”

Aedion gave a dry laugh.  “Nobody’s is.”

Cathal acknowledged that with a wry twist of his mouth.  “We grew up on the streets in Rosamel.  We did everything together.  He showed me how to pick locks and lift wallets.  I taught him how to fight.  When I got caught stealing when I was fourteen, I was given a choice between going to prison or joining the military.  Luthias promised to join with me, so that’s what we did.

“He was the first person…”  Cathal trailed off, but Aedion could guess what he meant.  “We trained together and fought together and when I made lieutenant he was assigned under me.  Dewar knew better than to try to split us up.  And then I met Muire, and he loved her almost as much as I did.  When those butchers came for her, he would’ve died with me to get her back.”  

The only noise for a long stretch was the swish of tails and stomping of hooves.  “What happened?” Aedion asked.

Cathal’s eyes flicked to him briefly.  “After Muire, we were sent to Major Ward since I couldn’t work with Dewar anymore.  Luthias held me together for all those months as we watched our country get swallowed up, bit by bit.”  Cathal swallowed audibly, and his knuckles turned white as his fingers dug into the fence rail.  “He died in the last battle.  I…I don’t know where he was buried.”

Aedion’s heart ached with understanding.  He wanted to take Cathal’s hand, but yesterday had made it clear he wouldn’t appreciate that gesture, so he bumped him with his shoulder instead.  Cathal pushed back and they stood there, elbow to elbow, as the painful peace of shared grief settled over them.

*****

A couple of weeks passed with the demise of Colonel Malins being the major source of gossip.  Delaney managed to act suitably horrified to satisfy her coworkers; Cherise on the other hand viewed the situation with her usual amused detachment, though she speculated as vociferously as anyone else as to who could have had motive to kill him.  

Delaney made a point to tell her friend that she had met Paget at her cousin’s the night of Malin’s murder.  Cherise laughed immoderately when Delaney confessed she had referred to him to his face as the officer without a head.  

“And did you find him as worthy of worship as Brigitte does?” Cherise asked, batting her eyelashes.

Delaney grinned, picturing Paget and Aedion together.  “He’s very polite,” she replied, “but he’s not my type.”

“Mine either,” was Cherise’s response.  Delaney glanced at her sideways, trying to figure out what precisely she meant by that, but Cherise’s sly smile gave away nothing.  

They had taken to eating lunch together every day.  Delaney didn’t know what it meant when something in her chest eased every time she saw those gray eyes light up at Delaney’s arrival in the square.  She couldn’t understand why every casual press of Cherise’s hand to her arm, every accidental brush of fingers against the back of her hand, caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps.  All she knew was that there was nothing that could keep her from half-running across the cobbled square to their painted iron table each day.

She was thinking about Cherise as she approached Fulke’s apartment one evening.  It wasn’t her usual day to spend with him, but his hastily written note from that afternoon had her ducking out of the bakery as soon as the bread was set.  Movement in the shadows had her reaching for her dagger; the sudden appearance of Paget didn’t loosen her grip on the handle.  

“Is it true?” he asked hoarsely, and she could see the fear in his eyes.  She looked at him in confusion and he went on, “Is Aedion missing?”

Terror stabbed her in the heart and she sprinted the remaining yards to the apartment and threw herself up the stairs, Paget on her heels.  They crashed through Fulke’s door without knocking and he leaped to his feet with a startled exclamation.  A quick glance must have told him the problem, because he grabbed Delaney into a hug.  

“It’s going to be all right,” Fulke murmured into her hair.

“What happened?” demanded Paget.

“How the hell did you hear about this?” Fulke asked instead of answering.

Paget waved his hand dismissively through the air.  “Hirons sent a report, one of my friends told me.  Evidently Aedion sends updates regularly but was over a week late so they inquired, to find out he’d disappeared.  So please, please tell me what the hell happened?”

Delaney pushed out of Fulke’s grip to watch his face.  “I got a letter from Clery today,” he started a bit hesitantly.  “Cathal wrote him - do you remember Cathal?” he asked, turning to Delaney.  She shook her head.  “He’s one of Clery’s lost souls, and evidently has been stuck to Ashryver like glue.  They were out recruiting soldiers, and Ashryver didn’t return when he was supposed to.  Apparently someone had told him there was a large camp up along the northeastern shore, and he decided to ride up to investigate.  They don’t know how far out of the way the camp was, but by the time Cathal sent the letter he hadn’t been seen for about ten days.”  

“Shit.”  Paget said it under his breath, but in the silence that followed Fulke’s statement it sounded loud.

Fulke turned and walked into the kitchen as the teakettle began to whistle.  He poured the hot water over fragrant tea leaves for Delaney, then lifted a cut glass bottle half-full of amber liquid in Paget’s direction.  At Paget’s nod, he poured some into two short glasses and handed one to the major.  Paget downed it in one swallow, grimacing a little, and Fulke refilled his glass.  

“He took the road north from Suria, so Clery has sent one of his best riders to try to track him.  Ashryver’s not exactly inconspicuous, so chances are good somebody will know something.”  Both Delaney and Paget nodded a bit numbly.  Delaney picked up her mug, relishing the warmth against her fingers despite the oppressive heat that still clung to the city.  

Paget dropped into one of the chairs in the kitchen.  “I hate this,” he muttered.  He felt the others’ eyes on him and looked up.  “I hate not being able to help him.”

Fulke lifted the lid of something on the stove and gave it a stir.  Satisfied, he grabbed three shallow bowls and ladled the rich stew into them, then grabbed a fresh loaf of bread and began carrying the food to the table.  Delaney helped, while Paget watched in apparent confusion as she set one of the bowls in front of him.  

“Dig in,” she said with a quick grin as she took her own seat.  

“Why?” he asked, gesturing to the food.

Fulke blew on a spoonful to cool it before taking a bite.  “If you want to help Ashryver, help us,” he said after swallowing.  “You’re well-placed to find out what Adarlan is saying and doing, and we can pass that along.”

Paget dipped his spoon into his stew, then let it trickle back into the bowl.  “Where do you fit in?” he demanded of Fulke.  “You’re from Adarlan, that’s obvious.  I know why she cares about him,” he said, motioning to Delaney, “but why do you?”

“I don’t really,” Fulke replied, shrugging.  “I’ve never even met Ashryver.  But my parents fled the King when I was a boy, and Clery took me in after they were killed.  Terrasen…What it was under King Orlon, and what it’s become…I would do anything to get it back.  Clery thinks Ashryver is our best bet to do that.”

Paget nodded thoughtfully.   “You have magic, then.”  

Delaney sucked in a breath, but Fulke didn’t react beyond a pleasant, “No, I don’t.”

“You did, though.  Before it fell.”  

Fulke shook his head.  “Of course not.”  But Delaney could hear the strain in his voice and she bet Paget could too.  She wondered how he had realized it; she had heard the story before, both from Fulke and from Clery, and never would have interpreted it that way.  

She looked at Paget, and his expression was calm, calculating.  “How did you end up with Aedion?” she asked abruptly, and his attention shifted to her as she hoped it would.  

“What do you mean?” he asked, sounding amused.

“I wouldn’t have thought you were his type.”

He chuckled.  “If there was any doubt you were Raedan’s sister…”  One corner of his mouth twitched up as he added, “Your brother didn’t approve either, at least not at first.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know,” he said, a sensual smirk playing on his lips.  “Maybe I’m just really good in bed.”

Fulke choked on his mouthful of stew, and Delaney pounded him on the back but didn’t take her eyes off Paget.  He laughed at their reaction.  “No, I was in love with Aedion long before he saw it as more than a flirtation.  That’s what won him over, I think.”  The unexpected bit of raw honesty completely took Delaney aback, and a glance at Fulke showed him in the same state.  

Paget leaned back in his chair and surveyed them.  “I think we’re even, no?  You know I killed Malins, I know about your magic.  We all are invested in Aedion succeeding, so now perhaps we can work together.”

Fulke smiled in reluctant understanding.  The rest of the evening was spent discussing what Fulke wanted Paget to do.  The major’s main concern was that he had no way of making a living in Rifthold.  Fulke promised to find him a job, despite his insistence that he had no skills whatsoever.  After exhaustive questioning regarding his interests and contacts in the city, Paget got up to leave, pausing as he reached the door.  “How do we explain this?” he asked, gesturing to the three of them.  “It’s not like we move in the same circles.”

Fulke chewed on his lip as he looked between Paget and Delaney.  “Er…”

Delaney recognized his idea first.  “No.  No way, it’s not believable.”

Paget caught on.  “Actually…that could work.”

She rounded on him.  “No.  You’ve turned down aristo girls, there’s no reason for you to look twice at someone like me.”

Paget huffed.  “You can hold your own in the looks department, and I’m not nobility.  You’ll be doing me a favor,” he went on when she opened her mouth to protest again.  “I can finally get these damn girls off my back.  And you know I’m…safe.”

She glared at both of them in exasperation.  Paget shrugged and started to open the door.  “You don’t need to decide tonight,” he said, with a slight bow.  “But we do need to come up with a plausible excuse for me to start spending time with you.”  

As Paget’s footsteps sounded down the stairs, Fulke waved at Delaney to follow him, and with a rude gesture at Fulke she obeyed.  Paget must have heard her coming, for he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.  He held an arm out to her, but lowered it with a laugh after taking in her expression.

They walked towards the bakery largely in silence.  As they got close, Delaney stopped and turned to Paget.  “Why didn’t you go after him?  Once you were discharged, I mean.”

He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable.  “A few reasons.  Two, really.  I was afraid my presence would put him in danger, either from Adarlan or from soldiers in Terrasen who might not look too kindly on us being together.  And the other…I don’t know that he wants me there.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Definitely no doubt you’re Raedan’s sister,” he said, but there was no humor in his tone this time.  When she didn’t look away, he blew out a long sigh.  “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

He dropped his eyes to the cobbles, then glanced back up at her.  “I…wasn’t completely honest with him,” he said softly.  “And he found out in the worst possible way.”

“Were you with someone else?” Delaney asked, her voice hard.

He laughed, and there was heartbreak in the sound.  “No, it wasn’t that.  I would never do anything to hurt him.”  The emphasis on the last word had her furrowing her brow.  “I hated being a soldier,” he went on, so quietly she had to step closer to hear him.  “And he knew that, but he didn’t know that…that I didn’t always care if I made it off the battlefield.  Until this.”  He held up his hand, and she stared at the lumpy scars where his fingers had been.  

“Oh,” she said faintly.

He started walking again, and after a moment she followed after him, a thousand questions burning her throat as she swallowed them down.  When they reached the bakery she hesitated before unlocking the door, searching his face but not finding any answers.  

“Good night, Major Paget,” she finally said.

“Mikkal,” he said.  “Call me Mikkal.”  With another shallow bow, he turned and disappeared into the night.

*****

Days passed, then weeks.  The leaves began to change, and Aedion found himself marveling at how easy it was to fall into routine.  While each war camp certainly had its own feel, the day to day life was the same.  Once he was eating enough he recovered quickly from his injury, and within a few days of his return had been back to training his new men.  Others continued to trickle in; former members of the Bane who had heard about the raising, and some young men and boys who had not been old enough to fight in the war but who wanted to help now.  The first barracks building was finished, but soon filled to overflowing and a second was begun immediately along with rough stables for the horses.  Winter came early this far north and they needed to have everyone under a roof before the first snow fell.

One afternoon, a solo man rode in and headed straight for where Aedion was supervising a sparring session.  When he looked up at the horse approaching him and saw the rider he called for a halt.  By the time Raedan had dismounted, Aedion was at his side to pull him into a hug, ignoring the stares of all the men around them.  “I didn’t know you were coming up here!”

Raedan grinned as he was released.  “Well evidently someone needs to be with you at every moment or you’ll get yourself killed.”

Aedion laughed.  “I hope the others are managing in Rifthold without you.”

“Hirons has basically taken over,” Raedan said.  “Once he received his promotion, and thank you for that by the way,” he went on, gesturing at his lieutenant’s stripes, “the entire garrison started looking to him instead of that fool Longe.”

They walked side by side to the corrals, where one of the young new recruits took Raedan’s horse.  Raedan grabbed his pack and saddlebags and followed Aedion first to the mess hall, then to the tent he still shared with Cathal, chattering all the way about the news from the city and from Adarlan.  Once they had ducked into the empty tent, Raedan reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a large stack of paper.  “Your letters,” he said.  “Looks like I’ll never get away from being your page.”

Aedion snorted and took the stack as he dropped onto the lone chair that had made its way into the tent.  There were several official communications from Adarlan, most of which Raedan or someone had opened.  “Sorry about that,” Raedan said as Aedion flipped open a broken seal.  “We decided to monitor those while you were missing.”  There were orders for Rifthold, which were better dealt with by Hirons anyway; the authorization of the promotion of Aedion’s men that he had requested months ago; and one letter that detailed a rebel camp that was rumored to be north of Rosamel in the western part of the country.  The implication was that Aedion was to destroy or assimilate the rebels.  He set that aside to address with Dewar, Grant, and Cathal later.  

A handful of letters were unopened, and he started on those.  The first one he ripped open made his jaw drop.  “Colonel?” His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat and handed the letter to Raedan.  “They made me colonel.”

Raedan skimmed the letter and handed it back with a grin.  “Looks that way.  I guess they decided you can’t run this camp as a captain.”

There was a rustling as Cathal entered the tent then pulled up abruptly, looking between the two of them, at Raedan’s grin and Aedion’s pallor.  “When did you get here?” he asked gruffly, moving between them with a remarkable lack of subtlety.  

Aedion handed him the letter as Raedan answered, “About an hour ago.”  Cathal didn’t acknowledge him, just stared in stunned silence at the letter.  

“Damn,” Cathal said at last, passing the paper back to Aedion.  “Can I be there when you tell Dewar and Grant?  I need to see their faces.”

Aedion laughed and snagged the next letter while Cathal stepped back and sat on his cot.  It was a long letter from Clery, and Aedion read it quickly, then went back and reread a couple of passages, blinking through the stinging in his eyes.  

“What is it?” Raedan asked, concerned at whatever he saw on Aedion’s face.

“It’s Mikkal,” he said, unable to drag his gaze away from the paper.  “He’s in Rifthold.  With Delaney.”  Raedan gave a low curse and moved to read over Aedion’s shoulder.  Aedion looked up at him as Raedan squeezed his shoulder almost hard enough to bruise.  “They’re all right,” Aedion whispered.  “And look…”

“Holy shit,” Raedan said, sounding awed.  “He killed Malins.  I knew I liked him.  Wait, does Clery even know who Malins was?”

“Not unless Delaney told him.”

Cathal was watching them intently.  “Mikkal is…”

Aedion met Cathal’s eyes.  “Mikkal is that officer you rode me so hard about when we first met,” he said.

“The one who was wounded.”  

Aedion nodded.  “This is the first proof I’ve had he survived.”  He didn’t miss the tightening of Cathal’s face, the hardening of his mouth, or the bob of his throat before he spoke again.

“And who did he kill?”  

Raedan looked at Aedion, concern in his eyes.  Aedion dug his nails into his palms, feeling each small line of pain as a buffer against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.  “Colonel Malins.  One of the men who…tortured me.”

Cathal’s whole body went rigid for a moment, then relaxed.  “Good,” was all he said.  With a quick glance at Raedan, he ducked back out of the tent.

“Gods, Aedion,” Raedan said, staring after Cathal.  “What is it with you and officers?”

“What?”  Aedion saw the amused exasperation in his expression and looked at the tent opening.  “Oh.  No.  Cathal has no interest in me.  Trust me,” he added, noting Raedan’s skepticism.  “No, it’s…he lost someone in battle.  I’m sure it’s hard for him to hear when someone else gets lucky.”  Raedan didn’t comment further and Aedion let it drop.  Cathal had made himself plenty clear.

*****

Cathal was right: he would remember the expressions on Dewar’s and Grant’s faces at the news of Aedion’s promotion for the rest of his life.  They had to have known it was inevitable; Aedion could hardly enact a routing of a country full of rebels as a captain.  Yet both were shocked, and Dewar was unable to completely hide his frustration.  No doubt the presence of a stranger from Adarlan didn’t make it any easier, though by some miracle Raedan kept his mouth shut.

Dewar’s discomfiture almost made up for the unexpected news regarding Aedion’s lover.  Cathal hated himself for resenting it, but it seemed to erase that moment of perfect understanding between them after Aedion’s return.  

It wasn’t until late that night when they were finally alone, Raedan having claimed a bed in the not quite completed barracks.  Cathal debated not saying anything, but in the end his mouth won out.  “Are you bringing him here?” he asked as Aedion was settling into his cot.  

“Who?”

“Mikkal.”  Cathal didn’t know why the name was so hard to say, nor how to explain the surge in his gut when Aedion shook his head.  “Why not?”

Aedion was quiet for a long moment.  “I think he needs to move on from this life,” he finally said.  “The injuries he sustained…he won’t be able to fight anymore.  And I think he doesn’t want to.  I will never not be a soldier, and it’s not fair to him to drag him back towards war.”

Cathal turned out the light and settled into his own cot.  “Does he deserve you?” he asked into the dark.

Aedion let out a long breath.  “He deserves peace, and that is not me.”

“I hope he finds it, then.  I hope there is such a thing.”  And as Aedion’s breathing smoothed out Cathal said a silent prayer to the gods he didn’t believe in, that in this world or the next peace could be found.

*****

Delaney seriously wished the cobbled street beneath her chair would open up and swallow her when she spotted Mikkal crossing the square her next day off after their run-in at Fulke’s.  Cherise noticed her distraction immediately, and before she could comment the source himself strode to their little table.

“Delaney,” Mikkal said with a bow.

“Major Paget,” she replied.  He raised his brows at her with an expectant smile, and she added, “Mikkal.”

Cherise looked between them in confusion, and Delaney introduced them.  

“We’ve met, of course,” Mikkal said smoothly, and Cherise replied in the affirmative.

Mikkal turned back to Delaney.  “Please, tell your cousin that I appreciate his assistance.  I believe the new job will work out nicely.”

“Did he find you a job?” she asked, surprised.  

“Yes, as a singing instructor.  I’m not sure I’m qualified, but I won’t complain.”

Cherise gave her sly smile.  “You’re qualified,” she assured him.  “Most of the young ladies I know who take singing lessons care far less about improving their voice than looking at their teacher.”

He flushed but laughed good-naturedly.  “Thank you, I think,” he said.  “Sorry to interrupt, please, enjoy your lunch.  I hope to see you soon, Delaney.”  With another bow and a lingering smile, he left.

Looking at Cherise’s face, Delaney cursed to herself.  She was going to have to talk to him, he was a little too good at this.  

“I thought you said he wasn’t your type,” Cherise said, picking up her fork.

“He’s not,” Delaney reassured her.  “He’s become friendly with my cousin, so I’ve seen him there a couple of times.”

Cherise chewed thoughtfully for a moment.  “Well, it would appear you’re his.”

Delaney reminded herself that she needed people to buy into this ridiculous charade.  That the sinking feeling was only because she was lying to her friend.  With a shrug, she returned to her meal, and after a minute Cherise began discussing a book she had loaned Delaney.  

After lunch, they went for a walk along the river, and then Delaney had to head back to the bakery to change to meet Fulke for training.  She was even more eager than usual, as she hoped he had news of Aedion.  As they cut between buildings to shorten the walk back, Cherise abruptly stopped.  Confused, Delaney turned to face her.

Cherise looked like she was steeling herself to say something, but remained quiet, staring intently at Delaney instead.  Delaney felt her face get hot, and tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach as she held her gaze.  With a deep breath, Cherise closed the small distance between them and kissed her.

Delaney had never been kissed, not like this. She had never realized how the feel of soft lips on hers could cause the ground to drop out from under her feet; had never known that her mouth was connected so strongly to her heart, but she could feel her pulse in every corner of her body.  Cherise’s fingers wound their way into her hair and Delaney gave a small moan and leaned into her, opening her mouth instinctively to the gentle question of Cherise’s tongue.

When Cherise pulled away, too soon, Delaney had to blink to clear her vision.  Cherise’s gray eyes were serious for once as she brushed Delaney’s cheek lightly with her thumb, searching for an answer to her wordless question.  

“I told you Mikkal wasn’t my type,” Delaney said, reaching up to draw Cherise back down.  With a low chuckle, Cherise obeyed the silent command.  They stood in the shadow of the building, lost to the bustling city and found in each other’s arms.

@manoncrochanblackbeak  @mylifeisafangirl  I forgot to tag you the first time!

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 17

Read the previous ones: Read the rest: Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16. 

Cathal was dragging as he rode into camp, trailing two hundred soldiers.  He wanted to blame the heat, but in reality it was just the hundreds of miles he’d ridden over the past few weeks, recruiting throughout the Staghorns.  Aedion, Dewar, Grant and he had barely gotten the new camp location fit for occupation before Aedion had sent Cathal and Grant, along with Allan and Kelso, south and west through the Staghorns all the way to Rosamel.  

Grant had signed on to Aedion immediately.  Well, almost; five of his men jumped them upon their arrival.  By the time Cathal had disarmed his man, Aedion had had the rest on the ground, groaning.  He hadn’t even drawn a weapon, using his shield and his fists to disarm and down them.  Cathal wanted to strangle Grant for what the captain had referred to as a test, but Aedion seemed to understand.  And that easy, Grant - and his hundred and thirty men - was theirs.

With Grant came his copious notes about every known surviving member of the Terrasen army.  Three thousand men, all in neat files that Aedion had insisted be brought with them to the new camp.  The bulk of them were scattered through the mountains, but there were clusters in all the cities save Orynth and Perranth.  After an unnecessarily heated debate, Aedion had agreed to take Fulton and Ward to the cities along the coast while the others scoured the mountains.

The camp was a sea of tents and unfamiliar men, and Cathal grinned.  He could hear hammering, and saw a frame going up for a large building.  Barracks, most likely; evidently Aedion’s funding from Adarlan had come through.  He rode straight to the corrals after taking Grant’s horse from him and dismounted, looking for Aedion’s big seal brown mare.

When she wasn’t in evidence, he went to the tent he and Aedion had shared during their brief tenure.  None of Aedion’s stuff was there.  He studied the deserted tent, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before turning and walking through the sea of tents, scanning faces for Fulton or Ward.  They should have been back by now; should have beaten him home by several days at least.  

Finally he saw Fulton’s scarred face and he approached.  “Where’s Ashryver?” he asked without preamble.  Fulton’s good eye widened; Cathal realized it was the first time he had spoken to the man in over three years, but he shoved that useless thought aside.  

“He headed North after we left Suria,” Fulton said after a moment’s hesitation.  “One of the soldiers we picked up there said he had heard rumors that Colonel Millar was encamped up along the North Sea with a large group.  He wanted to check it out.”

“And you let him?” Cathal snapped.  Fulton took an involuntary step backward.

Dewar appeared out of nowhere to put a hand on Cathal’s chest.  “How was he supposed to stop him?” he asked reasonably.  “Ashryver outranks him and can outfight him with one arm tied behind his back.”  Evidently Dewar had also been less than thrilled with this development, Cathal realized when he took in his expression.  

“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” Cathal spat, ignoring the stricken look on Fulton’s face as he stormed away.  

Grant found him a while later staring at the men framing up the barracks.  “The new boys are getting settled,” Grant said, and Cathal nodded but did not reply.  Grant leaned against the mess hall wall next to him.  After a couple of minutes, he added, “I hear Ashryver’s trying to find Colonel Millar.”

“Did you know Millar was in that area?”

“I didn’t know Millar was alive.  I thought all the colonels were executed with the generals.  I hadn’t heard he’d escaped.”

Cathal turned to him.  “That’s what I thought too.  Damn it.”

“Ashryver’ll be fine, you know that.  I’m sure a number of people escaped that I thought were dead.”

Cathal shook his head and returned to studying the builders.  After a long silence, he said quietly, “But what if he’s not?”  Grant looked at him questioningly.  “Aedion.  Ashryver.  What if he’s not fine?  What will we do?”

Grant shrugged.  “We’ll keep on surviving, just as we’ve been doing.”  Cathal turned on him furiously but he held up a hand.  “No, seriously.  Ashryver’s a good chance for us, but we’ve made it this far.  Now we have a sense of who’s alive, who’s around.  We can rally resistance without him.”  

Cathal started to protest, then stopped himself.  Grant watched him for a moment.  When Cathal saw his face change he gritted his teeth.  “He’s going to be all right,” Grant said quietly.  “I can’t believe the gods are going to take another one from you.”

Cathal laughed bitterly.  “If there ever were gods, they’ve forsaken this land long ago.”  Without looking at Grant, he pushed off the wall and returned to his tent.  Their tent.  He dropped onto his cot and spoke to the empty one across the small space.  “If you went and got yourself killed, Aedion Ashryver, I’m never going to forgive you.  I will hunt you down in the next world just to kill you again, you miserable bastard.”  Kicking off his boots, he lay down on his bedding fully clothed.  Dropping his arm over his eyes, he pushed down his fear and instead began planning all the choice words he was going to scream at Aedion once he returned.  It wasn’t until he was almost asleep that he realized what Grant had said, what he had admitted in return.

*****

Aedion and Avenar trotted along, trying to make up the time they had lost and get past the narrow pass through the eastern edge of the Staghorns before stopping for the night.  At least it was high summer, and for once the roads were dry enough to not slow them down.  For the seventeenth time he cursed Ward’s recalcitrant horse.  The boy had been so eager to come along on this side mission while Fulton guided their new soldiers back to camp, but fifteen miles north of Suria his horse had shied at a faint rustle.  Ward would’ve been able to sit the shy, but the series of offended bucks the horse threw after had put him on the ground, breaking his forearm.  Aedion had splinted it, then led that gods-damned beast with Ward pale and sweating in the saddle the three miles to the nearest village.  Thankfully, the village had a healer, but it would be weeks before the boy would be able to ride long distances.  The healer kindly agreed to keep the boy until he was ready, and Aedion had set back out, hours later than he wanted to be.

He and Avenar heard the shrill whine at the same time, and his mare spun just as he had taught her to.  The arrow missed her shoulder by inches.  Aedion had his bow off his back and strung and was nocking an arrow when the second one whistled past.  Judging by the arc, it had come from a different angle than the first.  Multiple shooters.  Then a scattering of three came, Aedion knocking one away with his bow and another landing between Avenar’s feet.  The third sank into Aedion’s thigh, and he cursed but ignored it - he had spotted one of the shooters.  He let his arrow fly.

Not even waiting for it to hit, he loaded another, one part of his brain noting that the first had hit the archer in the face.  The rocky ravine walls hid the others, until they moved to draw their bows; the motion caught his eye and he fired.  Another scattering of arrows came at him, but Avenar reared and twisted to avoid them.  He ignored her plunging; he knew where the archers were by then, and picked them off within seconds.  Then he turned his attention to his leg, which was becoming curiously numb.

Yanking the arrow out, he sniffed at it and caught an unfamiliar musty scent; nothing that should have been there.  He cursed again.  Poison.  He clucked to Avenar and released her mouth, and she bolted, all the speed of her Asterion grandsire pouring into her limbs.

The ravine was widening, the light brightening in front of them.  They were nearly through the pass, when Avenar stumbled.  She caught herself and ran on, but slower; then she stumbled again, and went down on her knees.  Aedion leaped off of her, and his injured leg gave out as he landed, sending him tumbling to the rocky ground.  That was when he saw them: two arrows, one in her haunch, one in her shoulder.  She struggled to her feet, and tried to turn to him, falling again.

“Go,” he said to her, as she pulled herself up.  The feeling was leaving his leg, icy pain taking its place.  He waved a hand at her, and she bobbed her head, but didn’t turn away.  “Get out of here,” he shouted as loud as he could.  Two arrows in those locations shouldn’t be hindering her this much, he realized, as she took a stumbling step towards him.  Unless they had the same poison as the one now spreading icy fingers over his body, sapping his consciousness from him.  The last thing he saw were her big, kind dark eyes with the white moon between them, looming over him, before spots covered his vision and all was lost.

*****

The clink of a metal door closing snapped Aedion back into reality, away from the demons and monsters.  He was icy cold, his limbs heavy, slow to respond.  It took him a long moment to figure out how to open his eyes, though his nose was filled with the battlefield stench of blood and vomit, piss and shit and death.  Finally he blinked, finding himself in a dimly lit stone room with barred walls.  With difficulty, he rubbed his eyes, the metallic rustle and weight on his wrist telling him that at least some of the heaviness of his limbs was due to him being shackled.  After several more blinks, his brain cleared enough for him to put it all together.  He was imprisoned.  And the man staring at him through the bars with steely eyes was no doubt responsible.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, almost crying out as the movement pulled at the skin of his back and ass.  Reaching around to touch his back, his fingers came away sticky with blood, and he wondered how that had happened.  The pictures jangling through his mind were impossible to sort into real memory versus fever dream from the poison he had been taken down with.  The shower of arrows he remembered, though it was indistinct, as if seen through a rain-streaked window.

Ignoring the pain, he pulled his legs up to his chest.   He rested his arms on his bare knees to study his captor, who was observing him with faint amusement.  Minutes passed as they stared at each other.  Finally, the other man asked, “Nothing to say, Prince?  I wouldn’t have taken you for the quiet type.”

“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” Aedion replied, throat so raw he couldn’t recognize his own voice.  Evidently at least some of the screaming he had dreamed about had been real.  “I figured you’d give me what information you wanted me to have.”

The cold smile the stranger gave should have been terrifying, but Aedion was still too drugged to register fear.  “You’re causing me quite a dilemma, you know.  It’s bad enough you’re looking to reunite the Terrasen army, but you managed to kill half a dozen of my men.  I’d be impressed if it wasn’t such a pain in my ass to replace them.”

Aedion counted in his head.  “Five,” he croaked.  “I shot five of your men.”

The man stepped to the side, and he saw the soles of boots then, connected to a limp body on the floor.  “And then you broke Dean’s neck while you were raging.”  

Aedion remembered the crack, somehow, though not what led up to it; that was lost in a jumble of violent dreams that may or may not have been real.  “So why didn’t you kill me?  Why drag me here?”

“I planned to, believe me, until I saw your face.  Then I realized, I might be able to sell you for more than you’ve cost me.”  

Finally a prickle of fear registered, but Aedion kept his face neutral.  “I don’t imagine the King will be willing to pay for someone he already owns.”

The man cocked his head.  “The King?  I don’t do any favors for the King.  He’s bad for business.  No, I have someone quite different in mind.  You’re the son of one of the princesses of Wendlyn, are you not?”

Aedion gave an amused huff.  “If you expect to ransom me to my Ashryver family, you’ll be sorely disappointed.  They wouldn’t take me in for free three years ago, I can’t imagine they’d pay for me now.”

“Interesting,” the man mused.  “The Ashryvers have always rallied around their own, yet you tell me they wouldn’t aid you?”

“The bastard son of a dead princess is not of great value to them.”

“Perhaps not.”  The man paced a few steps, still studying him.  “But they are not the only people in Wendlyn who might be interested in you.”  He stopped, tapping a finger to his upper lip.  “No, I can imagine there is someone who would be more than pleased to have you.  You see, I have spent quite a lot of time in Wendlyn over the years, and not just in Varese.”

Aedion’s head was pounding.  He leaned it back against the cool stone walls and closed his eyes as the man droned on.  This man was obviously insane, but he couldn’t puzzle it out now.  After a while, multiple sets of footsteps sounded and there was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor; he heard a door open and close, and then the room fell silent save for his own harsh breathing.  

He awakened some time later to soft movement.  A girl of perhaps thirteen came carrying a small tray.  The smell of roast meat permeated the air.  She opened a sliding panel in the door of his cell and pushed the tray in before closing the panel again.  Taking a few steps back, she waited for a moment, but Aedion didn’t move.  After a few moments, she gave a bow and left, and he lunged for the pitcher of water balanced next to the food, the chains connecting his wrists to the wall rattling with the movement.

His thirst was so great he almost drank, but as he put the pitcher to his lips he smelled it.  Not the musty smell of whatever had been on those arrows, but something sharp.  It was faint, but it made him set the pitcher down.  He bent to sniff the food, and the same sharp odor permeated it.  Nearly ready to cry from the rawness in his throat, he pushed the tray away and went back to his spot against the wall.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his thumb over the curving scar on his palm.  Aelin and Rhoe, Evalin and Orlon and Quinn.  

*****

The heat in Rifthold was so oppressive most of the wealthy people were fleeing to the country.  Delaney was relieved to escape the sweltering bakery and stroll along the river where the breeze ruffled through her hair and dried the stickiness on her neck.  It was the one time every day she had to herself, that stretch between the end of her shift and when the summer parties began.  

It was hard to believe that she could ache with such loneliness when there were people constantly surrounding her.  Yet other than Fulke, there was nobody here she cared about.  Her merchant friends had been through this spring, and she had spent several pleasant weeks with them, but they had moved on and the emptiness that was left in their wake was a chasm she didn’t know how to fill.

She missed Raedan and Aedion, Maida and Avis.  Somehow their absence was getting harder to bear rather than easier.  There had been no news of Aedion since he had left Orynth over a month ago, and she had been too afraid to write to her sisters beyond the one letter she had sent advising them of her position in Rifthold.  It was killing her not knowing.

Sighing, she turned back and headed up through the market square to get lunch.  As she crossed the cobbles, she recognized a familiar tall, angular woman walking alone well ahead of her, one she hadn’t seen in weeks.  She hurried to catch up.

“Cherise!” she called, as soon as she was close enough.  Cherise turned, surprise flashing flashing in her eyes as she saw Delaney, quickly followed by a stoic mask that was disconcerting on that mobile, expressive face.  

“Delaney.”  Cherisse could never be cold, but her voice was quiet, flat.

“Are you all right?” Delaney asked.  At Cherise’s blank expression she went on.  “I feared you were ill when I didn’t see you for so long.  I…I’ve missed our conversations.”

Cherise’s mouth tightened briefly.  “Have you?”

“Yes.”  Delaney wasn’t sure why Cherise looked so pained.  “Will you have lunch with me?  We can catch up on all the latest gossip.”

Cherise looked down, teeth worrying her lower lip, before meeting Delaney’s eyes with a cautious smile.  “All right.  Yes.”

Delaney led the way to her favorite cafe, where they ordered and sat at a small table in front.  The initial awkwardness soon smoothed into laughing chatter; Delaney told stories of rude customers and baking disasters, and Cherise had her howling with tales from the Rifthold social scene.  

“Oh, and do you remember Major Paget?”  Cherise asked with a broad grin.

After a moment’s thought, Delaney remembered their first meeting.  “The officer without a head?”

Cherise laughed.  “Well, he certainly had his head when I saw him a few weeks ago.  He embarrassed Brigitte in front of all her friends, it was a thing of beauty.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing, really, just turned her down flat when she threw herself at him in the middle of a party.  She was mortified.”

Delaney joined in Cherise’s laughter.  Too soon, it was time for her to return to work, but the following day Cherise renewed her daily visits.  It was a comfort to Delaney. There was an abrupt influx of high-ranking officers from all over the country for the annual summer meeting and she was living in fear of General Perrington somehow visiting the bakery and recognizing her.  

In the end it was not Perrington whom she encountered but Colonel Malins.  Though she had only seen him briefly and over a year ago, she would never forget his malignant black eyes, the cruel cast to his mouth.  The image of him looming over Aedion in that hut was forever burned into her brain.  Thankfully Naise was managing the counter when he appeared, and she didn’t have to serve him directly.  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he received his order of sweet buns and left, pressing a hand to her thigh to confirm the presence of the knife Fulke insisted she keep on her at all times.  

When he left, she allowed herself a slow smile.  She had never used a knife on a living being before, but this… She would put Fulke’s lessons to use happily if it gave her a chance to avenge Aedion.  It crossed her mind to ask Cherise if she knew Malins’ comings and goings, but she rejected the idea almost immediately; it wouldn’t do to have anyone know she was tracking him.  No, for this she would have to use the skills she had honed for the better part of a decade in Perrington’s camp, then tested in Orynth.

It was time for her first hunt.

*****

Mikkal stood in a line of fellow officers, facing the King and his generals.  He had glanced once at his father, who was sitting at the far end of the long table, his face an impenetrable mask.  More than half of the men before him were familiar to him, but it was General Perrington’s black gaze, identical to that of the Duke who sat at the King’s right hand, that drew him.  This was one of the men responsible for Aedion’s torture.  He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to help keep his expression neutral, and with an effort pulled his eyes away to scan the rest of the council, putting names to faces.  

Mikkal stood at ease while the Duke ran down the line.  Most of his fellow officers were aging out of their ability to fight.  Two were awarded what amounted to desk jobs to stay in the program; several others were dismissed outright.  One captain who had been stationed south of Bellhaven had no physical injuries, but was unable to do more than stammer incoherently.  The King and Duke Perrington exchanged a long look, the latter giving a tiny nod when the council of generals pronounced the man unfit to serve.

Finally it was Mikkal’s turn to tell his story and show his injury.  It did not take long for the council to decide, and he was released unanimously, with the commendation the King had promised him.  Bowing deeply, he thanked the generals and the King for having provided him with his career, then joined the other dismissed men along the back wall while the remaining three were reviewed.  

Near the end, another man entered, a colonel with eyes the same glittering black as the Perringtons’.  He bent down to speak briefly with the Duke, glanced in the direction of the dismissed men, and gave a brief nod.  Approaching, the colonel’s cold gaze raked over all the men, lingering for a moment on Mikkal, whose skin crawled in response.  Then he took the elbow of the stammering Fenharrow soldier and guided him away.  When the confused man resisted, he paused and, with a cold courtesy, introduced himself to the captain as Colonel Malins.  It was all Mikkal could do to keep from starting at the name, and he couldn’t prevent himself from looking quickly between the colonel and General Perrington.  Not just one of the men responsible for Aedion then, but both of them, here in the city, and he no longer owed any allegiance to Adarlan’s army.  Perhaps his time in Rifthold would not be such a waste after all.

*****

Aedion groaned awake, the pain stabbing through his head enough to nauseate him.  His lips were so dry they had stuck to each other, and when he forced them apart with his tongue he tasted blood from the cracks.  At some point during the day, the girl had come back with a fresh round of food and water; as before, Aedion had waited until she’d left before smelling it.  The sharp odor was still present, so he had curled back up and gone back to sleep.

The man from the previous day - or was it two days ago? - had not returned.  Aedion staggered to his feet, almost falling again as the weight of the chains dragged at his arms, and stumbled over to the pitcher and plate that sat untouched near the door.  Dropping to his knees, he studied them, and reached shaking hands to pick up the pitcher.  The sharp ache in his head, the rawness in his throat, the painful dryness of his mouth all begged him to ignore the unknown substance in the water and sate his thirst.  

He doubted it was a toxic poison; if the man wanted to sell him he couldn’t well kill him first.  Aedion debated his options, which considering how severely the room was spinning around him now appeared to be dying of dehydration or risking being sold to the gods knew who.  He returned to his spot against the wall, setting the full pitcher next to him on the floor while he tried to force his brain to work.

The man had been interested in the prospect of selling him to Wendlyn.  Evalin and Rhoe had been adamant that Aelin never go to Wendlyn; they had been nearly as emphatic that he not return.  It was not his Ashryver kin that were a problem.  The royal family may have been indifferent to him but they were not cruel.  Though they had only whispered of it, he knew it was his aunt, the Fae Queen Maeve, that they feared.  The reason had always been a mystery to him.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was worth it to continue to fight.  He told himself that there was nobody left who would truly mourn him; but that was a lie.  Mikkal, if he yet lived - news of Aedion’s death would destroy him.  Raedan would never forgive himself for letting Aedion out of his sight.   Delaney…though he hadn’t seen her in over a year, he knew she would tear herself apart.  Three people.  Three people in the whole world who would want him to live, not because of his title or what he represented, but because he was Aedion.

Cathal popped into his mind unbidden.  Perhaps a fourth.  He thought of their easy joking, of the warmth that sometimes suffused Cathal’s face, of him waking Aedion from his nightmare despite the risk to himself.  Of the way Cathal’s eyes sometimes tracked him, when he didn’t know Aedion could see him.  

The living warred with the dead in his mind.  In the end, he picked up the pitcher and drank.

At first, the only thing he felt was the glorious easing of the searing dryness of his mouth and throat.  After several swallows he forced himself to stop for a few panting breaths, before drinking more.  He took several minutes to finish the pitcher, and when he set it down the pounding in his head finally began to recede.  He leaned back against the wall, feeling strength stealing back into his muscles, and sighed in relief.  Evidently the unknown substance was harmless, at least in the small amounts added to the water.  

Before he could decide on whether to try the food, the rats he had heard scrabbling about became bold enough to enter his cell.  He watched as they fell upon his food, taking their sudden appearance as a sign to avoid it.  Then one of the rats turned and spoke to him in a human’s voice.  In Rhoe’s voice.  

Shouting out, he flung himself backwards, as far into the corner as his chains would allow, and still the rat scolded him.  The rat-Rhoe called him a coward, a fool; shamed him for what he had become, for not fighting back, for not dying a hero’s death, for succumbing when they had struck him and tied him down.

When the rat fell silent, another began: Evalin, sweet disappointment heavy in her voice, asking how he could have left Aelin behind, how he could have stayed in Orynth when everyone knew the danger.  How he could have forsaken the blood oath he had been destined to swear.  A rat-Orlon spoke next, scornful in death as he never had been in life; he only spoke two words but they cut Aedion to the quick.

“Adarlan’s whore.”

Aedion covered his ears with his arms, digging his fingers into the back of his head, dropping his forehead to his knees, but he couldn’t block it out.  When he looked up, turning to the rats in despair, they were gone.  The bars of the cell began to warp, bending over him, closing him in, before turning into ropes that twisted around his arms, his legs, dragging him down into a spread-eagled position, merciless and unbreakable despite his screaming, pleading struggles to free himself.  He could feel hands on him, teasing over his skin; they felt like Mikkal’s, and he started to retch.  Finally he vomited, though he couldn’t raise his head and ended up choking the water and bile out his nose.  Drawing ragged breaths, he felt the restraints on his limbs loosen, then disappear.  Exhausted, he curled into the smallest ball he could manage and fell into strange dreams: of crowns of blue flame; of black lightning striking sand, then forming into whips that flayed flesh from bone; of a sword with a bone pommel in a scarred hand; of white light shifting into an osprey that fought like a man; of familiar men, one with dark brown eyes, one with gray-green, searching for something through mist before dissolving into mist themselves.

When he finally awoke, he was afraid for a moment to open his eyes.  Listening intently, he could hear the small movements and low voices of the guards in far room, and then someone breathing closer by; he could smell bile under his face and the scent of freshly laundered clothes.  He risked cracking an eyelid.  

No pain slammed into his temple as he let in the dim light of the cell, so he slowly pushed up into a sitting position.  The girl who had brought the food was there, holding a pitcher in trembling hands.  Glancing over her shoulder at the door to the guard room, she crept over to the panel, beckoning for Aedion to follow her.  He did so, remaining crouched to hide as much of himself as possible.  She slid the panel aside and shoved the pitcher at him.  “That one’s fresh,” she breathed, so quietly he doubted a normal human would have heard her.  She grabbed the tray with its full plate of food and gestured at the empty pitcher.  Silently, Aedion reached for it and handed it over, and she slid the panel closed and locked it.  Without another sound she disappeared into the guard room with his tray.

Aedion looked into the pitcher as soon as she was gone.  Wedged into the neck was a hunk of stale bread, and the water below did indeed smell clean.  Throwing caution to the wind, he gobbled the bread in three bites and drained the water in a few gulps then walked back and forth within the confines of his chains for a while, ignoring the grumbling beast in his stomach that had awakened with the bread.  

He was still pacing like a caged animal when the man from the first day appeared, crossing his arms and glaring at Aedion with chilly displeasure.  “You look a bit better than when I saw you last,” the man said, the ice in his voice belying his words.  Aedion looked at him in surprise, then realized he must have visited during the hallucinations, or the drugged sleep that hit him afterwards.  The man’s eyes flicked to his empty pitcher, and Aedion realized too late that he should have been suffering from the drug’s effects again.  

“I dumped it out,” he said with a gesture to the largely full slop bucket.  His vocal cords were too raw to give him much volume but the man heard him.  “I won’t drink any of that poison again.”

The man’s mouth spread into a smile that was more of a grimace.  “You’ll have to drink sometime.”

Aedion shrugged.  “We’ll see.  I’m not much use as a bargaining chip if I’m dead.”  The man’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t reply.  Aedion waved his hand to encompass the cell and his chains.  “I’m not sure why you think drugging me is necessary given all of this.”

“I’m no fool,” the man snarled in reply.  “I know what you’re capable of.  Consider this a form of respect for your abilities.  An honor, if you would.”

Aedion snorted.  “An honor.  I’m flattered, I’m sure.  And to whom do I owe this honor, if I may ask?”

The man drew himself up to his full height, raising his chin.  “The King of Merchants, you royal fool.”

Aedion’s heart rate went up at that.  He had heard of Dristan Garvey, the King of Merchants, years ago.  Rhoe wanted to have him assassinated, as he trafficked in illegal substances, including human flesh.  Orlon did not generally hold with murder no matter the reason, but had still been considering Rhoe’s arguments when he died.  It was well known that the growing trade in illicit substances in Suria and Eldrys, which had been spreading west into Perranth and even Orynth, was largely due to this man.  He was also rumored to be behind the disappearance of children from city streets; children who were spotted on ships headed south, sold into slavery in Adarlan and Melisande.

“I’m disappointed to find out a man with such a reputation proves to be such a cowardly wretch,” was Aedion’s scornful reply.  

Fury flashed across Garvey’s face, and he spun on his heel and crashed through the door into the guard room.  Aedion wondered what he had gotten himself into.  He found out a few minutes later, when Garvey returned with four guards wielding heavy clubs and ropes.  The men treated him like a wild horse, throwing one rope over his head that he couldn’t remove quickly enough due to his shackles, then, after choking him enough to slow him, clubbing his legs out from under him.  As soon as he hit the ground one of the men was on him, shoving a dropper filled with a bitter liquid into his mouth before they all retreated to watch him from the safe zone outside the cell.

Even though he knew they were coming, the hallucinations were worse this time.  Swarms of insects feasted upon his flesh; he could feel their tiny feet and jaws gnawing through his skin, feel them crawling under his skin down to his very bones.  Mikkal stood before him, watching him with empty eye sockets, laughing coldly, mockingly.  Aelin floated in the air, surrounded by her flames, no longer imperious to them - he could smell the burning flesh, hear the crackling sound between her pained screams as she roasted alive.  General Perrington knelt behind him, not touching him, but reminding him of all the ways he had failed those he loved.  In the distance he could hear Delaney crying out, but he couldn’t see her, no matter how he struggled against his restraints.  When he finally collapsed in exhaustion, he dreamed again of Cathal and Raedan, wandering through mist until they were swallowed up and disappeared.

*****

Mikkal was on his fourth drink and not nearly drunk enough.  His father had been on his case for the past three days to return to camp, but he had no desire to be among soldiers, least of all those who would pity him for what he had lost.  Unfortunately he didn’t have an alternative to offer his father; his pay would run out eventually, and he would have to figure out what he could do to survive.  He was still puzzling on this when someone settled onto the stool to his right.  Glancing over, he registered first the colonel’s uniform, then a black stone on the man’s left hand.  He looked up to see glittering black eyes in a hard face as the man ordered a drink.  He recognized Malins from the meeting with the generals.  Heat flooded through him, searing away whatever buzz he might have been developing, and he had to consciously keep himself from tightening up.  

The man looked at him and gave him a nod.  “Major Paget,” he said.  

“Colonel Malins.”  He fought to keep his voice neutral.  

Malins ordered his drink, and the bartender slid it across the bar with alacrity.  Inclining his head slightly, the colonel turned his attention to the bar, where two men and a woman were getting into an increasingly screechy argument.

They drank in silence for a few moments, not that conversation would have been easy with the noise in the room. Malins signaled for another.  Tossing a coin on the counter Mikkal stood, brushing his arm against the colonel’s.  He leaned over to murmur in Malins’ ear, “I noticed you noticing me the other day.  I’d be more than happy to get to know you better.  If you’ll meet me outside,” gesturing vaguely in the direction of the adjoining alley, “I’m sure you’d find it worthwhile.”  Those black eyes flicked up in surprise.

“That’s quite an offer,” Malins said.  “Still, I’m not sure I’m interested at the moment.”

“Aren’t you?”  Mikkal arched an eyebrow with a slow, sultry smile and walked away.  Once outside in the shadows of the alley, he pulled out his stiletto, twirling it experimentally in his ruined hand, then passing it to his left.  He found a deep doorway and tucked himself in to wait.

*****

Malins downed his third drink, considering Paget’s offer.  He was a handsome devil, that was for sure.  Pity about his hand; Malins would’ve liked to take him under his wing.  Surely a man who looked like that could be quite an effective weapon.  A couple more shots of liquor, and he headed out into the alley.  The young man wouldn’t have gone far, but the alley was completely empty aside from rats.  Oh well, he needed to take a piss anyway.

Leaning against the wall, he relieved himself with a satisfied moan.  He shook himself and started to take a step back when he felt a strong arm wrap around him and lips graze his neck.  “I knew you’d come around,” the throaty voice murmured against his skin.  Before he could reply, there was a sharp spasm in his back, just below his ribs, and he reflexively twitched.  A surge of nausea followed, and as he moved to vomit he collapsed backwards, hitting a tall, lean body.  

“That,” said the man holding him, lips tickling his ear, “is for Aedion Ashryver.”  The man laid him down gently, almost like a lover.  Malins couldn’t quite make sense of the spreading warmth he was laying on, nor the chill beginning to hit his fingers and feet.  As his breath came short and his vision went black, the last thing he heard was a wild howling, deep within his own soul.

*****

Delaney stood frozen at the end of the alley.  She had been watching for Malins for several days, ever since she had seen him at Luk’s.  Tonight was the first time he had ventured far enough away from the glass castle.  She had followed him into the tavern, had watched as that black-haired man had smiled and made eyes at him.  It had been obvious what Malins had been thinking as he stared in the handsome man’s wake while he drank.  

After he left, she had waited a few minutes before following him out.  If there was a tryst planned, she figured he wouldn’t go too far.  The sound of trickling water had attracted her to the alley, and she had watched in shock as a tall slender figure stepped silently up behind Malins and slid a knife in his back, right where Fulke had showed her was a sure place to drop a man for good.  But it was the words he spoke, echoing faintly down the alley, that caught her.

“That is for Aedion Ashryver.”

She should have walked away.  If she were smart, she would melt into the shadows, then join the light foot traffic on the cross street a block behind her.  But she didn’t understand why a stranger in Rifthold would know what Malins was to Aedion, would care enough to avenge him.  Her curiosity drew her like a magnet, and when the tall man emerged from the alley and struck off towards the river, she followed him on silent feet.

He strolled casually down the barren street; the hour was late enough that nearly all the apartments they passed were dark.  When he reached the broad cobbled street that ran along the river, Delaney stopped next to a fire escape and watched.  He reached the railing along the river then stopped and leaned over, and she heard two splashes.  Then he turned and, hands in his pockets, walked downriver.  After a few moments, she followed, clinging to the buildings and being careful with where she placed her feet.  She trailed him for blocks, heading into the slums, until her eyes were watering from the stench she had never gotten used to.  They reached a bend in the river, and the man was briefly out of her sight; when she reached the corner, he had disappeared.  

Delaney pulled up abruptly, debating her course.  If he had remained on the river road, she probably would have glimpsed him, so she turned onto a narrower street that branched off the river road, heading more towards the center of the city.  She walked one block with no sign of him, and wondered if he had entered one of the overcrowded apartments that lined the street.  Sighing, she kept walking; it was past time for her to get back anyway.

Halfway up the next block she heard quiet footsteps behind her, but before she could turn or pick up her pace a hand came over her mouth and yanked her back against a much larger body, and she felt the unmistakable bite of a blade press against her neck.

“Give me one reason not to slit your throat right now,” growled a male voice in her ear, and the hand around her mouth dropped quickly to wrap around her ribcage.  The knife at her throat didn’t move.

Delaney did rapid mental math and gambled with her quiet reply, “Because Aedion would never forgive you if you hurt me.”

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, his sharp intake of breath indicated that was not it.  The arm around her ribs tightened painfully.  “And who are you, then, that he would care?” he hissed.

“He is my brother in all but blood,” she said simply.  

His grip eased but he did not release her and kept the knife pressed to her skin.  “Prove it,” he said.

She cast her mind about for how to comply without compromising Aedion.  “If you know Aedion, you must know my brother.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because Raedan would never let Aedion out of his sight.”

At that the blade disappeared, and his grip shifted to her arm as he spun her to face him.  He was nearly as tall as Aedion, and she had to crank her head back to look him in the eye.  “Delaney,” he said after a moment.  She nodded, and he cocked his head as he examined her face.  “I see the resemblance.”

They stared at each other in silence for a minute, and she wondered again who this man was.  He was not in uniform, but his clothes were finely made and his features had an aristocratic cast.  His hand on her arm felt odd, and she looked down to see he was missing several fingers. He followed her glance, and when she looked back at his face there was an amused twist to his features.  

“Who are you?” she asked at last.

He was silent for so long she didn’t think he was going to answer her.  Eventually, he reluctantly said, “Mikkal.  Mikkal Paget.”

She gave a surprised laugh.  “The officer without a head!”  As soon as the words were out of her mouth she flushed and clapped her free hand over her mouth.

His brow furrowed.  “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.  Obviously you have a head.”

“Obviously,” he replied, and there was humor in his voice though he was eyeing her warily.

“How do you know Aedion?” she asked.  What she really wanted to know was how he knew about Aedion’s history with Malins, but that question seemed like the wrong place to start.  

Paget stepped back, finally releasing her arm.  “That is a discussion for another location.  I’d recommend we go somewhere a bit more private.”

Delaney nodded.  “Follow me.”  She struck off confidently, but was surprised when he followed without resistance.

She couldn’t take him to the apartment she shared with the other girls, so she brought him to Fulke’s instead.  His manner was easy but that left hand was always near his dagger hilt.  She wondered who would win in a fight, Paget or Fulke.  Somehow her money was on Paget.

It took almost a minute for Fulke to answer the door, and she had obviously dragged him out of bed.  He let them in without question, though his face was suspicious as he eyed Paget.

“Major Paget, Fulke.  Fulke, Major Paget.  He just did my dirty work for me,” she said by way of introduction, and both men looked at her in surprise.  “He killed one of the bastards that tortured Aedion,” she clarified, and Fulke’s expression shifted to one of grudging respect as he held a hand out to Paget, who shook it reluctantly.

“I didn’t know you had plans to kill anyone,” Fulke said to her disapprovingly.  She shrugged and headed into the living room to flop on the couch.  Fulke and Paget followed her, but Paget remained standing closest to the door while Fulke dropped into a chair.  

“So now will you tell me how you know Aedion?” Delaney asked, facing Paget.  He glanced at Fulke, who returned the look impassively.

“I was responsible for training him at my father’s camp,” Paget finally answered cautiously.

“You’re his lover,” Fulke said, not a question.  He laughed at Paget’s expression.  “Turi told us he met an officer who was Ashryver’s lover.  You match his description.”

Delaney had forgotten about those rumors, but Paget’s lack of a denial certainly appeared to be confirmation.  She hadn’t really believed them until that moment; she couldn’t understand how Aedion could ever fall for someone who would fight in Adarlan’s name.  Then again, if this man was willing to kill a higher ranking officer he likely wasn’t a victim of blind loyalty.  

“How much do you know about Malins?” she asked.

“Enough,” was the careful answer.  “I know what happened the night he sent you away.”  Delaney couldn’t help but be surprised that Aedion would have shared details of that with anybody.  

Fulke looked between them but didn’t comment.  Paget rubbed his good hand over his face.  “I honestly don’t understand what you are doing here when the last I knew you were in Terrasen, but right now I am trusting you with my life,” he said, sounding abruptly exhausted.  

“And we are trusting you with ours,” Fulke said.  Paget looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded.  

“I like your brother,” he said to Delaney.  “I hope he went north with Aedion.”

“He did,” she said.  “We got word a while back that they were both in Orynth.”

“Are you…” He swallowed hard.  “Are you in touch with Aedion?”

They both shook their heads.  “Not directly,” Delaney explained.  “It could get too hard to explain if something was intercepted.”

Paget nodded, unable to hide the flicker of disappointment.  “I’m going to go,” he said, but he hesitated for several seconds before turning away.  

“Major?” Delaney said when he was nearly to the door.  He turned.  “Thank you.  For not slitting my throat,” she added, when he looked confused.  

His lips twitched up.  “It was my pleasure to not kill you,” he said courteously.  “Though at some point you’ll have to explain why you thought I didn’t have a head.”

She laughed and Fulke looked lost.  With a short bow, Paget left.  “That was…interesting,” Fulke said once the door clicked shut behind him.  “Do you think we can use him?”

Delaney looked at the door for a long moment.  “I’m not sure.”  She intended to find out, though.

*****

Aedion had long given up on trying to figure out how long he’d been trapped.  Drugged food and water appeared at random intervals, brought mostly by the girl but occasionally by a guard.  Thirst remained his biggest temptation; he dumped the contaminated water out immediately, even though the sound of splashing water nearly drove him mad.  About every third or fourth batch of water was clean, and a hunk of meat or bread would be stuffed into the neck of the pitcher.  He tried to thank the girl but she shook her head and held her finger to her lips any time he started to speak.  It wasn’t nearly enough, he knew he was losing weight and his hunger was a constant ache, but it was keeping him alive.

When Garvey would appear, he would drop into an unresponsive twitching heap, and he seemed to believe Aedion had succumbed to consuming the drugged water.  The rest of the time he paced his cell as much as his chains would allow.

During one of his passes, the rings attaching his chains to the wall caught his eye.  They were a different metal than his chains, and poorly fashioned.  He ran a finger over one rough edge and hissed as it scraped the callus off his finger.  Experimentally, he rubbed one of the links of chain over the area a few times, then flipped the link over to study it in the dim light.  The metal was faintly scored; he couldn’t see it, but he could feel it with his thumbnail.  He grinned to himself.

After hours of working the links near his wrist over the rings, he suspected he had them worn enough that he could break them.  Hoped that was the case, as the rough areas had been smoothed by the constant friction.  But the timing was going to be crucial; if Garvey caught him free in the cell he would no doubt have him darted with more of that paralyzing poison.  No, he couldn’t make his move until he could do it all - break the chains and somehow escape the cell.  He wondered if the girl would help him.  

The next time she came bearing food, he met her at the sliding panel and whispered, “Do you have keys to the door?”  She shook her head, looking fearfully over his shoulder towards the guard room and passing the tray through.  “Who does?”  She was trembling, and when she shook her head again he didn’t push further.  He was just going to have to chance it.

It was some time - several meals’ worth - later when the  door banged open and Garvey entered, dragging the girl by her hair and carrying a pitcher.  He threw her down to her knees at his feet and drew a short blade that he pointed at Aedion.  “I should have known better,” he sneered, “then to let this whore bring your food.”  He stabbed the knife into the pitcher, yanking out a small loaf of bread that he brandished at Aedion.  Flinging the bread down, he slashed out with the knife, tearing open the girl’s cheek.  She gave a gasping cry and grabbed at her face, but couldn’t stop the blood from dripping onto the floor through her fingers.

Aedion growled and leaped to his feet but said nothing, his mind racing while he tried to figure out what he could do to help.  They were just far enough away from the bars that even if he broke his chains he wouldn’t be able to reach Garvey.  

“No response?  You are a cold-hearted creature, aren’t you,” he said mockingly.  “That’s all right.  You’ll be on a ship in three days’ time, and then she can figure out what to do with you.”  He looked at the girl, whose head was bowed.  “As for you…”   He forced her to her feet and studied her ruined face impassively.  “What a shame.  Now you’re no good to me even as a whore.”  Before Aedion could move, Garvey lashed out again, driving the knife into her chest below her left breast.  She fell with a breathless cry, clutching convulsively at the hilt that protruded through her cheap shirt.  Aedion lunged forward with a guttural scream, pulling up just before he hit the end of the chains, knowing he was too late.  He was unable to drag his eyes from the fine tremors in her fingers as her last rattling gasps sounded over Garvey’s cold laughter.  When the girl went limp, he fixed Garvey with a stare.

“I’m going to kill you,” he snarled.  “I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”

Garvey was unimpressed.  “You’re going to be gone before long, Prince.”  He spun on his heel in the spreading pool of blood and left.  Shortly afterwards two guards came in and removed the girl, and then Aedion fell back against the wall and wept.

A long time passed before one of the guards came in with food and water.  Aedion had crouched up against the wall on the man’s entrance, facing the sliding panel and watching the man’s progress out of the corner of his eye.  As soon as the panel was open and the man was reaching in to remove the previous plate, Aedion lunged.  The chains held for a split second, almost long enough to panic, but they snapped as he put his full weight and power against them.  He grabbed the man’s arm just as he started to yank it back.  Aedion pulled the arm sharply with all his strength and the clang of skull on metal cut short the guard’s startled cry.  Aedion froze for several heartbeats, listening for a response from the guard room, but the walls and doors were thick and there was no audible reaction.

The panel was too small for the man to fit through, so Aedion had to settle for reaching through with one arm and patting him down until he finally found the keys.  Then there was a the issue of forcing his hand through the bars far enough to enable him to unlock the door.  After a moment’s fussing, he heard a click and felt the door give.  He paused briefly to check the fallen guard; when he found a pulse he gritted his teeth, grabbed the unconscious man’s head in his hands, and jerked sharply, flinching at the loud crack.  

The man was smaller than he was, but Aedion stripped him and forced himself into his clothes.  They pulled at his hip bones and shoulders, but he had lost so much weight they weren’t as tight as they should have been, though they were inches too short.  He quickly belted on the man’s sword and dagger, then crept to the door.  

His confusion on not having been interrupted was explained when he pushed his way into the guard room and found only one other guard with a mostly-empty bottle of liquor in front of him  The man stumbled to his feet but before he could find voice to shout, the other guard’s knife was in his throat.  Aedion methodically stripped him of weapons, then devoured the remains of the guards’ meal before heading on his way.  

A corridor led to a flight of stairs, and Aedion climbed quickly and quietly.  He only encountered one other guard, at the door between himself and freedom.  The man didn’t even have a chance to turn before he was on the ground with Aedion’s newfound knife in his back.  

Aedion didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been taken prisoner.  When he pushed through the heavy wooden door of the guardhouse, a muggy twilight greeted him.  He sucked in the fresh air, relieved that there were no nearby human scents.  Keeping to the shadows of the building, he walked around, listening intently for movement or some sort of alarm.  None came.  As his heart rate slowed, he realized that the compound was much smaller than he expected, consisting of the guardhouse, a manor house, and a stable.  It was to the latter that he headed.  

He slunk into the stable, all senses alert for any human interference.  A half dozen horses looked up curiously from their hay, and his heart sank when Avenar’s familiar face was not among them.  He had wondered periodically what had happened to his lion-hearted mare, and he hoped she had fought off the poison and gotten away.  

Deep down, he knew she was gone.

He shoved down his grief and turned to the horses at hand.  Scanning the options, he settled on a strong-looking red bay gelding and pulled the halter over the horse’s head.  He quickly drew the lead rope over the gelding’s neck, tied it on the far side, and led the horse towards the stable door.  

As he approached the exit, a young boy poked his head out the loft above, no doubt awakened by the sound of hooves.  Aedion met his eyes and pressed a finger to his lips.  The boy nodded, eyes wide, and disappeared again soundlessly.   Aedion made it out into the yard, then grabbed mane and jumped, throwing his leg over the horse’s rump and settling on him bareback.  A swift kick had the gelding leaping into a gallop, but Aedion yanked him off the drive and sent him west across the fields.  The horse wanted to balk at the wall they encountered a quarter of a mile out, but another kick had him gathering himself and vaulting it.

They kept their swift pace until Aedion felt the gelding’s strength flagging.  Easing him back to a walk, they kept moving west through the low hills at the northern foot of the Staghorns.  When they came to a wooded area, he dismounted and led the horse as deep into the trees as he could manage, then tied him to a branch and collapsed at the foot of the tree into an exhausted sleep.  His dreams were haunted by the unknown girl, who sat and watched him with mournful eyes.

At first light, he mounted again and they rode until they came across a stream.  Both Aedion and the horse drank their fill, and they continued that way, staying off the road as they moved west, stopping only to drink, eat what edible plants Aedion could find, and snatch a few hours’ rest.  It was mid-afternoon on the third day when he saw the wooden ramparts of the camp.  The exhausted gelding stumbled as they made their way down the hill, and Aedion lacked the strength to even dash away the tears that rolled down his cheeks as they staggered through the gate to his waiting men.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 17

Read the previous ones: Read the rest: Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.   Chapter 16. 

Cathal was dragging as he rode into camp, trailing two hundred soldiers.  He wanted to blame the heat, but in reality it was just the hundreds of miles he’d ridden over the past few weeks, recruiting throughout the Staghorns.  Aedion, Dewar, Grant and he had barely gotten the new camp location fit for occupation before Aedion had sent Cathal and Grant, along with Allan and Kelso, south and west through the Staghorns all the way to Rosamel.  

Grant had signed on to Aedion immediately.  Well, almost; five of his men jumped them upon their arrival.  By the time Cathal had disarmed his man, Aedion had had the rest on the ground, groaning.  He hadn’t even drawn a weapon, using his shield and his fists to disarm and down them.  Cathal wanted to strangle Grant for what the captain had referred to as a test, but Aedion seemed to understand.  And that easy, Grant - and his hundred and thirty men - was theirs.

With Grant came his copious notes about every known surviving member of the Terrasen army.  Three thousand men, all in neat files that Aedion had insisted be brought with them to the new camp.  The bulk of them were scattered through the mountains, but there were clusters in all the cities save Orynth and Perranth.  After an unnecessarily heated debate, Aedion had agreed to take Fulton and Ward to the cities along the coast while the others scoured the mountains.

The camp was a sea of tents and unfamiliar men, and Cathal grinned.  He could hear hammering, and saw a frame going up for a large building.  Barracks, most likely; evidently Aedion’s funding from Adarlan had come through.  He rode straight to the corrals after taking Grant’s horse from him and dismounted, looking for Aedion’s big seal brown mare.

When she wasn’t in evidence, he went to the tent he and Aedion had shared during their brief tenure.  None of Aedion’s stuff was there.  He studied the deserted tent, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before turning and walking through the sea of tents, scanning faces for Fulton or Ward.  They should have been back by now; should have beaten him home by several days at least.  

Finally he saw Fulton’s scarred face and he approached.  “Where’s Ashryver?” he asked without preamble.  Fulton’s good eye widened; Cathal realized it was the first time he had spoken to the man in over three years, but he shoved that useless thought aside.  

“He headed North after we left Suria,” Fulton said after a moment’s hesitation.  “One of the soldiers we picked up there said he had heard rumors that Colonel Millar was encamped up along the North Sea with a large group.  He wanted to check it out.”

“And you let him?” Cathal snapped.  Fulton took an involuntary step backward.

Dewar appeared out of nowhere to put a hand on Cathal’s chest.  “How was he supposed to stop him?” he asked reasonably.  “Ashryver outranks him and can outfight him with one arm tied behind his back.”  Evidently Dewar had also been less than thrilled with this development, Cathal realized when he took in his expression.  

“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” Cathal spat, ignoring the stricken look on Fulton’s face as he stormed away.  

Grant found him a while later staring at the men framing up the barracks.  “The new boys are getting settled,” Grant said, and Cathal nodded but did not reply.  Grant leaned against the mess hall wall next to him.  After a couple of minutes, he added, “I hear Ashryver’s trying to find Colonel Millar.”

“Did you know Millar was in that area?”

“I didn’t know Millar was alive.  I thought all the colonels were executed with the generals.  I hadn’t heard he’d escaped.”

Cathal turned to him.  “That’s what I thought too.  Damn it.”

“Ashryver’ll be fine, you know that.  I’m sure a number of people escaped that I thought were dead.”

Cathal shook his head and returned to studying the builders.  After a long silence, he said quietly, “But what if he’s not?”  Grant looked at him questioningly.  “Aedion.  Ashryver.  What if he’s not fine?  What will we do?”

Grant shrugged.  “We’ll keep on surviving, just as we’ve been doing.”  Cathal turned on him furiously but he held up a hand.  “No, seriously.  Ashryver’s a good chance for us, but we’ve made it this far.  Now we have a sense of who’s alive, who’s around.  We can rally resistance without him.”  

Cathal started to protest, then stopped himself.  Grant watched him for a moment.  When Cathal saw his face change he gritted his teeth.  “He’s going to be all right,” Grant said quietly.  “I can’t believe the gods are going to take another one from you.”

Cathal laughed bitterly.  “If there ever were gods, they’ve forsaken this land long ago.”  Without looking at Grant, he pushed off the wall and returned to his tent.  Their tent.  He dropped onto his cot and spoke to the empty one across the small space.  “If you went and got yourself killed, Aedion Ashryver, I’m never going to forgive you.  I will hunt you down in the next world just to kill you again, you miserable bastard.”  Kicking off his boots, he lay down on his bedding fully clothed.  Dropping his arm over his eyes, he pushed down his fear and instead began planning all the choice words he was going to scream at Aedion once he returned.  It wasn’t until he was almost asleep that he realized what Grant had said, what he had admitted in return.

*****

Aedion and Avenar trotted along, trying to make up the time they had lost and get past the narrow pass through the eastern edge of the Staghorns before stopping for the night.  At least it was high summer, and for once the roads were dry enough to not slow them down.  For the seventeenth time he cursed Ward’s recalcitrant horse.  The boy had been so eager to come along on this side mission while Fulton guided their new soldiers back to camp, but fifteen miles north of Suria his horse had shied at a faint rustle.  Ward would’ve been able to sit the shy, but the series of offended bucks the horse threw after had put him on the ground, breaking his forearm.  Aedion had splinted it, then led that gods-damned beast with Ward pale and sweating in the saddle the three miles to the nearest village.  Thankfully, the village had a healer, but it would be weeks before the boy would be able to ride long distances.  The healer kindly agreed to keep the boy until he was ready, and Aedion had set back out, hours later than he wanted to be.

He and Avenar heard the shrill whine at the same time, and his mare spun just as he had taught her to.  The arrow missed her shoulder by inches.  Aedion had his bow off his back and strung and was nocking an arrow when the second one whistled past.  Judging by the arc, it had come from a different angle than the first.  Multiple shooters.  Then a scattering of three came, Aedion knocking one away with his bow and another landing between Avenar’s feet.  The third sank into Aedion’s thigh, and he cursed but ignored it - he had spotted one of the shooters.  He let his arrow fly.

Not even waiting for it to hit, he loaded another, one part of his brain noting that the first had hit the archer in the face.  The rocky ravine walls hid the others, until they moved to draw their bows; the motion caught his eye and he fired.  Another scattering of arrows came at him, but Avenar reared and twisted to avoid them.  He ignored her plunging; he knew where the archers were by then, and picked them off within seconds.  Then he turned his attention to his leg, which was becoming curiously numb.

Yanking the arrow out, he sniffed at it and caught an unfamiliar musty scent; nothing that should have been there.  He cursed again.  Poison.  He clucked to Avenar and released her mouth, and she bolted, all the speed of her Asterion grandsire pouring into her limbs.

The ravine was widening, the light brightening in front of them.  They were nearly through the pass, when Avenar stumbled.  She caught herself and ran on, but slower; then she stumbled again, and went down on her knees.  Aedion leaped off of her, and his injured leg gave out as he landed, sending him tumbling to the rocky ground.  That was when he saw them: two arrows, one in her haunch, one in her shoulder.  She struggled to her feet, and tried to turn to him, falling again.

“Go,” he said to her, as she pulled herself up.  The feeling was leaving his leg, icy pain taking its place.  He waved a hand at her, and she bobbed her head, but didn’t turn away.  “Get out of here,” he shouted as loud as he could.  Two arrows in those locations shouldn’t be hindering her this much, he realized, as she took a stumbling step towards him.  Unless they had the same poison as the one now spreading icy fingers over his body, sapping his consciousness from him.  The last thing he saw were her big, kind dark eyes with the white moon between them, looming over him, before spots covered his vision and all was lost.

*****

The clink of a metal door closing snapped Aedion back into reality, away from the demons and monsters.  He was icy cold, his limbs heavy, slow to respond.  It took him a long moment to figure out how to open his eyes, though his nose was filled with the battlefield stench of blood and vomit, piss and shit and death.  Finally he blinked, finding himself in a dimly lit stone room with barred walls.  With difficulty, he rubbed his eyes, the metallic rustle and weight on his wrist telling him that at least some of the heaviness of his limbs was due to him being shackled.  After several more blinks, his brain cleared enough for him to put it all together.  He was imprisoned.  And the man staring at him through the bars with steely eyes was no doubt responsible.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, almost crying out as the movement pulled at the skin of his back and ass.  Reaching around to touch his back, his fingers came away sticky with blood, and he wondered how that had happened.  The pictures jangling through his mind were impossible to sort into real memory versus fever dream from the poison he had been taken down with.  The shower of arrows he remembered, though it was indistinct, as if seen through a rain-streaked window.

Ignoring the pain, he pulled his legs up to his chest.   He rested his arms on his bare knees to study his captor, who was observing him with faint amusement.  Minutes passed as they stared at each other.  Finally, the other man asked, “Nothing to say, Prince?  I wouldn’t have taken you for the quiet type.”

“You have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” Aedion replied, throat so raw he couldn’t recognize his own voice.  Evidently at least some of the screaming he had dreamed about had been real.  “I figured you’d give me what information you wanted me to have.”

The cold smile the stranger gave should have been terrifying, but Aedion was still too drugged to register fear.  “You’re causing me quite a dilemma, you know.  It’s bad enough you’re looking to reunite the Terrasen army, but you managed to kill half a dozen of my men.  I’d be impressed if it wasn’t such a pain in my ass to replace them.”

Aedion counted in his head.  “Five,” he croaked.  “I shot five of your men.”

The man stepped to the side, and he saw the soles of boots then, connected to a limp body on the floor.  “And then you broke Dean’s neck while you were raging.”  

Aedion remembered the crack, somehow, though not what led up to it; that was lost in a jumble of violent dreams that may or may not have been real.  “So why didn’t you kill me?  Why drag me here?”

“I planned to, believe me, until I saw your face.  Then I realized, I might be able to sell you for more than you’ve cost me.”  

Finally a prickle of fear registered, but Aedion kept his face neutral.  “I don’t imagine the King will be willing to pay for someone he already owns.”

The man cocked his head.  “The King?  I don’t do any favors for the King.  He’s bad for business.  No, I have someone quite different in mind.  You’re the son of one of the princesses of Wendlyn, are you not?”

Aedion gave an amused huff.  “If you expect to ransom me to my Ashryver family, you’ll be sorely disappointed.  They wouldn’t take me in for free three years ago, I can’t imagine they’d pay for me now.”

“Interesting,” the man mused.  “The Ashryvers have always rallied around their own, yet you tell me they wouldn’t aid you?”

“The bastard son of a dead princess is not of great value to them.”

“Perhaps not.”  The man paced a few steps, still studying him.  “But they are not the only people in Wendlyn who might be interested in you.”  He stopped, tapping a finger to his upper lip.  “No, I can imagine there is someone who would be more than pleased to have you.  You see, I have spent quite a lot of time in Wendlyn over the years, and not just in Varese.”

Aedion’s head was pounding.  He leaned it back against the cool stone walls and closed his eyes as the man droned on.  This man was obviously insane, but he couldn’t puzzle it out now.  After a while, multiple sets of footsteps sounded and there was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor; he heard a door open and close, and then the room fell silent save for his own harsh breathing.  

He awakened some time later to soft movement.  A girl of perhaps thirteen came carrying a small tray.  The smell of roast meat permeated the air.  She opened a sliding panel in the door of his cell and pushed the tray in before closing the panel again.  Taking a few steps back, she waited for a moment, but Aedion didn’t move.  After a few moments, she gave a bow and left, and he lunged for the pitcher of water balanced next to the food, the chains connecting his wrists to the wall rattling with the movement.

His thirst was so great he almost drank, but as he put the pitcher to his lips he smelled it.  Not the musty smell of whatever had been on those arrows, but something sharp.  It was faint, but it made him set the pitcher down.  He bent to sniff the food, and the same sharp odor permeated it.  Nearly ready to cry from the rawness in his throat, he pushed the tray away and went back to his spot against the wall.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his thumb over the curving scar on his palm.  Aelin and Rhoe, Evalin and Orlon and Quinn.  

*****

The heat in Rifthold was so oppressive most of the wealthy people were fleeing to the country.  Delaney was relieved to escape the sweltering bakery and stroll along the river where the breeze ruffled through her hair and dried the stickiness on her neck.  It was the one time every day she had to herself, that stretch between the end of her shift and when the summer parties began.  

It was hard to believe that she could ache with such loneliness when there were people constantly surrounding her.  Yet other than Fulke, there was nobody here she cared about.  Her merchant friends had been through this spring, and she had spent several pleasant weeks with them, but they had moved on and the emptiness that was left in their wake was a chasm she didn’t know how to fill.

She missed Raedan and Aedion, Maida and Avis.  Somehow their absence was getting harder to bear rather than easier.  There had been no news of Aedion since he had left Orynth over a month ago, and she had been too afraid to write to her sisters beyond the one letter she had sent advising them of her position in Rifthold.  It was killing her not knowing.

Sighing, she turned back and headed up through the market square to get lunch.  As she crossed the cobbles, she recognized a familiar tall, angular woman walking alone well ahead of her, one she hadn’t seen in weeks.  She hurried to catch up.

“Cherise!” she called, as soon as she was close enough.  Cherise turned, surprise flashing flashing in her eyes as she saw Delaney, quickly followed by a stoic mask that was disconcerting on that mobile, expressive face.  

“Delaney.”  Cherisse could never be cold, but her voice was quiet, flat.

“Are you all right?” Delaney asked.  At Cherise’s blank expression she went on.  “I feared you were ill when I didn’t see you for so long.  I…I’ve missed our conversations.”

Cherise’s mouth tightened briefly.  “Have you?”

“Yes.”  Delaney wasn’t sure why Cherise looked so pained.  “Will you have lunch with me?  We can catch up on all the latest gossip.”

Cherise looked down, teeth worrying her lower lip, before meeting Delaney’s eyes with a cautious smile.  “All right.  Yes.”

Delaney led the way to her favorite cafe, where they ordered and sat at a small table in front.  The initial awkwardness soon smoothed into laughing chatter; Delaney told stories of rude customers and baking disasters, and Cherise had her howling with tales from the Rifthold social scene.  

“Oh, and do you remember Major Paget?”  Cherise asked with a broad grin.

After a moment’s thought, Delaney remembered their first meeting.  “The officer without a head?”

Cherise laughed.  “Well, he certainly had his head when I saw him a few weeks ago.  He embarrassed Brigitte in front of all her friends, it was a thing of beauty.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing, really, just turned her down flat when she threw herself at him in the middle of a party.  She was mortified.”

Delaney joined in Cherise’s laughter.  Too soon, it was time for her to return to work, but the following day Cherise renewed her daily visits.  It was a comfort to Delaney. There was an abrupt influx of high-ranking officers from all over the country for the annual summer meeting and she was living in fear of General Perrington somehow visiting the bakery and recognizing her.  

In the end it was not Perrington whom she encountered but Colonel Malins.  Though she had only seen him briefly and over a year ago, she would never forget his malignant black eyes, the cruel cast to his mouth.  The image of him looming over Aedion in that hut was forever burned into her brain.  Thankfully Naise was managing the counter when he appeared, and she didn’t have to serve him directly.  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he received his order of sweet buns and left, pressing a hand to her thigh to confirm the presence of the knife Fulke insisted she keep on her at all times.  

When he left, she allowed herself a slow smile.  She had never used a knife on a living being before, but this… She would put Fulke’s lessons to use happily if it gave her a chance to avenge Aedion.  It crossed her mind to ask Cherise if she knew Malins’ comings and goings, but she rejected the idea almost immediately; it wouldn’t do to have anyone know she was tracking him.  No, for this she would have to use the skills she had honed for the better part of a decade in Perrington’s camp, then tested in Orynth.

It was time for her first hunt.

*****

Mikkal stood in a line of fellow officers, facing the King and his generals.  He had glanced once at his father, who was sitting at the far end of the long table, his face an impenetrable mask.  More than half of the men before him were familiar to him, but it was General Perrington’s black gaze, identical to that of the Duke who sat at the King’s right hand, that drew him.  This was one of the men responsible for Aedion’s torture.  He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to help keep his expression neutral, and with an effort pulled his eyes away to scan the rest of the council, putting names to faces.  

Mikkal stood at ease while the Duke ran down the line.  Most of his fellow officers were aging out of their ability to fight.  Two were awarded what amounted to desk jobs to stay in the program; several others were dismissed outright.  One captain who had been stationed south of Bellhaven had no physical injuries, but was unable to do more than stammer incoherently.  The King and Duke Perrington exchanged a long look, the latter giving a tiny nod when the council of generals pronounced the man unfit to serve.

Finally it was Mikkal’s turn to tell his story and show his injury.  It did not take long for the council to decide, and he was released unanimously, with the commendation the King had promised him.  Bowing deeply, he thanked the generals and the King for having provided him with his career, then joined the other dismissed men along the back wall while the remaining three were reviewed.  

Near the end, another man entered, a colonel with eyes the same glittering black as the Perringtons’.  He bent down to speak briefly with the Duke, glanced in the direction of the dismissed men, and gave a brief nod.  Approaching, the colonel’s cold gaze raked over all the men, lingering for a moment on Mikkal, whose skin crawled in response.  Then he took the elbow of the stammering Fenharrow soldier and guided him away.  When the confused man resisted, he paused and, with a cold courtesy, introduced himself to the captain as Colonel Malins.  It was all Mikkal could do to keep from starting at the name, and he couldn’t prevent himself from looking quickly between the colonel and General Perrington.  Not just one of the men responsible for Aedion then, but both of them, here in the city, and he no longer owed any allegiance to Adarlan’s army.  Perhaps his time in Rifthold would not be such a waste after all.

*****

Aedion groaned awake, the pain stabbing through his head enough to nauseate him.  His lips were so dry they had stuck to each other, and when he forced them apart with his tongue he tasted blood from the cracks.  At some point during the day, the girl had come back with a fresh round of food and water; as before, Aedion had waited until she’d left before smelling it.  The sharp odor was still present, so he had curled back up and gone back to sleep.

The man from the previous day - or was it two days ago? - had not returned.  Aedion staggered to his feet, almost falling again as the weight of the chains dragged at his arms, and stumbled over to the pitcher and plate that sat untouched near the door.  Dropping to his knees, he studied them, and reached shaking hands to pick up the pitcher.  The sharp ache in his head, the rawness in his throat, the painful dryness of his mouth all begged him to ignore the unknown substance in the water and sate his thirst.  

He doubted it was a toxic poison; if the man wanted to sell him he couldn’t well kill him first.  Aedion debated his options, which considering how severely the room was spinning around him now appeared to be dying of dehydration or risking being sold to the gods knew who.  He returned to his spot against the wall, setting the full pitcher next to him on the floor while he tried to force his brain to work.

The man had been interested in the prospect of selling him to Wendlyn.  Evalin and Rhoe had been adamant that Aelin never go to Wendlyn; they had been nearly as emphatic that he not return.  It was not his Ashryver kin that were a problem.  The royal family may have been indifferent to him but they were not cruel.  Though they had only whispered of it, he knew it was his aunt, the Fae Queen Maeve, that they feared.  The reason had always been a mystery to him.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was worth it to continue to fight.  He told himself that there was nobody left who would truly mourn him; but that was a lie.  Mikkal, if he yet lived - news of Aedion’s death would destroy him.  Raedan would never forgive himself for letting Aedion out of his sight.   Delaney…though he hadn’t seen her in over a year, he knew she would tear herself apart.  Three people.  Three people in the whole world who would want him to live, not because of his title or what he represented, but because he was Aedion.

Cathal popped into his mind unbidden.  Perhaps a fourth.  He thought of their easy joking, of the warmth that sometimes suffused Cathal’s face, of him waking Aedion from his nightmare despite the risk to himself.  Of the way Cathal’s eyes sometimes tracked him, when he didn’t know Aedion could see him.  

The living warred with the dead in his mind.  In the end, he picked up the pitcher and drank.

At first, the only thing he felt was the glorious easing of the searing dryness of his mouth and throat.  After several swallows he forced himself to stop for a few panting breaths, before drinking more.  He took several minutes to finish the pitcher, and when he set it down the pounding in his head finally began to recede.  He leaned back against the wall, feeling strength stealing back into his muscles, and sighed in relief.  Evidently the unknown substance was harmless, at least in the small amounts added to the water.  

Before he could decide on whether to try the food, the rats he had heard scrabbling about became bold enough to enter his cell.  He watched as they fell upon his food, taking their sudden appearance as a sign to avoid it.  Then one of the rats turned and spoke to him in a human’s voice.  In Rhoe’s voice.  

Shouting out, he flung himself backwards, as far into the corner as his chains would allow, and still the rat scolded him.  The rat-Rhoe called him a coward, a fool; shamed him for what he had become, for not fighting back, for not dying a hero’s death, for succumbing when they had struck him and tied him down.

When the rat fell silent, another began: Evalin, sweet disappointment heavy in her voice, asking how he could have left Aelin behind, how he could have stayed in Orynth when everyone knew the danger.  How he could have forsaken the blood oath he had been destined to swear.  A rat-Orlon spoke next, scornful in death as he never had been in life; he only spoke two words but they cut Aedion to the quick.

“Adarlan’s whore.”

Aedion covered his ears with his arms, digging his fingers into the back of his head, dropping his forehead to his knees, but he couldn’t block it out.  When he looked up, turning to the rats in despair, they were gone.  The bars of the cell began to warp, bending over him, closing him in, before turning into ropes that twisted around his arms, his legs, dragging him down into a spread-eagled position, merciless and unbreakable despite his screaming, pleading struggles to free himself.  He could feel hands on him, teasing over his skin; they felt like Mikkal’s, and he started to retch.  Finally he vomited, though he couldn’t raise his head and ended up choking the water and bile out his nose.  Drawing ragged breaths, he felt the restraints on his limbs loosen, then disappear.  Exhausted, he curled into the smallest ball he could manage and fell into strange dreams: of crowns of blue flame; of black lightning striking sand, then forming into whips that flayed flesh from bone; of a sword with a bone pommel in a scarred hand; of white light shifting into an osprey that fought like a man; of familiar men, one with dark brown eyes, one with gray-green, searching for something through mist before dissolving into mist themselves.

When he finally awoke, he was afraid for a moment to open his eyes.  Listening intently, he could hear the small movements and low voices of the guards in far room, and then someone breathing closer by; he could smell bile under his face and the scent of freshly laundered clothes.  He risked cracking an eyelid.  

No pain slammed into his temple as he let in the dim light of the cell, so he slowly pushed up into a sitting position.  The girl who had brought the food was there, holding a pitcher in trembling hands.  Glancing over her shoulder at the door to the guard room, she crept over to the panel, beckoning for Aedion to follow her.  He did so, remaining crouched to hide as much of himself as possible.  She slid the panel aside and shoved the pitcher at him.  “That one’s fresh,” she breathed, so quietly he doubted a normal human would have heard her.  She grabbed the tray with its full plate of food and gestured at the empty pitcher.  Silently, Aedion reached for it and handed it over, and she slid the panel closed and locked it.  Without another sound she disappeared into the guard room with his tray.

Aedion looked into the pitcher as soon as she was gone.  Wedged into the neck was a hunk of stale bread, and the water below did indeed smell clean.  Throwing caution to the wind, he gobbled the bread in three bites and drained the water in a few gulps then walked back and forth within the confines of his chains for a while, ignoring the grumbling beast in his stomach that had awakened with the bread.  

He was still pacing like a caged animal when the man from the first day appeared, crossing his arms and glaring at Aedion with chilly displeasure.  “You look a bit better than when I saw you last,” the man said, the ice in his voice belying his words.  Aedion looked at him in surprise, then realized he must have visited during the hallucinations, or the drugged sleep that hit him afterwards.  The man’s eyes flicked to his empty pitcher, and Aedion realized too late that he should have been suffering from the drug’s effects again.  

“I dumped it out,” he said with a gesture to the largely full slop bucket.  His vocal cords were too raw to give him much volume but the man heard him.  “I won’t drink any of that poison again.”

The man’s mouth spread into a smile that was more of a grimace.  “You’ll have to drink sometime.”

Aedion shrugged.  “We’ll see.  I’m not much use as a bargaining chip if I’m dead.”  The man’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t reply.  Aedion waved his hand to encompass the cell and his chains.  “I’m not sure why you think drugging me is necessary given all of this.”

“I’m no fool,” the man snarled in reply.  “I know what you’re capable of.  Consider this a form of respect for your abilities.  An honor, if you would.”

Aedion snorted.  “An honor.  I’m flattered, I’m sure.  And to whom do I owe this honor, if I may ask?”

The man drew himself up to his full height, raising his chin.  “The King of Merchants, you royal fool.”

Aedion’s heart rate went up at that.  He had heard of Dristan Garvey, the King of Merchants, years ago.  Rhoe wanted to have him assassinated, as he trafficked in illegal substances, including human flesh.  Orlon did not generally hold with murder no matter the reason, but had still been considering Rhoe’s arguments when he died.  It was well known that the growing trade in illicit substances in Suria and Eldrys, which had been spreading west into Perranth and even Orynth, was largely due to this man.  He was also rumored to be behind the disappearance of children from city streets; children who were spotted on ships headed south, sold into slavery in Adarlan and Melisande.

“I’m disappointed to find out a man with such a reputation proves to be such a cowardly wretch,” was Aedion’s scornful reply.  

Fury flashed across Garvey’s face, and he spun on his heel and crashed through the door into the guard room.  Aedion wondered what he had gotten himself into.  He found out a few minutes later, when Garvey returned with four guards wielding heavy clubs and ropes.  The men treated him like a wild horse, throwing one rope over his head that he couldn’t remove quickly enough due to his shackles, then, after choking him enough to slow him, clubbing his legs out from under him.  As soon as he hit the ground one of the men was on him, shoving a dropper filled with a bitter liquid into his mouth before they all retreated to watch him from the safe zone outside the cell.

Even though he knew they were coming, the hallucinations were worse this time.  Swarms of insects feasted upon his flesh; he could feel their tiny feet and jaws gnawing through his skin, feel them crawling under his skin down to his very bones.  Mikkal stood before him, watching him with empty eye sockets, laughing coldly, mockingly.  Aelin floated in the air, surrounded by her flames, no longer imperious to them - he could smell the burning flesh, hear the crackling sound between her pained screams as she roasted alive.  General Perrington knelt behind him, not touching him, but reminding him of all the ways he had failed those he loved.  In the distance he could hear Delaney crying out, but he couldn’t see her, no matter how he struggled against his restraints.  When he finally collapsed in exhaustion, he dreamed again of Cathal and Raedan, wandering through mist until they were swallowed up and disappeared.

*****

Mikkal was on his fourth drink and not nearly drunk enough.  His father had been on his case for the past three days to return to camp, but he had no desire to be among soldiers, least of all those who would pity him for what he had lost.  Unfortunately he didn’t have an alternative to offer his father; his pay would run out eventually, and he would have to figure out what he could do to survive.  He was still puzzling on this when someone settled onto the stool to his right.  Glancing over, he registered first the colonel’s uniform, then a black stone on the man’s left hand.  He looked up to see glittering black eyes in a hard face as the man ordered a drink.  He recognized Malins from the meeting with the generals.  Heat flooded through him, searing away whatever buzz he might have been developing, and he had to consciously keep himself from tightening up.  

The man looked at him and gave him a nod.  “Major Paget,” he said.  

“Colonel Malins.”  He fought to keep his voice neutral.  

Malins ordered his drink, and the bartender slid it across the bar with alacrity.  Inclining his head slightly, the colonel turned his attention to the bar, where two men and a woman were getting into an increasingly screechy argument.

They drank in silence for a few moments, not that conversation would have been easy with the noise in the room. Malins signaled for another.  Tossing a coin on the counter Mikkal stood, brushing his arm against the colonel’s.  He leaned over to murmur in Malins’ ear, “I noticed you noticing me the other day.  I’d be more than happy to get to know you better.  If you’ll meet me outside,” gesturing vaguely in the direction of the adjoining alley, “I’m sure you’d find it worthwhile.”  Those black eyes flicked up in surprise.

“That’s quite an offer,” Malins said.  “Still, I’m not sure I’m interested at the moment.”

“Aren’t you?”  Mikkal arched an eyebrow with a slow, sultry smile and walked away.  Once outside in the shadows of the alley, he pulled out his stiletto, twirling it experimentally in his ruined hand, then passing it to his left.  He found a deep doorway and tucked himself in to wait.

*****

Malins downed his third drink, considering Paget’s offer.  He was a handsome devil, that was for sure.  Pity about his hand; Malins would’ve liked to take him under his wing.  Surely a man who looked like that could be quite an effective weapon.  A couple more shots of liquor, and he headed out into the alley.  The young man wouldn’t have gone far, but the alley was completely empty aside from rats.  Oh well, he needed to take a piss anyway.

Leaning against the wall, he relieved himself with a satisfied moan.  He shook himself and started to take a step back when he felt a strong arm wrap around him and lips graze his neck.  “I knew you’d come around,” the throaty voice murmured against his skin.  Before he could reply, there was a sharp spasm in his back, just below his ribs, and he reflexively twitched.  A surge of nausea followed, and as he moved to vomit he collapsed backwards, hitting a tall, lean body.  

“That,” said the man holding him, lips tickling his ear, “is for Aedion Ashryver.”  The man laid him down gently, almost like a lover.  Malins couldn’t quite make sense of the spreading warmth he was laying on, nor the chill beginning to hit his fingers and feet.  As his breath came short and his vision went black, the last thing he heard was a wild howling, deep within his own soul.

*****

Delaney stood frozen at the end of the alley.  She had been watching for Malins for several days, ever since she had seen him at Luk’s.  Tonight was the first time he had ventured far enough away from the glass castle.  She had followed him into the tavern, had watched as that black-haired man had smiled and made eyes at him.  It had been obvious what Malins had been thinking as he stared in the handsome man’s wake while he drank.  

After he left, she had waited a few minutes before following him out.  If there was a tryst planned, she figured he wouldn’t go too far.  The sound of trickling water had attracted her to the alley, and she had watched in shock as a tall slender figure stepped silently up behind Malins and slid a knife in his back, right where Fulke had showed her was a sure place to drop a man for good.  But it was the words he spoke, echoing faintly down the alley, that caught her.

“That is for Aedion Ashryver.”

She should have walked away.  If she were smart, she would melt into the shadows, then join the light foot traffic on the cross street a block behind her.  But she didn’t understand why a stranger in Rifthold would know what Malins was to Aedion, would care enough to avenge him.  Her curiosity drew her like a magnet, and when the tall man emerged from the alley and struck off towards the river, she followed him on silent feet.

He strolled casually down the barren street; the hour was late enough that nearly all the apartments they passed were dark.  When he reached the broad cobbled street that ran along the river, Delaney stopped next to a fire escape and watched.  He reached the railing along the river then stopped and leaned over, and she heard two splashes.  Then he turned and, hands in his pockets, walked downriver.  After a few moments, she followed, clinging to the buildings and being careful with where she placed her feet.  She trailed him for blocks, heading into the slums, until her eyes were watering from the stench she had never gotten used to.  They reached a bend in the river, and the man was briefly out of her sight; when she reached the corner, he had disappeared.  

Delaney pulled up abruptly, debating her course.  If he had remained on the river road, she probably would have glimpsed him, so she turned onto a narrower street that branched off the river road, heading more towards the center of the city.  She walked one block with no sign of him, and wondered if he had entered one of the overcrowded apartments that lined the street.  Sighing, she kept walking; it was past time for her to get back anyway.

Halfway up the next block she heard quiet footsteps behind her, but before she could turn or pick up her pace a hand came over her mouth and yanked her back against a much larger body, and she felt the unmistakable bite of a blade press against her neck.

“Give me one reason not to slit your throat right now,” growled a male voice in her ear, and the hand around her mouth dropped quickly to wrap around her ribcage.  The knife at her throat didn’t move.

Delaney did rapid mental math and gambled with her quiet reply, “Because Aedion would never forgive you if you hurt me.”

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, his sharp intake of breath indicated that was not it.  The arm around her ribs tightened painfully.  “And who are you, then, that he would care?” he hissed.

“He is my brother in all but blood,” she said simply.  

His grip eased but he did not release her and kept the knife pressed to her skin.  “Prove it,” he said.

She cast her mind about for how to comply without compromising Aedion.  “If you know Aedion, you must know my brother.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because Raedan would never let Aedion out of his sight.”

At that the blade disappeared, and his grip shifted to her arm as he spun her to face him.  He was nearly as tall as Aedion, and she had to crank her head back to look him in the eye.  “Delaney,” he said after a moment.  She nodded, and he cocked his head as he examined her face.  “I see the resemblance.”

They stared at each other in silence for a minute, and she wondered again who this man was.  He was not in uniform, but his clothes were finely made and his features had an aristocratic cast.  His hand on her arm felt odd, and she looked down to see he was missing several fingers. He followed her glance, and when she looked back at his face there was an amused twist to his features.  

“Who are you?” she asked at last.

He was silent for so long she didn’t think he was going to answer her.  Eventually, he reluctantly said, “Mikkal.  Mikkal Paget.”

She gave a surprised laugh.  “The officer without a head!”  As soon as the words were out of her mouth she flushed and clapped her free hand over her mouth.

His brow furrowed.  “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.  Obviously you have a head.”

“Obviously,” he replied, and there was humor in his voice though he was eyeing her warily.

“How do you know Aedion?” she asked.  What she really wanted to know was how he knew about Aedion’s history with Malins, but that question seemed like the wrong place to start.  

Paget stepped back, finally releasing her arm.  “That is a discussion for another location.  I’d recommend we go somewhere a bit more private.”

Delaney nodded.  “Follow me.”  She struck off confidently, but was surprised when he followed without resistance.

She couldn’t take him to the apartment she shared with the other girls, so she brought him to Fulke’s instead.  His manner was easy but that left hand was always near his dagger hilt.  She wondered who would win in a fight, Paget or Fulke.  Somehow her money was on Paget.

It took almost a minute for Fulke to answer the door, and she had obviously dragged him out of bed.  He let them in without question, though his face was suspicious as he eyed Paget.

“Major Paget, Fulke.  Fulke, Major Paget.  He just did my dirty work for me,” she said by way of introduction, and both men looked at her in surprise.  “He killed one of the bastards that tortured Aedion,” she clarified, and Fulke’s expression shifted to one of grudging respect as he held a hand out to Paget, who shook it reluctantly.

“I didn’t know you had plans to kill anyone,” Fulke said to her disapprovingly.  She shrugged and headed into the living room to flop on the couch.  Fulke and Paget followed her, but Paget remained standing closest to the door while Fulke dropped into a chair.  

“So now will you tell me how you know Aedion?” Delaney asked, facing Paget.  He glanced at Fulke, who returned the look impassively.

“I was responsible for training him at my father’s camp,” Paget finally answered cautiously.

“You’re his lover,” Fulke said, not a question.  He laughed at Paget’s expression.  “Turi told us he met an officer who was Ashryver’s lover.  You match his description.”

Delaney had forgotten about those rumors, but Paget’s lack of a denial certainly appeared to be confirmation.  She hadn’t really believed them until that moment; she couldn’t understand how Aedion could ever fall for someone who would fight in Adarlan’s name.  Then again, if this man was willing to kill a higher ranking officer he likely wasn’t a victim of blind loyalty.  

“How much do you know about Malins?” she asked.

“Enough,” was the careful answer.  “I know what happened the night he sent you away.”  Delaney couldn’t help but be surprised that Aedion would have shared details of that with anybody.  

Fulke looked between them but didn’t comment.  Paget rubbed his good hand over his face.  “I honestly don’t understand what you are doing here when the last I knew you were in Terrasen, but right now I am trusting you with my life,” he said, sounding abruptly exhausted.  

“And we are trusting you with ours,” Fulke said.  Paget looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded.  

“I like your brother,” he said to Delaney.  “I hope he went north with Aedion.”

“He did,” she said.  “We got word a while back that they were both in Orynth.”

“Are you…” He swallowed hard.  “Are you in touch with Aedion?”

They both shook their heads.  “Not directly,” Delaney explained.  “It could get too hard to explain if something was intercepted.”

Paget nodded, unable to hide the flicker of disappointment.  “I’m going to go,” he said, but he hesitated for several seconds before turning away.  

“Major?” Delaney said when he was nearly to the door.  He turned.  “Thank you.  For not slitting my throat,” she added, when he looked confused.  

His lips twitched up.  “It was my pleasure to not kill you,” he said courteously.  “Though at some point you’ll have to explain why you thought I didn’t have a head.”

She laughed and Fulke looked lost.  With a short bow, Paget left.  “That was…interesting,” Fulke said once the door clicked shut behind him.  “Do you think we can use him?”

Delaney looked at the door for a long moment.  “I’m not sure.”  She intended to find out, though.

*****

Aedion had long given up on trying to figure out how long he’d been trapped.  Drugged food and water appeared at random intervals, brought mostly by the girl but occasionally by a guard.  Thirst remained his biggest temptation; he dumped the contaminated water out immediately, even though the sound of splashing water nearly drove him mad.  About every third or fourth batch of water was clean, and a hunk of meat or bread would be stuffed into the neck of the pitcher.  He tried to thank the girl but she shook her head and held her finger to her lips any time he started to speak.  It wasn’t nearly enough, he knew he was losing weight and his hunger was a constant ache, but it was keeping him alive.

When Garvey would appear, he would drop into an unresponsive twitching heap, and he seemed to believe Aedion had succumbed to consuming the drugged water.  The rest of the time he paced his cell as much as his chains would allow.

During one of his passes, the rings attaching his chains to the wall caught his eye.  They were a different metal than his chains, and poorly fashioned.  He ran a finger over one rough edge and hissed as it scraped the callus off his finger.  Experimentally, he rubbed one of the links of chain over the area a few times, then flipped the link over to study it in the dim light.  The metal was faintly scored; he couldn’t see it, but he could feel it with his thumbnail.  He grinned to himself.

After hours of working the links near his wrist over the rings, he suspected he had them worn enough that he could break them.  Hoped that was the case, as the rough areas had been smoothed by the constant friction.  But the timing was going to be crucial; if Garvey caught him free in the cell he would no doubt have him darted with more of that paralyzing poison.  No, he couldn’t make his move until he could do it all - break the chains and somehow escape the cell.  He wondered if the girl would help him.  

The next time she came bearing food, he met her at the sliding panel and whispered, “Do you have keys to the door?”  She shook her head, looking fearfully over his shoulder towards the guard room and passing the tray through.  “Who does?”  She was trembling, and when she shook her head again he didn’t push further.  He was just going to have to chance it.

It was some time - several meals’ worth - later when the  door banged open and Garvey entered, dragging the girl by her hair and carrying a pitcher.  He threw her down to her knees at his feet and drew a short blade that he pointed at Aedion.  “I should have known better,” he sneered, “then to let this whore bring your food.”  He stabbed the knife into the pitcher, yanking out a small loaf of bread that he brandished at Aedion.  Flinging the bread down, he slashed out with the knife, tearing open the girl’s cheek.  She gave a gasping cry and grabbed at her face, but couldn’t stop the blood from dripping onto the floor through her fingers.

Aedion growled and leaped to his feet but said nothing, his mind racing while he tried to figure out what he could do to help.  They were just far enough away from the bars that even if he broke his chains he wouldn’t be able to reach Garvey.  

“No response?  You are a cold-hearted creature, aren’t you,” he said mockingly.  “That’s all right.  You’ll be on a ship in three days’ time, and then she can figure out what to do with you.”  He looked at the girl, whose head was bowed.  “As for you…”   He forced her to her feet and studied her ruined face impassively.  “What a shame.  Now you’re no good to me even as a whore.”  Before Aedion could move, Garvey lashed out again, driving the knife into her chest below her left breast.  She fell with a breathless cry, clutching convulsively at the hilt that protruded through her cheap shirt.  Aedion lunged forward with a guttural scream, pulling up just before he hit the end of the chains, knowing he was too late.  He was unable to drag his eyes from the fine tremors in her fingers as her last rattling gasps sounded over Garvey’s cold laughter.  When the girl went limp, he fixed Garvey with a stare.

“I’m going to kill you,” he snarled.  “I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”

Garvey was unimpressed.  “You’re going to be gone before long, Prince.”  He spun on his heel in the spreading pool of blood and left.  Shortly afterwards two guards came in and removed the girl, and then Aedion fell back against the wall and wept.

A long time passed before one of the guards came in with food and water.  Aedion had crouched up against the wall on the man’s entrance, facing the sliding panel and watching the man’s progress out of the corner of his eye.  As soon as the panel was open and the man was reaching in to remove the previous plate, Aedion lunged.  The chains held for a split second, almost long enough to panic, but they snapped as he put his full weight and power against them.  He grabbed the man’s arm just as he started to yank it back.  Aedion pulled the arm sharply with all his strength and the clang of skull on metal cut short the guard’s startled cry.  Aedion froze for several heartbeats, listening for a response from the guard room, but the walls and doors were thick and there was no audible reaction.

The panel was too small for the man to fit through, so Aedion had to settle for reaching through with one arm and patting him down until he finally found the keys.  Then there was a the issue of forcing his hand through the bars far enough to enable him to unlock the door.  After a moment’s fussing, he heard a click and felt the door give.  He paused briefly to check the fallen guard; when he found a pulse he gritted his teeth, grabbed the unconscious man’s head in his hands, and jerked sharply, flinching at the loud crack.  

The man was smaller than he was, but Aedion stripped him and forced himself into his clothes.  They pulled at his hip bones and shoulders, but he had lost so much weight they weren’t as tight as they should have been, though they were inches too short.  He quickly belted on the man’s sword and dagger, then crept to the door.  

His confusion on not having been interrupted was explained when he pushed his way into the guard room and found only one other guard with a mostly-empty bottle of liquor in front of him  The man stumbled to his feet but before he could find voice to shout, the other guard’s knife was in his throat.  Aedion methodically stripped him of weapons, then devoured the remains of the guards’ meal before heading on his way.  

A corridor led to a flight of stairs, and Aedion climbed quickly and quietly.  He only encountered one other guard, at the door between himself and freedom.  The man didn’t even have a chance to turn before he was on the ground with Aedion’s newfound knife in his back.  

Aedion didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been taken prisoner.  When he pushed through the heavy wooden door of the guardhouse, a muggy twilight greeted him.  He sucked in the fresh air, relieved that there were no nearby human scents.  Keeping to the shadows of the building, he walked around, listening intently for movement or some sort of alarm.  None came.  As his heart rate slowed, he realized that the compound was much smaller than he expected, consisting of the guardhouse, a manor house, and a stable.  It was to the latter that he headed.  

He slunk into the stable, all senses alert for any human interference.  A half dozen horses looked up curiously from their hay, and his heart sank when Avenar’s familiar face was not among them.  He had wondered periodically what had happened to his lion-hearted mare, and he hoped she had fought off the poison and gotten away.  

Deep down, he knew she was gone.

He shoved down his grief and turned to the horses at hand.  Scanning the options, he settled on a strong-looking red bay gelding and pulled the halter over the horse’s head.  He quickly drew the lead rope over the gelding’s neck, tied it on the far side, and led the horse towards the stable door.  

As he approached the exit, a young boy poked his head out the loft above, no doubt awakened by the sound of hooves.  Aedion met his eyes and pressed a finger to his lips.  The boy nodded, eyes wide, and disappeared again soundlessly.   Aedion made it out into the yard, then grabbed mane and jumped, throwing his leg over the horse’s rump and settling on him bareback.  A swift kick had the gelding leaping into a gallop, but Aedion yanked him off the drive and sent him west across the fields.  The horse wanted to balk at the wall they encountered a quarter of a mile out, but another kick had him gathering himself and vaulting it.

They kept their swift pace until Aedion felt the gelding’s strength flagging.  Easing him back to a walk, they kept moving west through the low hills at the northern foot of the Staghorns.  When they came to a wooded area, he dismounted and led the horse as deep into the trees as he could manage, then tied him to a branch and collapsed at the foot of the tree into an exhausted sleep.  His dreams were haunted by the unknown girl, who sat and watched him with mournful eyes.

At first light, he mounted again and they rode until they came across a stream.  Both Aedion and the horse drank their fill, and they continued that way, staying off the road as they moved west, stopping only to drink, eat what edible plants Aedion could find, and snatch a few hours’ rest.  It was mid-afternoon on the third day when he saw the wooden ramparts of the camp.  The exhausted gelding stumbled as they made their way down the hill, and Aedion lacked the strength to even dash away the tears that rolled down his cheeks as they staggered through the gate to his waiting men.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 16

A little NSFW.  Read the rest: Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14.  Chapter 15.

Aedion and Cathal crested a ridge and halted, a bucolic valley spreading out before them.  To the east lay a small lake fed by the stream they had been following since the previous day.  To the west was a cluster of buildings, one rather larger than the rest.  Cattle, sheep, and horses dotted the verdant floor.  Aedion glanced at his guide.  Cathal had been quiet the whole trip, but since they awoke this morning he hadn’t said two words.  Now, he looked down on the picturesque scene with the stricken eyes of someone who had been dealt a mortal blow.  Aedion turned back to the valley, something about it seeming familiar.

“I think I’ve been here before.”  Though his voice was low, it seemed to shatter the brittle silence.

Cathal looked at him, expression inscrutable.  “You have been.  You were here for about a week three years ago.”

Huh.  After his escape from Orynth he had followed Darrow’s men and Quinn all through the Staghorns to small camps like this one, staying a few days at each before moving on, until they had managed to meet up with Darrow himself in the eastern foothills.  All of that was just a blur to him now, but he wondered how many of these places he had been to, how many of these men he had met.

“And you were here.” Not a question.  Cathal nodded. “Damn.”

Cathal nudged his gelding forward, and Aedion and Avenar followed.  The horses picked their way carefully down the rocky slope.  “What about being here bothers you?” Aedion asked when they were about halfway down.

“I’m not bothered,” Cathal snapped, and Aedion just raised a brow and waited.  “Oh, go to hell,” Cathal added when he saw Aedion’s expression.

“No doubt I will, sooner or later, but in the meantime I want to know if I’m walking into a trap.”

Cathal shook his head.  “No.  At least, not that I know of.  I wouldn’t lead you deliberately into a bad situation.  I meant what I said, the other night.”

They hadn’t spoken again of Aedion’s nightmare, and he had not asked Cathal why he had wept afterwards.  What nightmares of his own that had brought to the surface.  Certainly every warrior had enough reason to wake screaming now and then.

Once on the valley floor, they picked up a canter, the horses happy to really move out for the first time in days.  The buildings were farther away than they had appeared from up on the ridge, and Aedion was ravenous by the time they reached the largest building.  It was a well-built log structure, weathering well, with an attached stable at one side.  Cathal pulled up well back from the porch and sat on his horse for a moment, chewing his lip, before glancing at Aedion and dismounting.

Aedion joined him, and Cathal handed his reins over.  “Wait here, let me talk to him first,” he said in an undertone, just as the door creaked open.  A broad-framed, thickly muscled man emerged, hair and beard lightly silvered, expression changing from wariness to recognition as Cathal pushed his hood back and approached.

“Cathal Rosach!” he said in a tone of pleased surprise, hurrying down the two steps from the porch.  “I never thought I’d see you again.  To what do I owe the honor?”

Cathal looked at him for a long moment, and Aedion thought they were going to embrace; certainly the stranger looked ready to do so.  Then Cathal pulled his arm back and punched the man in the face as hard as he could.  The man fell to the ground.

Aedion dropped the reins and ran, cursing, getting one arm around Cathal’s body, the other around his shoulders, and lifting him sheer off the ground before he could do more damage.  He carried him back to the horses, both of whom had happily dropped their heads to crop the new spring grass, and held him there.

“What in Hellas’ name do you think you’re doing, you gods-damned fool!” he hissed in Cathal’s ear.  “Are you trying to ruin us before we even start?”

“I…I didn’t mean to do that,” Cathal said, voice shaking.  “I don’t know what happened, I just…I saw him and…”

“Shit.”  Aedion set Cathal back on his feet but didn’t let go of him.  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the stranger rising on one knee, hand pressed to his cheek.  The man spit on the ground, the saliva bloody.  “Everybody’s worried about my temper, and they send me out here with a gods-damned lunatic.”  Cathal made a noise that might’ve been agreement, might’ve just been a sign that Aedion’s grip around his ribs was too tight.  He loosened his arms.

“Stay here, or I promise I won’t just put you on the ground, I’ll put you in it,” Aedion snarled, quietly enough the man he guessed was Major Dewar couldn’t hear him.  Cathal didn’t flinch, just nodded, eyes trained on the ground.

Aedion strode back to where Dewar was still kneeling.  He kept his hands out in front of him as he approached and said, “Sir, are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” the man said, working his jaw.  “Probably should’ve seen that coming.”  Aedion offered him his hand, hauling him to his feet when he took it.  Once he was standing, he spat again before probing his mouth with his finger.  “I know I deserved it,” he said, looking up at Aedion with a rueful half-smile, “but damn, I forgot how hard that fucker hits.”  

Aedion huffed a laugh.  “I’m not sure what you could’ve done to have deserved that.”

Dewar’s demeanor immediately changed.  He stepped back and looked Aedion up and down.  “And who are you, then?”

Realizing his mistake, Aedion tugged off his hood.  “Aedion Ashryver, sir.”  

“Well, Prince,” Dewar said coldly, “I don’t suppose you care to tell me what you’re doing here.”

A few men emerged from the surrounding buildings, and Aedion suspected they’d been watching the whole time.  He wondered briefly if they were going to attack, but Cathal, who had been monitoring all of this with increasing concern, stepped forward.  “He- er, we’re here on behalf of Lord Darrow and Clery.”  Murmuring rippled around them, but the tension in the men eased slightly.  “We’d like to talk to you, Major.  I promise not to hit you again.”  The ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

Dewar looked from Cathal to Aedion then back again.  “Gibson!” he called, and one of the younger men stepped forward.  “Put up these horses.”  The young man nodded, and moved to grab the animals.  “You two, follow me.”  He turned, and with a quick exchange of glances Aedion and Cathal followed him into the house.

They ended up in a cozy sitting room.  One of Dewar’s men joined them, and the major asked him to bring a tray.  Aedion’s stomach grumbled audibly in response.  

“Does one of you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?” Dewar growled.

With a warning glance at Aedion, Cathal replied, his gravelly voice steady, “We’re going to raise the Bane.”

Dewar barked a laugh.  “Is that all?” he asked, with fake mildness.  

“No,” Aedion said, before Cathal could answer, “but it’s the beginning.”

“So the traitor-prince has even grander plans, then.”

Cathal bristled, and Aedion leashed his own temper tightly.  He had been planning his speech for the whole ride here, and he couldn’t let his irritation ruin it.  “I’m not a traitor,” he said quietly, unbuttoning his cloak to reveal the wyvern insignia, the captain’s stripes.  “At least, not to Terrasen.  I was captured, yes; I did not surrender, and I took no oath.  I have risen within the Adarlanian army, and I plan to rise farther.  But not for Adarlan.

“Do you know what they do to men like me in those camps?”  He shook his head.  “I imagine not.  You forget, I think, that I know the ways of both countries.  What they do there…” He clamped down on his shudder.  “It does not inspire loyalty.  The King does not know the difference between loyalty and fear.  And when he sent his men to break me, he didn’t realize who he was dealing with.  I will not be overcome by fear - but they think they succeeded.

“The King is spreading his forces too thin.  He sent me here for this purpose.”  Dewar looked startled, and Aedion nodded.  “It’s true.  My assignment is to rally the remnants of the Terrasen army under the Adarlan flag.  He never even considered that I might comply with his orders and use it against him.  He’s that confident.”  He snorted.

“I don’t know if Adarlan can be beaten, or if Terrasen can be freed.  Likely not without outside aid, to be honest; not when we don’t have Orlon or Rhoe, or even Aelin, on the throne.  But if we don’t get their soldiers out of here, get the gallows to stop swinging, there won’t be anything left to save.”

Dewar cleared his throat.  “And you think you can do this.”

Aedion nodded slowly.  “Yes.  And so do Darrow and Clery, if that’s any comfort.  They know my plans.  They think it’ll work, at least to remove the immediate threat, provide some stability.”

“And what, pray tell, do you plan to do with our army once you control it?”

The grin Aedion gave was wolfish.  “Agree to help, and you’ll find out.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to turn over the control of my men, men I’ve been working with for longer than you’ve been alive, without more information.”

“And you can’t seriously expect me to tell you everything I’m planning when it could all easily get me killed.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, Cathal sitting back and looking from one to the other.  Dewar finally said, “You must be starving.  Why don’t you go see where Tulach is with the tray he was supposed to fetch.”

“I’m fine,” Aedion said, “I’ll wait.”

Dewar’s lips twitched.  “Let me rephrase that.  I’d like to talk to my friend about you behind your back.  Please allow me the chance to do so.”

Aedion felt like an idiot as he stood with a glance at Cathal, who gave a tiny nod, face carefully expressionless.  He hesitated a moment, then left swiftly, with a slight incline of his head to Dewar.  He debated staying in the hallway to listen, then he remembered Cathal’s utter determination when he announced they were raising the Bane.  With a brief prayer to whichever god watched over such things as trusting strangers, he followed his nose to the kitchen.

*****

Dewars settled back in his seat and surveyed Cathal over steepled fingers.  “I really am glad to see you,” he finally said.  

Cathal made a noncommittal noise in response.  The roaring in his ears was distracting him, and he swallowed hard, dampening it slightly.  Few things had ever felt more satisfying than his knuckles connecting with his former commanding officer’s face, and he half wanted to do it again.  But he couldn’t let Ashryver down that way.  Or Clery.

“How did you end up getting roped into this?”

“I volunteered.”

Shaking his head, Dewars rose and walked over to a small side table, pouring two glasses of amber liquid and handing one to Cathal before returning to his seat.  “You have to know it’s a fool’s errand.”

“Why is that?”

“The men are never going to rally behind Ashryver, whatever you and I say about it.”  He waved a casual hand in the air.  “No matter what, he will always be doing this in the name of the King of Adarlan and wearing his uniform.  Nobody will give a shit what he professes.”  

Cathal cocked his head.  “Don’t underestimate him,” he said.  “He inspires loyalty.  You should see his men, they revere him.”

“And you?” Dewar asked with a knowing smile.  “You certainly didn’t waste any time, did you.  You’ve known him what, a month?”

It took Cathal a second to grasp the insinuation.  “Go to hell,” he said, hating that he could feel the blood rising in his face.

This was going nowhere fast, and Dewar was trying to provoke him, that was obvious.  Cathal rubbed his hands over his face, pressing his fingers briefly against his eyelids.  “Look,” he said, “what we’ve been doing the past three years, it’s not working.  I don’t know how things are going up here, but in Orynth, in Suria and Eldrys and Ilium - it’s not working.  People are dying, Major.  They’re being hanged and beheaded and sent to Endovier, for what’re really petty crimes.  And where they’re not being murdered, or sold into slavery, they’re starving.  You wouldn’t recognize Orynth now.  It’s dying.”

“Are you seriously trying to say that Aedion Ashryver can stop all of that?  You’ve always been idealistic, Rosach, but even you can’t have fallen under his spell that badly.”

Cathal shook his head. “No, he can’t fix all of it.  But we can.”  Dewar huffed out through his nose, but Cathal went on.  “Come on, man.  Imagine the Bane, in charge of the cities.  Yes, with Ashryver at the head of it, but we’d be the ones patrolling.  No more butchering blocks, no more shipping people off into slavery on a whim.”

“But that would never happen.  Adarlan would never let that happen.”

“Why not?  The fighting in Fenharrow is ongoing, and according to Clery’s reports Adarlan’s had to put more and more of their forces down there.  If the King truly believes Ashryver is under his control, why would he not pull his soldiers to aid in the south once Ashryver heads the Bane?”

Dewar tapped his finger against his glass.  “Did he tell you his plans at least?”

Cathal looked away.  “Clery did.”

“So you don’t trust each other.”

“I don’t know that Ashryver actually trusts anyone, save one of his men,” Cathal said with a helpless shrug.  “But I do trust him.”

“So much that you didn’t tell him about Muire, I see.”

“Don’t you dare,” growled Cathal quietly, barely recognizing his own voice.  “Don’t you dare say her name.

“I’m sorry,” Dewar said, and sounded it.  “I don’t want to cause you any more pain than I already have.  Though I can’t say I regret keeping you, and Breck for that matter, from certain death.”  Cathal’s jaw ached from clenching it and he stared at the floor, at a small sunburst pattern on the rug.  “But I don’t understand,” Dewar went on, “how you can ask me, my men - our men - to leave the safety of these hills for a man we know nothing about, save what he was like as a boy.  Even you don’t trust him enough to tell him your own history!”

“My history has no bearing on this.”

“No,” he agreed, “but you not being willing to share that with him?  That says a hell of a lot.”

“It’s not like that.”  Cathal blew out a frustrated breath.  “It’s not that I don’t trust him with the information.  It’s that I just…can’t.  I can’t talk about it, to anyone, even people who were there.”

Dewar’s dark eyes were soft with regret and understanding.  “Well, let’s leave it for now.  I doubt you were so optimistic as to believe you’d win us over in a few hours, so just stay for a bit.  Let us get to know him.  Maybe visit with Grant too, and there are a few others nearby that you might not know.”

Cathal nodded, not willing to show his relief at this small concession.  “That’s all we were asking for.  Give him a chance.”

Dewar stood, and Cathal followed him out of the room.  “Now, where is your young friend?  I still don’t know where Tulach disappeared to.”

“Well, Ashryver will be wherever the food is at.  I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as that man does.”  They walked through familiar halls to the enormous kitchen, where they found Ashryver, of course, sitting at a long wooden table with empty plates strewn around him.  Cathal was unsurprised to see he was already surrounded by more than a dozen men including Tulach, and a half dozen women as well, all laughing as he told some animated tale about getting his ass kicked sparring with one of his former commanding officers.  It was brilliant, really; in half an hour he had established himself as one of them.  They were already eating out of his hand.

Cathal leaned over and said in an undertone, “Still think they won’t follow him?”

Dewar huffed but said nothing, just watched.

He looked back at the table and nearly reeled. Gillies and Fulton were among the laughing men, Gillies standing so close behind Ashryver he was nearly touching him.  He hadn’t even known they’d survived, though it appeared Fulton hadn’t survived entirely intact; he had a wicked scar down the left side of his face, twisting his lip up and distorting his eyelid.  The eye under that half-closed lid was white.  Cathal savagely shoved down the surge of pity that threatened at the sight of his former friend.  Then Gillies rested a hand on Aedion’s shoulder at a particularly funny quip, and Cathal’s vision went red.

Ashryver noticed him then, and concern flickered in his eyes.  “I suspect I’ve been keeping you all from something more important,” he announced, rising to his feet and nodding in Dewar’s direction.  There was muttering as the audience noticed their commander and promptly dispersed.  Ashryver stopped at Cathal’s shoulder, looking at the major with a cocky grin.  “Figured if I was kicked out of your meeting I might as well get to know some of your men.”  

“Naturally,” Dewar said.  His tone was courteous, but his face was wary.  That was when Cathal noticed Aedion’s stiff posture, and nudged him with his elbow.  He might as well have been shoving at a boulder; Aedion neither softened his stance nor tempered the aggression rolling off of him.  It was a remarkable shift from the laughing young soldier of moments before.

“We’re going to be staying for a bit,” Cathal told him.  “So settle down, and go find somewhere else to have your pissing contest, we all have to eat in here.”

Ashryver barked a laugh, and after a moment Dewar joined in.  “Come on,” the major said. “Brydie will find you somewhere to stay.”  Cathal hadn’t noticed Dewar’s sweet-faced wife where she had been sitting by the fire, but she rose to greet him and he bent to kiss her softly weathered cheek.  He could barely even hear her chattering at Ashryver as she led them down a hall; all he could see was Gillies’ hand not on the man in front of him but locked around Luthais as his friend strained to get to him.  When Mrs. Dewar stopped at a closed door, he nearly crashed into Ashryver.  

“Now, will you be sharing a room or do you need separate?”

“Separate,” Cathal answered hastily, before Ashryver could doom them to sharing not just a room but likely a bed.  It was a relief to close the door behind him and be alone.  Dealing with Dewar had been bad enough - and he still couldn’t believe he’d hit him - but having all three of them standing in one room…He didn’t know how he was going to manage, let alone explain it all to Ashryver, though likely the prince would be too busy to care.

No, he was fooling himself.  Aedion’s reaction a few minutes earlier indicated he cared a great deal, for whatever reason.  

Somehow he made it through washing up and eating the evening meal without falling apart or hitting anyone.  The sight of the bruise blossoming on Dewar’s face gave him a sort of savage pleasure.  He kept finding his eyes drifting to it while he talked about the situation in Orynth with a grizzled warrior he recognized vaguely.  Finally the meal was done and he escaped to his room, pleading exhaustion from the trip.  It wasn’t a lie.  He had taken a couple of steps into the room when the door swung open and Ashryver entered.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“You knock but don’t wait for an invitation.  Figured I’d save a step.”

Cathal could feel the flush creeping up his neck.  “I could’ve been naked in here.”

Ashryver raised an eyebrow.  “That would’ve been some impressively fast stripping, given that I was one step behind you all the way down the hall.  Besides, who gives a shit?  Nothing I haven’t seen, I’ve just gotta look down.”

There was no winning with this man.  “I’m too tired for this shit,” Cathal said, not really feeling up for the verbal lashing that no doubt was coming.  “Just say whatever you want to say and let me go to bed.”

Ashryver paced back and forth for a moment, if the two strides it took him to cross the room could count as pacing.  “What did Dewar say that got you so upset after I left?”

Not what Cathal was expecting him to say.  He flopped onto the bed and stared down at the hands that had fallen uselessly into his lap.  “Nothing.  No, really,” he added as Aedion opened his mouth to protest.  “He didn’t say or do anything I didn’t expect.  It was just…seeing the three of them…”  He trailed off.

“The three of who?”

“Dewar, Gillies, and Fulton.  I didn’t know they would be here.  Hell, I didn’t know they’d survived.”  It figured.  Luthias had died, and those pricks lived.  That was always the way.

“What did they do to you?”  When Cathal didn’t answer, he added, “Dewar told me he deserved the punch, so I know they did something.”

“Ask them, then,” Cathal replied through a clenched jaw.  “Everyone here knows anyway.”

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Aedion said softly.  The gentle understanding was too much to take.

“Get out,” Cathal snapped.  “I got you here, and I’ll help you because I do think you’re the best option for Terrasen.  But you are not entitled to know a damn thing about me.”  Ashryver didn’t move, and Cathal leaped to his feet and shoved at him.  Ashryver gave a step, then planted his feet.  A broad hand landed on Cathal’s shoulder and squeezed, then without another word Ashryver turned and left.

Slowly, Cathal readied for bed, every movement an effort.  But once he was stretched out under the covers, sleep didn’t come.  The room was too silent without the noise of the city, without the sounds of horses chewing and Aedion’s breathing.  The image of Gillies kept intruding, not just of him restraining Luthias but of him tonight, laughing with Aedion, always close enough to touch him.  He kept listening for telltale sounds to start up in Ashryver’s adjacent room, but they never did, and eventually his exhaustion dragged him under.

*****

Mikkal stood on the cobbles of the square, looking up at the glass castle looming over the city.  The first time he had seen it, almost ten years ago when he’d come here with his father, it had filled him with awe.  It belonged in one of the stories his mother had read to him as a child.  Last year, when he’d spent a week drinking and fucking his way around the city on his way up north, it had seemed simply ostentatious, a way for the King to flaunt his power.

Now, as the light of the setting sun hit it, it looked glazed with blood.  Fitting, Mikkal thought, as he turned and walked away, into the city that was teeming with life.  

The King had actually thought he would want to train the city guards.  They dragged him up here from Fenharrow instead of releasing him, expecting him to see it as an honor.  Then when Mikkal had showed him his hand, how he could not even properly grip a pen, let alone a sword, there had been nothing but cold disgust in those glittering black eyes.  At least he had been promised a release from service, though first for some reason he was expected to attend the solstice meetings in a month.  His father would be there; all the generals and colonels would be unless they were actively engaged.  The King had told him more information would be forthcoming, then dismissed him.  None of the guards had met his eyes; no one had, save the slender young prince seated behind the King, and the prince’s bodyguard, a young man of perhaps Aedion’s age.  The former had looked at him with kind curiosity, the latter with cool assessment, but neither had shied away from his brutalized hand.  

Mikkal wandered the streets, restless, fuming, his brain buzzing with unfamiliar anger.  He had never before been looked on with such pity and disgust, had never suspected how much it would rankle.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t understood the impulse.  Seeing men come home from battle missing limbs and eyes had always caused his knees to wobble, but he had always fought it, always made an effort to talk to the injured like the men they still were.  

The night was just beginning, and he passed by raucous parties in every tavern.  He knew there were somewhat more sedate, though sometimes more twisted, ones going on in half the noble houses as well.  Invitations to three of the latter were sitting in his lodgings.  

A few hours later he was standing in the drawing room of one of his father’s childhood friends, cursing the fact that he didn’t own any normal clothes.  The wyvern on his uniform was like some sort of beacon for strangers to crowd around him and gush.  He found himself wanting to spar with somebody, to do something to get the buzzing out of his head.  He should’ve just gone to a tavern, where he could drink himself into a stupor.

Finally excusing himself under pretense of seeking refreshment, he found a little breathing room.  A beautiful man with ice-blue eyes had just caught his eye when a feminine voice with a highly affected accent exclaimed “Major Paget!”

Looking down, he saw a young woman with thick dark hair and large blue eyes, wearing a dress cut so low he was pretty sure if she sneezed she’d pop right out of it.  “I’m so happy you’re back in Rifthold, Major,” she continued.  “I had such a lovely time dancing with you last year.”  She looked up at him through her lashes, no doubt trying to be coy.  He stared at her, trying desperately to place her.  He’d been drunk so much of the time during his last visit he probably had danced with her.  Hell, he could’ve fucked her and not remembered, though he didn’t think there was enough liquor in the world to get him to take someone like her to bed.  She was still looking at him hopefully so he muttered something conventional and polite.  Unfortunately she took that as in invitation to take his arm and lead him into the crush of dancers.

After five minutes he was ready to drive his dagger into his own eye if only because then she might stop talking.  To hear her, one would’ve thought they’d shared some grand romance rather than a single dance at a party.  “And I was just devastated when I heard about your injuries,” she gasped, as if they had happened to her.  “My friends said I shouldn’t want to be with you anymore, but-”

He stopped moving, nearly causing a nearby couple to crash into them.  “Excuse me?” he said softly, dangerously.  Before he could say any of the vicious things that came into his head, he shoved her away from him and left the room, thankful to find refuge in a cool dark hallway.  There was a couple there, but they were so wrapped up in each other they didn’t even notice him.  He watched them for a while, thinking back to when Aedion used to pull him into shadowy corners.  Gods, what he wouldn’t give to be at this party with him.  He chuckled to himself to think about how Aedion would’ve handled that idiotic girl.  The couple’s evening seemed to be progressing nicely, the girl’s legs were wrapped around the man’s hips and her skirt was hiked up.  That was his cue to flee; just as he reached the door at the far end of the hall they both let out deep moans.  Shit, he thought, as he glanced over his shoulder at the man now thrusting deep into his partner, the pair of them utterly oblivious to anything but each other.  I am never going to find that again.

Pushing through the doorway, he found himself in a dimly lit room that seemed to be full of people paired off.  Cursing under his breath, he glanced through the open doorway into the drawing room, where he could see the girl who had accosted him crying with a few friends clustered around her.  “Damn it,” he muttered, and turned to find himself face to face with the man with the ice blue eyes, which at the moment were dancing with amusement.  

“Rough evening?” the man said, his sensual mouth quirking up.  

Mikkal rubbed a hand self-consciously up the back of his neck.  “Let’s just say I need to practice my escape techniques.”

The man laughed.  “I can imagine a party like this is fraught with danger for someone like you.”

“It’s almost making me miss the battlefield,” Mikkal said, beginning to smile himself.

“Wait around another hour, you’ll go running right back to it.”  Those stunning eyes glanced across the drawing room and his smile turned wicked.  “Or perhaps you might want to make your escape now.”

Mikkal followed his gaze and saw two of the black-haired girl’s friends glaring at him.  “Oh no,” he said in dismay as one of them started to move in his direction. 

“Come on,” said the beautiful man, and grabbed his arm.  “I know a back way out.”  He led Mikkal quickly past the couches full of couples, through a doorway, up a wide, ornate staircase, and down a hallway full of closed doors, unmistakeable noises emanating from several of them.  

The man glanced back at Mikkal, who arched an eyebrow at him, and he laughed quietly.  “I really am showing you a way out,” he whispered, “though I would like nothing more than to put one of these rooms to their intended use.”  At the end of the corridor was another door; passing through it, they found a plain set of stairs.  “The servant’s,” he said in a normal tone, and began to descend.  As they reached a landing, he stopped and faced Mikkal, stepping in closer until they were nearly touching, their eyes not leaving each other’s.

A surge of long-dormant desire swamped Mikkal, and before he could let himself think he bent his head and brushed his lips lightly against the beautiful stranger’s.  It was a question, and the man answered him fully, taking Mikkal’s face in his hands and deepening the kiss.  Mikkal shoved down the flicker of guilt and let himself respond, not stopping until they were both breathless.

The man’s thumb ran across Mikkal’s cheekbone when they pulled ever so slightly apart.  A mark on the inside of his wrist caught Mikkal’s eye, and the man noticed the look.  His face tightened, but before he could pull away further Mikkal kissed him again.

“I’m not working tonight, if that’s any consolation,” the courtesan murmured when they broke apart again.

“Good,” Mikkal breathed, “because after that kiss I know there’s no way in hell I could ever afford you.”  As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wanted to kick himself, but the man chuckled, his eyes softening a little, enough that Mikkal reached up and touched his lips.

“My carriage is outside.  We could go back to my apartment.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a break?  I’d be happy to just, I don’t know, go to some tavern and have drinks with you.”

“Liar,” the courtesan said, grinning, putting his hands on Mikkal’s hips and pulling him closer.

“What’s your name?” Mikkal asked, pressing a soft kiss under his ear and smiling at his shiver.  

“Dai.”

“Mikkal.”

“I know.”  Mikkal didn’t want to know what that meant as Dai took his hand and led him out the servant’s entrance and into a waiting carriage.  As soon as the door closed behind them, they were on each other, hands and mouths roving.

Somehow they made it into his apartment with their clothes still on, though Mikkal couldn’t have told where it was or what floor it was on or what it looked like.  He could have described in exquisite detail, however, what Dai looked like, felt like, tasted like.  The way his sculpted body writhed under Mikkal’s hands, the shocked moan he gave when Mikkal took him in his mouth, the string of gasped curses as he came.  Then the feel of sliding into him, of their bodies colliding, the tempo ratcheting up until finally Mikkal’s release utterly wrecked him, rendering him weak and boneless draped across Dai’s couch.  Lastly the way Dai’s fingers traced the scars where his own were missing, no disgust or pity in those ice blue eyes.

Later, as Mikkal fell into his bed back at his lodgings, he felt wrung out, pleasantly exhausted, for the first time in months.  Yet there remained a hollow ache deep within his chest, one with a name he didn’t dare think of.  He finally drifted off to sleep with his ruined hand pressed over his heart.

*****

Aedion parried, then twisted his sword and stepped in, trapping his opponent’s weapon against his body.  When the soldier stepped back, Aedion twisted again, and the sword dropped from his opponent’s hand.  Shaking his head ruefully, the other man offered his hand to Aedion, who took it with a grin.  

This was the fourth man he’d faced that day, and he had finally broken a sweat.  It wasn’t that these men weren’t good, experienced fighters, it was just they had not been pushed at all for the past couple of years.  He meant to change that.  

The level field was dotted with men working with various weapons.  Aedion and Cathal had dragged some old targets out from one of the unused buildings, and there was a row of people lined up, bows in hand.  He watched Cathal now, working one of the younger men with knives.  They hadn’t spoken much since Cathal had kicked him out of his room a few nights ago.  After all, Cathal was right; they didn’t need to be friends.

“He’s looking back to his old self,” the man he had just disarmed said from just behind him.  “It’s nice to see.”  Aedion didn’t reply, remembering that this man - Gillies - was one Cathal had mentioned.  “I never thought he’d get over his wife.”

Wife.  Aedion nearly stumbled backwards.  Gillies looked at him, the hint of a smile on his lips.  “Didn’t he tell you?  Muire had water magic.  She was hunted down in the first wave of the invasion.”  No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it.

The man with the damaged eye, Fulton, approached Cathal then but Cathal ignored him completely, the only sign he was even aware of the man’s existence being the tightening of his face.  

“Damn,” Gillies said, sounding impressed, “that man can hold a grudge.”

The opening was too wide not to take it.  “What did you do?  You and Dewar and Fulton.”

“We saved his life.”  Aedion looked at him, startled, and he gave a wry laugh.  “When they took Muire, he was going to try to save her, to get her away from the men who held her.”  He shook his head.  “Even if he succeeded, he would have been writing his own death sentence, and they would’ve gotten her anyway.  So Dewar held him, and Fulton knocked him out.  He was still unconscious when the axe fell.”

“Shit.”  There was nothing else Aedion could think to say as his heart bled for Cathal.  “What was your role in it?” he asked after a moment, remembering.  

“I held Breck back so he couldn’t interfere.  Fulton ended up knocking him out too.”

“I still don’t understand.”  There had to be something else, something Gillies wasn’t saying.  He wondered who Breck was, where he was, and why Dewar had said he’d deserved Cathal’s rage.

Gillies shrugged.  “That’s Rosach for you.  Great in a fight, but stubborn as a mule.”  He shook his head, watching Cathal walk towards the house.  “He probably still thinks if we hadn’t stopped him he would’ve saved her.”

*****

It was surprisingly easy to avoid Ashryver once Cathal set his mind to it.  The other men flocked to him, just as they had in the city.  In just a handful of days he had set up a much more vigorous training regimen than the loose basics Dewar had maintained.  The soldiers threw themselves into it, especially once they saw how hard Ashryver worked.  There was nobody there who could stand against him, though they all were eager to test themselves.  Even Dewar had grudgingly admitted that it might be possible to get at least a significant proportion of the Bane to follow him.  Extreme optimism coming from Dewar.

All of this meant that other than discussing training tactics, he hadn’t spoken to the prince in almost a week.  Like the rest of the men, he had gotten very lax with his own fighting skills.  There hadn’t been much opportunity to practice in the city, with the Adarlanian soldiers watching every move.  So he spent the bulk of every day working, rebuilding his body, remembering the weight of weapons in his hands.

He stretched out in his bed, every muscle sore.  Finally it was becoming more of a pleasant ache, compared to the painful stiffness of the first few days that even the hot baths couldn’t soak away.  He was nearly asleep when a quiet knock sounded on his door.  Grumbling, he threw off the covers and opened the door to find Ashryver looming in the hallway, wearing nothing but loose pants, clearly fresh from the bath, his wet hair plastered down.  Without waiting for an invitation, Ashryver pushed past him into his room.

“Come in,” Cathal said drily, closing the door.  “Haven’t you ever heard of a towel?”  Ashryver looked at him blankly.  “You’re dripping all over my floor.”

Ashryver waved a hand dismissively and Cathal crossed his arms over his own bare chest and waited, one eyebrow raised.

“We need to get moving onto the next camp.  Grant’s, or whoever’s.  And we need to figure out where we’re going to send everyone.  I mean, we can set up tents here, but how many people can this valley support?  It’s not easy to get supplies here, especially in the winter.”  The words came out in a rush, and Cathal wondered how long the prince had been chafing.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?  We don’t even have Dewar fully committed yet.”

“Not officially, but come on.  He’s on board.”  Ashryver was right, though Cathal wondered how he knew it.  Dewar had all but said as much earlier that day when Cathal had joined him for a drink in his study.  “We need to plan ahead, I don’t want us scrambling to find living quarters and food.”

“Fair enough.  We can leave tomorrow.  Hell, we can probably go and come back, unless you want to spend some time at Grant’s.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”  With a nod, he left the room, leaving Cathal’s head spinning.

The next day after breakfast, they were on the trail again.  They had just ridden past the men doing their morning workouts when Ashryver laughed under his breath.  “What?” Cathal asked.

“Nothing,” Ashryver said, though his grin proved the lie.  Cathal kept watching him skeptically, and eventually he added, “Gillies is a prick.”

“No shit, but what did he do this time?”

“You didn’t hear him?”  Cathal shook his head and Aedion’s grin widened.  “I probably shouldn’t tell you then.”

“You bastard, what the hell did he say?” Though he couldn’t stop himself from smiling in response.

“You sure you want to know?”  Aedion’s turquoise eyes were glancing at him sideways, gleaming with mischief.

Cathal drew his dagger and pointed it at him.  “Tell me, or so help me, I will geld you in your sleep.”

Aedion barked a laugh.  “You may want to rethink that threat,” he said.  “Gillies said, ‘Damn Rosach, he always ends up with the pretty ones.’”

“Fuck off, that is not what he said,” Cathal said, laughing.  “Hell, I don’t believe he even said anything.”

“I swear to Annieth, that’s what he said.  We can go back and ask him.”

“How could you even hear him?”

Aedion shrugged.  “I’m an Ashryver.”  As if that was explanation enough.  Though perhaps it was, considering what all of Terrasen knew Evalin and little Aelin had been capable of.

Cathal twisted in his saddle, looking back at the men who were now distant enough he couldn’t make out details.  He faced forward again, thinking of Muire’s flame-red curls, generous curves, and sweet smile; of Luthias’ gentle brown eyes, full lips, and warrior’s body.  “He’s not wrong, though.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Aedion grinned.  “I’m touched, honestly.”

Snorting, Cathal gave him a rude gesture.  “He was talking about Muire, you arrogant bastard.  And Luthias.”  It was the first time in over two years he had said their names without a stab of pain, which caused a strange, different type of ache in his chest.

“Who’s Luthias?”  

Cathal looked at him in surprise.  “I assumed Gillies told you about them.”

“He told me about Muire.”  His face was suddenly serious, and his mare tossed her head.  He scratched her neck and she quieted but kept her ears flicked back to him.

“Let’s leave Luthias for another time.”  Cathal could hear the roughness in his own voice, and cursed himself for having mentioned him in the first place.

Aedion nodded and sent his big brown mare into a trot, and Cathal’s horse hurried to catch up.  The reached the end of the valley and began picking their way over the rocky trail up into the mountains, the sun not yet high enough to burn off the mist that always seemed to settle here in the morning.  He studied Aedion’s back as they climbed and it struck him: he was willing to accompany this man anywhere.  He wondered when that had happened.

The trail widened, and he sent Chance up to pass Aedion’s cranky mare.  “Why are you in the lead when you don’t know where the hell we’re going?” he asked as came up alongside.

“Just waiting for you to catch up, you lazy bastard.”  

Cathal laughed and they trotted along shoulder to shoulder in a companionable silence.  When the trail narrowed again, Aedion reined back without comment, letting Cathal go ahead.  And so they continued, alternating between riding abreast and Cathal leading, until the next camp, the next hope, opened up in front of them.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 15

Very briefly/mildly NSFW.  Read the earlier chapters:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13.  Chapter 14. 

Aedion strode through the streets of Orynth, seething.  Ten days, he’d been here.  Ten days, and not a gods-damned thing had been accomplished.  For some reason, he had expected the rebels to be organized, or at least vaguely on the same page, but their infighting was going to destroy them.  

He had made some headway with Darrow, whom he thought had been pleased to see him when Aedion had appeared at his door unannounced the morning after his arrival in Orynth.  Darrow had never had the warm, open manner of King Orlon, but at least when the King had been alive he had been pleasant and reasonably kind, if reserved.  In the months after the assassinations, he had been trying so desperately to keep the country from falling that his hidden strength and passion had been forced to the forefront.  But now, he was a shadow of his former self - cold, withdrawn, looking only to survive.  Continuing on only out of love for a memory.

Aedion had thought he was making some headway with him.  They had met several times at Darrow’s house, Aedion slowly laying out more and more of his plan.  It all hinged on him gaining control over what remained of Terrasen’s army; it would be far easier to keep Adarlan in her own borders if he followed orders and rallied the Bane. Yet this was what Darrow had argued against most strenuously.

“They’re scattered all over the country, boy,” he had said dismissively in their last meeting two days prior.  “It will take months, and some of them will never agree to serve someone in that uniform, no matter who they’re related to.”

“I understand that,” Aedion had said patiently, “but the King knows that a large portion of them survived.  They will be hunted down and slaughtered -”

“They already have been,” Darrow had snapped.  “And the rest will see you coming for them as another attempt on their lives!  They will kill you, boy, before you can even explain yourself.”  Fear.  There was fear in those cold eyes, not for the members of the Bane but for Aedion himself.  

“I told you last week, sir, that I’m either coming out of Terrasen at the head of the Bane, or I’m not making it out alive.  I meant that.  The King will kill me if your men don’t.  With your support, sir, I’m certain they will at least listen to me.  At that point it’s up to them.”  He had shrugged, resigned to his fate at the hands of strangers.  “If I can’t convince them, I don’t deserve to lead them.”

That was when Darrow had agreed to introduce him to the surviving members of the Bane who were still living in Orynth, which had led to the meeting he had just left.  Bastards.  Rutting cowards.  They had looked at him, listened to him, seemed to believe him - and then told him pityingly that he was a fool.

“You’re only going to bring Adarlan down on us again,” auburn-haired Captain Seoras had said condescendingly.  “We’re just starting to rebuild.  Give it time, we’ll survive.”

“And is that why I just walked past three fresh bodies hanging?” Aedion had snarled in response.  “They’re still butchering our citizens, still sending them to Endovier to die for petty crimes.  If we can gain control-”

“But you can’t, Prince,” interrupted Major Ualam.  “You can’t get control of Adarlan’s forces, even if you somehow manage to rally ours.  We can’t have you sacrificing more Terrasen lives for a fool’s hope.”

A fool’s hope.  Those words were echoing in his brain as he prowled.  Aedion heard the unmistakable sound of a knife being drawn and turned down a seedy-looking alley where a couple of men were arguing.  They took one look at his hooded figure, sheathed their knives, and melted into the shadows.  Damn.  He could’ve used a good fight.  Sparring with the men charged with the so-called protection of the city wasn’t taking the edge off in the slightest.  It was taking all of his self-control not to gut the bastards, especially once he realized how active the butchering blocks still were.  

At least Clery was behind him.  He had met with him twice more, alone, and had finally discussed possible strategies.  It was Clery who had suggested he have someone go with him who would be trusted enough to give the scattered warriors pause.  Raedan, Dorsey, Osment, and Hirons would have to remain here.  There was too much risk in taking them, even though he was certain they would not betray him.  Raedan wasn’t going to like it.  And Aedion had no idea who he could convince to go with him.  Obviously Ualam and Seoras and the other men from tonight were out, and he was pretty certain Cathal would scoff as well.  After all, he hadn’t even bothered to show up for this meeting, though Darrow had invited all the remaining officers in Orynth.  That there were so few left in the city that they could fit in Darrow’s parlor was something Aedion didn’t even want to think about.

He needed to get out of his head.  He hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours for the past four nights, getting up and roaming the silent streets when he couldn’t remain still in his bed.  The more he moved, the more restless he got.  Likely he wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, at the rate he was going.  Abruptly he turned and headed back to the inn.  Maybe if he drank enough.  Or maybe, if that kitchen maid was still looking at him the way she had last night…

Raedan and Dorsey were sitting in the inn’s tavern, each with an arm around a woman.  It looked like Raedan was actually with the same one he’d had the night before, a first as far as Aedion knew.  He nodded at them and went to the bar, settling into the seat closest to the taps.  

An hour and who knew how much ale later, the kitchen maid whose name might have been Dolidh was leading him towards the stairs.  He vaguely hoped they were going to his room so he wouldn’t have to move too far afterwards, though at least for now the floor was still steady.  Dorsey had disappeared, and Raedan was deeply involved with the woman who was now seated quite happily on his lap.  He caught a vaguely familiar scent as they went past the door, but Dolidh ran a hand up his arm and he forgot everything but his need for release as they headed upstairs.

*****

Cathal looked up as a hand tapped on the bar to see Clery seating himself, looking irritated.  The former lord had gotten him this job once he had finally been able to get out of bed after Terrasen had fallen.  He had toyed many times with joining some of his fellows north of the Staghorns, but he still felt that he owed Clery, so he had stayed.  Even though there were parts of the city he still couldn’t bear to walk through, he had stayed.  

“What?” he asked, concerned, as he poured the brandy Clery ordered on the rare occasions he appeared here.  

“Why in Hellas’ name were you not at that meeting?”

“What meeting?” Cathal asked, baffled.  

“Darrow’s.  With Ashryver.  You told me you were willing to listen to his plan, but you can’t even bother to go to the damn meeting?”

“Clery, I don’t know what the hell you’re even talking about.  Darrow had a meeting?”

Now Clery was looking more concerned than annoyed.  “You didn’t know about it?”  Cathal shook his head, still feeling out of his depth.  “Then why…” Clery stopped abruptly, grinding his teeth.  “Those bastards.”

Cathal looked down the bar.  It was empty aside from Baltair at the end, who was so deep in his cups a horse could’ve come in, sat next to him, and ordered a whisky and the old man would’ve just nodded hello to it and kept humming to himself.  Still, he kept his voice low.  “Will you tell me what is going on?”

Clery sighed, taking another sip of his brandy.  “You know Ashryver’s been meeting with Darrow.”  Cathal nodded.  “Well, he finally got through to him, enough that Darrow sent an invitation to all the remaining officers in Orynth.”

“All nine of us?” Cathal said drily.

“Evidently only eight of you.  The others met with him a couple of hours ago, and Seoras and Ualam did what Seoras and Ualam do.”

“Shit.”  Those cowardly pricks, too busy profiting off the invasion have any interest in actually taking the country back.  It pissed him off that they were still treated as officers, that Ualam actually outranked him.

“Right.  Of course the others didn’t dare push back once Ualam laid it down that Ashryver was a fool for even trying to rally the Bane.”

Cathal blew a breath out threw his nose.  “No doubt that’s why Darrow didn’t invite me.”

Clery tapped his glass thoughtfully.  “I think he did intend to, actually, but he was relying on the others to spread the word.”

“So Seoras or Ualam didn’t want me there.”  Clery nodded.  Cathal glanced at Baltair, then looked back at Clery.  “Where’s Ashryver now?”

“Who knows?  Maybe back at the Whispering Antlers?  That’s where they’ve been staying.”

Cathal grinned.  “Well, isn’t that convenient for us?”  Clery gave a bit of a smile. 

Twenty minutes later he had kicked Baltair out and was heading through the city, cursing Seoras and Ualam soundly under his breath.  It wasn’t that he didn’t understand whatever reservations they had had; any attempt to push Adarlan out of Terrasen seemed fraught with risk.  Most likely he’d just get them all killed.  Didn’t mean Cathal didn’t want to judge for himself.  Especially as he remembered Clery’s words to him from a few days earlier:  “Aedion lost everything, too, Cathal.  Don’t forget that.  He’s in the same position you and I are.”  Much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew it was true.

He entered the inn’s tavern just as a huge man with bright hair was disappearing through an interior door.  Weaving through the mostly-full tables, he headed after him when he heard his name called out.   Turning, he saw Ashryver’s young friend, Raedan, sitting at a table with a familiar pretty girl in his lap.  He picked his way over to him, studiously not looking at Kenna, who was playing with Raedan’s hair.  One of Clery’s employees, though he doubted the soldier knew it.

“Ashryver up in his room?” Cathal asked without preamble.

“Yeah, but I’d leave him be for a bit,” Raedan said.  

“I need to talk to him.”

“Just…trust me.  He’s in a foul mood, let him work some of that off.”  Kenna laughed, and Raedan kissed her shoulder before turning back to Cathal.  “Have a drink or something, he’ll probably be back down in a bit.”

Cathal turned and sat at the bar, barely touching the ale that appeared without him ordering it, glancing at the door to the stairs.  After what seemed like an eternity with no sign of the prince, he asked the bartender - another of Clery’s - what room Ashryver was staying in.  Ignoring Raedan, who was still watching him from that damn table, he headed up to the third floor.

Finding the room he pounded his fist once on the door then, not waiting for an invitation, tried the handle, which to his surprise gave immediately.  Half falling into the room, he pulled up abruptly at the sight of Ashryver’s pale ass moving as he thrust into some girl, the only visible parts of her being the fair legs and arms wrapped around him.  Judging by the sounds she was making, he was interrupting at a particularly inopportune moment, though he doubted she noticed as her moans turned into guttural cries.  Ashryver did, those bizarre eyes flicking to him before turning back to the girl underneath him, never even faltering in his movements.  Cathal backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him, then turning to lean back against the wall, listening to the girl climax.

Come to think of it, he should’ve picked up on the noise before he ever opened the door.  Gods-damned Ashryver.  Stupid prick, not even locking the door.  He banged his head once against the wall, then headed back downstairs.  Raedan and Kenna met him on the landing.  

“I told you,” Raedan said, his eyes dancing.

“You said he was in a bad mood,” Cathal snarled.  “You didn’t tell me he was fucking somebody.”

Kenna tried to stifle her laugh as Raedan led her past Cathal, but her hazel eyes were sympathetic when they met his.  He was surprised she was going to bed with Raedan.  That was decidedly not one of her jobs for Clery, who didn’t believe in whoring.  She must actually like the boy.  Damn them all to hell.  He was stuck relying on teenage boys still ruled by their cocks to save his country. Terrasen was doomed.

His ale was where he had left it, and he sniffed it briefly before downing half of it in one gulp.  He drained it in two more swallows, and the bartender passed him another.  He wondered how much he would have to drink to get that image, those sounds, out of his head.  

It had been two years, six months, and twenty four days since he had been with somebody.  Two years, six months, and twenty three days since Luthais had fallen during the first hour of that final battle.  In that time Cathal had remained faithful to both the lovers he lost to Adarlan, had not even touched someone with tenderness.

Somehow the sight of Ashryver mounting that girl brought everything he had buried for so long to the surface.  Muire’s screams as she was dragged to the butchering blocks echoed again in his ears.  He had never forgiven the handful of his men who knocked him unconscious to keep him from getting himself killed trying to rescue her.  Then not six months later he had dashed among the corpses on that battlefield, turning over body after body until he found Luthais, throat gaping open like a second mouth.  He didn’t remember much for weeks after that, still didn’t know how he’d made it off that battlefield and back to Orynth.

He had at least seen Muire buried.  He still didn’t know where Luthais had been lain.  If his body had been burned by the invaders, or if he was in some mass grave with all the others who had fallen that day.

The glass before him was empty without him realizing he had even taken a sip.  Ever since that night at Clery’s Luthais had been intruding on his thoughts again.  He’d managed to go months without thinking of either of them, as long as he stayed in the safe parts of the city.  Then Raedan had asked him that damn question.  Shit.  It all came back to Ashryver, that two-faced rutting bastard.

There was the scrape of a stool, and the bastard himself settled next to him.  Ashryver’s face was still flushed, and he smelled like sex and sweat and stale ale.  “What brings you here?” he rumbled, sounding exhausted.  

Cathal examined him more closely, noting the dark, almost bruised look under his eyes.  “You look like shit.”

“Seems like you went quite a bit out of your way just to tell me something I already know.”  He rubbed a broad hand through his hair and yawned widely.

“Go up and get some sleep.  We can talk tomorrow.”  Cathal didn’t know why he was feeling so charitable.

“Can’t sleep, might as well talk now.”  

Cathal looked around him.  The tavern had largely emptied out, and he recognized almost everybody who was left.  “What happened at the meeting?”

“Your cohorts made it clear that they think my assignment is doomed.  Like I didn’t know the odds were against me as it was.”  He gave a bleak laugh.  “Not a damn one of you is willing to help me, are you.  I just need an in.  That’s it.  Just someone the other soldiers will recognize so they’ll give me a chance.  But you’d all rather sit here and piss on my corpse.”

“Don’t lump me in with those pricks,” Cathal snapped.  The next four words fell out of his mouth, and then he couldn’t take them back.  “I’ll go with you.”

Ashryver looked at him, eyebrows up almost to his hairline.  “You?  You couldn’t even be bothered to come to the meeting, but you’ll travel all over the country with me?”  He signaled to the bartender.  “You wanted to walk out when you met me just last week.  Why the change of heart?”

It was a good question, and he didn’t want to say that it was Raedan’s unflinching dedication that had swayed him.  “Maybe I just want to watch you fail with my own two eyes.”

Ashryver’s lips twitched as he glanced at him sideways.  “Maybe that’s not all you want to watch.”

Cathal felt the heat rise in his face.  “Not my fault you’re too rutting stupid to lock your door.”

Ashrvyer laughed.  Picking up the glass that had just arrived, he held it up.  “To rutting stupidity and almost certain failure.”

With a wry shrug, Cathal clinked his glass against the proffered one, the noise surprisingly loud in the mostly empty room.  “Nothing like an optimistic start to all this.”

*****

The bell on the bakery door jangled and Delaney looked up from where she was restocking the cookies, alone in the store front for the first time all day.  The previous half hour had been a whirlwind of customers and the case was nearly empty.  It was the tall, gray-eyed girl from a couple of weeks ago.  Cherise.  Her face lit up when she saw Delaney.

“So this is where you work!” Cherise exclaimed, a broad smile spreading.  “I haven’t been in here in ages, do you still have those puffy things filled with chocolate?”

“Not today, but we do make something like that.”  

“Let me guess, you bake too, right?”  Delaney nodded.  “I figured.  You’re probably great.  You seem like one of those people who’s just good at everything.”

Delaney snorted.  “You decided this after talking to me for five minutes?”

“I decided it the moment you asked Brigitte if she’d fuck somebody without a head.”  Naise had chosen that unfortunate moment to walk in with a load of rolls and she stopped abruptly, looking from Cherise to Delaney with a horrified expression.  

“It’s not what it sound like,” Delaney said, hurrying over to take the rolls from her.  

“I don’t even know what it sounds like,” Naise said, “but if Luk catches you using that type of language in here -”

“She didn’t,” Cherise said, “I did.  I swear, she has been nothing but the image of civility.”  Naise escaped into the back, looking over her shoulder warningly as she went, and Cherise burst into laughter as soon as the door swung closed behind her.

“You’re going to get me into trouble,” Delaney hissed, but any heat she meant to put into it dissolved as she fought an unholy desire to join in laughing.  

“Now that I’ve found you,” Cherise said, as if the preceding thirty seconds hadn’t happened, “we’ll need to become very good friends.”  Delaney made a noncommittal noise as the door swung open and two soldiers entered.  Cherise departed empty-handed, ignoring the male eyes that followed her, and Delaney turned back to her work.

Every day after that Cherise came into the bakery, usually after the midday rush.  If they had the chocolate-filled pastries she would buy one and nibble at it while talking with Delaney until other customers arrived.  Delaney still didn’t really know what to make of her, but as the days rolled into weeks she found herself looking forward to her visits almost as much as Lady Massie’s.

The latter appeared one afternoon, and she and Cherise greeted each other warmly.  Delaney sighed internally, fighting down the surge of envy that her new acquaintance was friends with the Lady.  Delaney handed over her packet of cookies, holding those beautiful brown eyes with her usual shy smile.  She didn’t notice the flicker of hurt that passed over Cherise’s face as she watched them looking at each other.  

“I could introduce you two,” Cherise said after Lady Massie had left.  Delaney felt her cheeks flush and she glanced at her friend, ready to dismiss the notion.  But that vibrant mobile face was without its usual light, the gray eyes downcast, mouth tight.  Before she could say anything, a cluster of women came in, and Cherise slipped out in the bustle.  

Days passed, and Cherise didn’t come back.  Delaney found herself looking up eagerly every time the bell jangled.  And even when Lady Massie’s beautiful voice greeted her by name, she found herself longing for the laughter of her friend instead.

*****

Mikkal looked at Chetak’s stirrup.  It looked impossibly far off the ground.  He glanced at the man at Chetak’s head, then sighed, placed his hand on Chetak’s mane and lifted his left foot.  About halfway to its destination, his leg froze as pain ricocheted through his body.  He set his foot back down and rested his forehead against the saddle, muttering a long string of curses against the leather.  

It was imperative that he figure out how to get on a gods-damned horse, or he would never be able to leave.

“I can give you a leg up, sir,” said the patient man who had been holding the horse for the past several attempts.  Mikkal shook his head, then dropped the stirrup a few inches, studied it, then dropped it a few inches more.  When he left, there wouldn’t be anybody to help him.  Once the stirrup was low enough, he hooked his right wrist under his left knee, and was able with only a moderate level of discomfort to raise his foot to the lowered stirrup.  Pressing his toe down firmly, he reached up, pinched the back of the saddle with his right thumb and finger and bounced twice on his right foot, gritting his teeth against the spasm of pain in his gut.  Pushing off, he dragged himself up so his body rested across the saddle, breathing as deeply as he could before swinging his right leg over, biting down on his growl as the motion pulled on his muscles.  His boot brushed the horse’s rump and Chetak started, but the man held him fast.  Finally, finally, he was on.

It took another minute to fix his stirrup, and then he set off at a walk.  Chetak ambled around the camp, steady as an old plow horse.  The muscles in his lower back and hips, which he hadn’t even realized were tight, began to loosen up with the motion of the horse, and he started to relax.  After a lifetime spent on horseback, he realized how much he had taken it for granted.  How much he really loved being up so high, on a creature who was his partner and his friend.

Loved it, that is, until it was time to get off.  Then the ground looked impossibly far.  Leaning forward over Chetak’s glossy neck, he slid his foot carefully around behind him, then dropped down.  The jolt as he hit the ground shot through him and his legs gave out.  He let himself fall, knowing the landing would hurt less than trying to stop it.  

“Are you all right, sir?”  Three stablehands had rushed over to him when his ass hit the ground, but he was grinning despite the burning in his eyes.

This was it.  In another week or two, once he got his dismissal, he and Chetak would be on the road again, and this time he would be leaving the battlefield behind him for good.

*****

Weeks passed while Aedion waited for the passes through the Staghorns to clear enough to traverse.  The last thing they needed was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere in snow, which could easily drift up over even Avenar’s head.  In the meantime, he memorized maps and sparred with the small Adarlanian company that was holding the city and schemed when he could with Clery and Darrow.  

One evening Cathal appeared in the tavern at the Whispering Antlers while Aedion was eating with his men.  He looked a bit askance at Dorsey, Osment, and Hirons, but dropped into a chair at Aedion’s gesture.  “The runner got through,” he said.  “We should leave as soon as possible.”

The men exchanged glances.  They knew that Cathal was going as Aedion’s guide, though only Raedan was aware of his true status as an officer of the Bane.  None of them were happy about being left behind.  Hirons had argued the most strenuously, not trusting Cathal’s motives, but had given in when Aedion had tasked him with keeping the garrison under control in his absence, which was expected to last months.  

Aedion nodded.  “I can be ready in the morning.”  Raedan started to say something, but subsided.  Aedion asked, “What time do you want to leave?”

“If we leave within an hour after sunrise, we should make it to a good camping spot before nightfall.”  His eyes were roving around the room, leg bouncing up and down, fingers tapping on the table.

“Sounds good.”  Aedion cleaned his plate, watching Cathal twitch.  “Do you want something to eat?”

“No.”

Dorsey and Hirons silently passed Aedion their plates, and he finished what they didn’t want.  Aedion tilted his head at his men, and all but Raedan left.  “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.”  Aedion just waited.  Several minutes passed, then Cathal stood abruptly.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”  He strode out of the tavern.

Aedion and Raedan exchanged looks.  “Do you trust him?”  Raedan asked.  

“No,” Aedion replied, “but Clery does.”

Raedan’s sniff indicated what he thought of that.  “And you really won’t let me come with you.”

Aedion shook his head.  “No.  It’s bad enough having one man in Adarlanian uniform riding down on these people, having more will invite catastrophe.  Even if you go disguised, you can’t hide your accent.”  Raedan slumped in his seat, arms crossed.  “Besides,” Aedion added slyly, “if you came with me you’d be away from Kenna for who knows how long.”

Raedan’s neck turned red.  “I’d still rather come.”

“I know.”  The truth was, he felt a bit as if he was diving blind into dark waters when he thought of leaving Raedan behind.  “But I need you here.  Keep working with Clery, he still hasn’t moved to get the rebels to stand down in the city.  We need to get the garrison thinking that they’ve succeeded.”

“You’ve told me this a thousand times,” Raedan said with some asperity.  

The weight of the task before him pressed on Aedion’s shoulders.  Despite all the planning he’d been doing not just for a few weeks but for the past year, everything hung on the whims of other people.  He honestly couldn’t even be sure Cathal wouldn’t just slit his throat in his sleep once they were up in the Staghorns, though the soldier seemed too straightforward for that to be likely.  

“Shit,” he said under his breath, letting his head fall back so he was looking at the intricately paneled ceiling.  It was so odd, he thought, studying the perfect symmetry of the inlaid honey-colored squares overhead.  Someone, a hundred years ago when building this inn, decided to put so much time adding beauty into something few people would likely ever see.  

Sitting up straight again, he looked around the crowded tavern.  It was packed with people who managed to be together yet separate; eyeing each other with interest, or longing, or even despair.  So many scents and emotions crashed down on him, he had to get out.  “See you in the morning, brother,” he said to Raedan.  

“‘Night,” Raedan replied, his face lighting up as Kenna began making her way over to him, dodging preoccupied bodies, her own face glowing as her eyes met his.  Aedion’s lips twitched up even as an ache began in his chest, and he turned and escaped into the open air.

It was just beginning to rain, a drizzle so fine it looks like the drops were hanging in the air rather than falling.  Flipping his hood back, he tilted his face up to it.  His hair and skin dampened, though he couldn’t feel the water hitting him.  He started walking, not going anywhere in particular, just letting his feet carry him where they would.  

The castle appeared in front of him, stark against its backdrop of craggy mountain, the white walls seeming to glow faintly despite the dark and the increasing rain.  He stopped on the corner, unable to walk closer to the gates he could see were twisted and bent, even from where he stood.  

Aedion had avoided coming here all these weeks, though it was only a few blocks from the inn he had selected for its very proximity.  It was visible through much of the city, but from afar it felt more impersonal, like a distant god looking over him.  But tonight…he couldn’t leave, not without seeing it one last time.  When he had been sprung from the tower three years ago, they had fled the city with such haste that he had not thought of anything other than his freedom.  It had never occurred to him that the castle would haunt his dreams.

Blinking the rain from his eyes, it was almost as if he could still see them all.  Rhoe and Evalin, dancing across the lawn to music only they could hear, Aelin clapping her hands and laughing as she watched.  Orlon, smiling benevolently, tugging gently one one of Aelin’s curls while Darrow stood quiet and stoic at his side.  Quinn and Cal and Kenway and Hen, all sparring with him and each other in the training fields that lay behind the castle.  Ren, the only boy who would stand up to him, yelling at him in the stables; tiny Elide, following Aelin around, ducking behind statues and through doorways if Aelin happened to glance her way.  These silent white walls filled with sound and color, all those snuffed-out lives vibrant again for a few brief moments.

He felt a touch on his elbow and whirled, startled, but there was no one there. Shivering a little at his own overactive imagination, he looked back over his shoulder at the castle, ghostly in the fading rain, before starting back to the inn to snatch what sleep he could before the dawn.

*****

Cathal was a bit surprised to find Ashryver already tacked up and waiting for him when he arrived, the sun not quite rising.  His men were standing with him, all eyeing Cathal warily.  One of them, a few years older than the others, he might’ve even said looked threatening.  He had almost forgotten what it was like, to have a family of soldiers.  Ashryver didn’t even know how lucky he was.

Or maybe he did.  One by one, he pulled each of his men into a hug, saying things Cathal couldn’t hear as he did so.  He looked so much older than his years in that moment.  His men stood back as he mounted his big brown mare.  “You have your orders,” the Captain-Prince said, and they bowed as one.  

The city was still asleep, the only sounds as the two of them rode through the gates the horses’ hooves on the road.  Soon even that was muffled, as they left the road to head around the city’s walls and up into the mountains behind.  The spring sun warmed their backs as they climbed.  Cathal was surprised when Ashryver paused before a steeper section and swung off his mare, to lead her instead.  He did the same.  All four of them were sucking air by the time they reached the top and remounted to ride along the ridge before the path began to rise again.

So they continued through the morning.  Once, long before the sun had reached its peak, Ashryver pulled up abruptly, swung his small bow off his shoulder and strung it, and had an arrow nocked and ready before Cathal even heard the flock of geese.  The arrow flew, then a second and a third, each finding a mark before the first bird had even fallen.  Dismounting, he dropped his reins and disappeared into the scrub pine, appearing several minutes later bearing three carcasses that he quickly tied to the back of his saddle.  Before he remounted, he pulled some dried meat out of his pack and held it up.

“Want some?” he asked, the first words either of them had spoken all day.

Cathal shook his head, furrowing his brow.  “It’s not even midday.”

Ashryver bit off a piece and started chewing as he hopped back onto his horse.  “I know,” he said, once he had swallowed.  And that was the extent of their conversation for the day.

They didn’t stop again until the sun had nearly dropped behind the trees and they reached a small level clearing, just big enough for the horses, themselves, and a fire.  Ashryver tended the horses quickly and efficiently while Cathal gathered some wood.  Using his hatchet, he split the damp logs, then shaved one of the split logs into large splinters.  While Cathal got the fire started, Ashryver sat down on a rock and began plucking the geese.

Once the birds were roasting on a makeshift spit just in front of the fire and Cathal was lounging on his bedroll, Ashryver finally spoke.  “Tell me about who we’re going to meet first.”

Cathal looked into the flames, watching them flare briefly as fat from the geese dripped off and splattered.  “The last I knew, Dewar and Grant were living pretty close to each other, another couple days’ ride north and east.  Don’t know if any of their men are with them, or who they’ve kept in touch with.”  He glanced over at the prince, who had moved to turn the birds.  “Clery suggested we go there first.”

“You didn’t agree?”

Cathal chewed his lip for a moment before answering.  “They’ll likely give us a chance to talk at least.”

“But…”  Ashryver looked at him expectantly, waving his hand to encourage him to continue.

Suddenly all Cathal could think of was Dewar’s thick arm around his chest, holding him while he screamed for Muire.  He’d never even seen the blow to his temple coming.  He only knew that Luthais had fought to get to him while they struck him because he’d been told so once he’d come around.  They had ended up knocking Luthais out cold as well.  He had never again spoken to the men involved, not after he had awoken and seen the scornful pity in their eyes.

He didn’t answer, and Ashryver didn’t press him, just went back to tending the geese.  Traveling with the prince was rather like traveling alone, only apparently with better food.  Eventually he dozed off, lulled by the heat and the crackling flames.

Movement woke him a while later.  Ashrver was sliding the cooked geese off the spit and onto a bed of clean leaves.  He sat up abruptly, rubbing a hand over his face.  “Sorry.”

Ashryver glanced at him, amused, then began hacking apart the birds.  He handed Cathal a leg and took one for himself, sitting back on his rock and tearing into it.  Cathal bit into his own, his appetite flaring as the juice from the meat flooded his mouth.  “You can cook,” he said in surprise.

The prince laughed.  “I can sit meat over a fire and not burn it, is all,” he said, cutting himself another large hunk.  Cathal followed suit; unlike Ashryver, who had kept pulling food out of his saddlebags as they rode, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.  Once they were finally satiated, Ashryver carefully wrapped the rest of the birds in leaves and tucked them into an oilcloth bag, then hung the bag from a tree.

“How’d you learn to cook?” Cathal asked, watching him.  

“One of my uncle’s men taught me.”  His closed expression was utterly foreign to that naturally open face, and Cathal realized how little he really knew about Ashryver.  He knew about the prince - the rumors and reputation he had built both before the takeover and what filtered up from Adarlan afterwards.  Gifted, arrogant, vicious; all of Orynth had been whispering when he’d broken an older boy’s jaw when still a child, and in recent months the whispers had swirled again that he had killed at least two men in Adarlan.  But Cathal had known Rhoe, if only slightly, and would have expected little else from his protege.  Those whispers told nothing about the man himself.

After checking the horses, Ashryver found the softest patch of ground he could and shook out his bedroll.  “What, no tent, Prince?” Cathal quipped, and Ashryver’s grin was visible even in the firelight.

“I thought you were packing the tent and some beds, and a few ladies besides.”

“So sorry to disappoint your highness.  Think you can manage to go a few months without sticking your cock in something?”

An answering laugh rumbled through the clearing.  “I suppose we’ll find out if celibacy proves fatal.”

“Never has yet.”  

The next day went much the same, though the long stretches of silence were punctuated by a bit more conversation.  Cathal found himself explaining that he had once known Dewar well, that the former major had been his commanding officer prior to the invasion.  Grant had been his fellow captain, fighting next to him under Major Ward in the final battles.

He didn’t tell him about Muire or Luthais, not then.  Even though, after how Ashryver had talked about his own lover’s possible fate in Adarlan, he was certain the prince wouldn’t judge him.

That night it rained, and they tucked themselves under the densest possible stand of trees, the horses picketed just outside of it.  A low whicker from one of the horses awoke Cathal hours later.  The rain had ceased, and he could hear the horses pawing.  He wondered if there was a ghost leopard about.  They were a bit farther east than the big cats usually ranged, but it was breeding season so anything was possible.  Still, the horses didn’t sound that fearful, just agitated.

A strangled noise came from his left, followed by intense rustling, and he bolted upright, unable to see much with the clouds and tree branches obscuring the sky.  He freed himself from his bedroll and began crawling towards the noise, patting the ground with his hands until he finally hit wool, then a thrashing body.  His eyes had adapted enough that he could see Ashryver’s big form, twisting violently, blacker than the surrounding dark, but couldn’t find anything or anyone attacking him.  A nightmare?   “Ashryver,” he said, then repeated it, louder, as he shoved at whatever part of him he had encountered.  “Prince!”  There came no reply other than a ragged, sobbing breath.  “Aedion!” he finally shouted, punching out blindly, hoping he wasn’t hitting the poor man in the balls but desperate to wake him up.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, arms pinned on either side of his head, Ashryver snarling viciously in his face.  In that moment, there was nothing human about the prince; indeed, as the moon peeked through the clouds Cathal would’ve even sworn his canines looked longer, though when he blinked again the illusion was gone.  The pressure on his wrists was hard enough the bones groaned.  His legs were trapped painfully under the larger man’s knees; he couldn’t move.  Wouldn’t have dared to, even if he could; some instinct told him any attempt to free himself would get him nothing but a broken neck.

“Aedion,” he breathed, and Ashryver blinked.  “Aedion, it’s all right.  You’re all right.  It was a dream.”  A second later he was free, and Ashryver was retching next to him.  He sat up slowly.

“Shit, Aedion…”  There was no answer other than hoarse breathing.  “Does that happen often?”

“Not too often anymore,” Ashryver said, gagging one last time before wiping his mouth.  “You shouldn’t have woken me up, I could have killed you.”

“If you think I’m going to let anyone suffer like that, even in your sleep, think again,” Cathal snapped.

A low, mirthless laugh was the only response.

Cathal didn’t even want to consider the possibilities of what Ashryver might have been reliving.  There were certainly things that could happen to a man during the normal course of battle to make him react like that even years later, and he had been so young during the invasion.  That night at Clery’s, Ashryver had told about having his fingers broken, about being dropped in a prison pit, about being tied down and beaten, but…even as he had spoken, Cathal had suspected they weren’t hearing the worst of it.

He crawled the rest of the way out from under the trees and stood.  The horses were quiet now, the air cool and damp.  For some reason he found himself crying.  It was so strange; he had never been able to shed a tear for Luthias.  Two years, seven months, and sixteen days without a single tear.  There was movement behind him as Ashryver got to his feet, and he swiped furtively at his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” came the deep, rolling voice.  “Did I hurt you?”  He knew he would have bruises, but that wasn’t what was troubling him; he shook his head, not trusting his voice.  A broad hand landed on his shoulder and he startled; he hadn’t even heard footsteps in the leaves.  “Sorry,” Ashryver said again, letting his hand drop.

Cathal glanced over his shoulder, catching the prince’s concerned look in the dim light.  “I’m fine,” he said, hoping Ashryver wouldn’t notice the thickness in his voice but knowing that he would.  He cleared his throat.  “We’re going to do this,” he said fervently.

“Do what?”

“This.  We’re going to raise the Bane, and turn it against that murdering bastard, and take down everyone who stands against us.”  He turned to face Ashryver fully.  The prince dropped his head, looking at the ground for a long moment before meeting his eyes.  

“I won’t fail you,” Ashryver vowed, holding out the hand with the scar he’d given himself.

Cathal shook it, squeezing, smiling a little at the answering pressure.

*****

Mikkal sat on Chetak, looking not at the road curving to the east but across the rolling grassy hills to the north.  The gods knew his heart called him there.  

The paper in his saddlebag ordered him east, to Rifthold.  When the letter had finally come, he had not been released from his service as expected.  No, the accursed paper had contained a commendation for his bravery, and an order to return to Rifthold to discuss his prospects.  Even General Chambers had been surprised.  

He could disappear.  There was no one around, no one to see.  If he wasn’t in the city at the prescribed day, five days hence, who would care?   But Adarlan did not take kindly to deserters, they were pursued aggressively regardless of their status.  A deserter who was an officer, and a general’s son no less, would be a prize for any bounty hunter.  And if he led them to Aedion, to whatever he was planning in the north…He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk him.

Sighing through the pain as his heart fractured again, he reined Chetak east.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 14

Finally!  The adventure continues… Read the earlier chapters:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12.  Chapter 13. 

Dearest Mikkal,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.  I don’t even know if you’re still breathing as I write this, or if you let yourself be taken into the next world.  But I’m leaving tomorrow for Terrasen, and I know now that I will never see you again.

I shouldn’t put this on paper, but right now I don’t give a damn.  For the past day I have been so angry, and that helped me see through all the other bullshit.  I loved you.  I never told you that; I thought you didn’t want me to, but here it is.  I loved you, and you never really let me in.  

I am grateful to you, for all that you taught me.  I don’t think I ever said that either.  You made me stronger in every way, and that is a debt I will never be able to pay.  But I will take it with me, and I will remember you, always.

Aedion

Aedion looked around his small room.  At the bed, stark and empty; the small bookcase, its denizens now packed away; the spot on the floor where he had collapsed in Mikkal’s arms, the last time he had ever done so.  At the desk, vacant save for the sealed letter with Mikkal’s name on it.  He hefted his pack over his shoulder and turned to leave.  The letter caught his eye one more time.  He pushed back through, crossed the room, and picked it up.  He studied it for a moment, then crossed to the small waste paper basket and dropped it in, and not a second later the door clicked shut behind him.

A minute passed, and he was back in the room.  Grabbing the letter out of the basket, he opened the seal and wrote ten words at the bottom, then resealed it and left it on his desk.

His men joined him in the stables while he was still readying Avenar.  The horses were laden down enough that it would add at least a day, probably two, to their trip, but there were few settlements between the camp and Orynth, and Aedion had no clue what condition any of the villages would be in.  That the roads would be ankle deep in mud was a given, and he had brought shoeing equipment for the horses as a precaution.  He was counting on being able to do at least some hunting, but bad weather could slow them even further.  There was also no way of foretelling what reception they would receive, given their uniforms; at least he had convinced Colonel Sayre to issue green and brown ones rather than the standard black and red, and the gold wyvern insignias were far less noticeable.  No reason to make themselves more of a target than they had to be.

Spirits among the other four were high as they mounted and headed through the courtyard.  General Paget was standing there, a rare honor, and they all halted to bow while he wished them well.  Catching the look in his eye, Aedion sent his men on and stayed behind.

“Are you certain that you don’t want me to send a messenger when I know more?”

Aedion nodded.  “I’m certain, sir.  But thank you, for the offer.”

Paget studied him for a long moment.  “I wish I was sending him with you today.”

Swallowing hard, Aedion nodded.  “Me too, sir.  Me too.”

Clapping him on the knee, the general gave him a nod.  “Go on then, and take care of your men.”

“Thank you, sir.  I will.”  Wheeling Avenar, he jogged her up to Raedan, and they turned to trot through the gate together.  

“What’s going on?” Raedan asked, as quietly as he could over the sounds of the horses.

“Mikkal…” He ground his teeth against the surge of anger.  “Mikkal was seriously injured in Fenharrow.”  

“Shit,” Raedan said under his breath, unaware Aedion could hear him.  “Will he be all right?”

“I think it’s too soon to know.”

Raedan turned his eyes back to the road, but didn’t say anything more.  The five of them continued north through town and onto the main road where they eased back to a walk.  So they continued through the day, walking and trotting, the fit horses not seeming overtaxed but Dorsey and Hirons looking a bit sore by the time they stopped to set camp.  They had passed several farms and small villages, but none with an inn.  This part of Adarlan was much less populous than farther south, and once they crossed into Terrasen it would get sparser still.

The trip was remarkably uneventful save an afternoon and night spent with a farmer in the foothills of the Perranth Mountain gap when a late snow squall rose up, obscuring their vision enough that they had to seek shelter.  Aedion had been uncertain as to what their reception would be, but he would not soon forget the awe shining in the faded blue eyes of the farmer and his wife when he gave his name.  It broke his heart.  

When the farmers wouldn’t accept his money, he and his men had pitched in with the never-lessening mountain of work involved in farming.  The horses had looked a bit askance at having to share their accommodations with the cows.  Everyone else was more than content as they sprawled out on various guest beds and couches for the night, even Aedion’s hollow belly full with the delicious stew and bread.  

Since that night, his men had been a bit more subdued.  Dorsey in particular, who had been raised on a farm, had kept looking behind him as they left the hills and set out across the plains, the Staghorn mountains looming in the distance.   Aedion didn’t realize how much of the quietness stemmed from himself.  As they neared Orynth and began encountering villages with more frequency, they also encountered more people who recognized Aedion on sight, or who would stop and stare when one of his men said his name.  

It was Hirons who broached it one night as they were cooking the rabbits Aedion and Dorsey had shot.  “So you’re really a prince,” he said, breaking a silence Aedion hadn’t even noticed had grown around the crackling flames.

“Yes,” Aedion said slowly, drawing out the word.  “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“No, I knew it, I guess I just didn’t really know it.”  Aedion’s brow furrowed, and Hirons went on.  “I mean, these people, the farmers, those villagers…they all love you.”

Aedion carefully turned the stick the meat was speared upon.  “They loved my uncle and aunt.  They loved my cousin.  I’m just…a reminder, I guess.”  Hirons looked like he was going to go on, but out of the corner of his eye Aedion saw Raedan shake his head and the lieutenant subsided.  He didn’t even want to know what that was about.

The sun was just beginning to drop in the sky the next day when Avenar crested a ridge and the white city was spread out in front of them.  Aedion’s breath caught and he blinked hard to keep the tears from escaping.  Raedan rode up on his left, Hirons on his right.  “This is where you grew up?” Hirons asked.  Aedion nodded, not trusting his voice.  

“Welcome home,” Raedan said softly, and Aedion closed his eyes and brushed his thumb and forefinger through his lashes.  He urged Avenar forward and, flanked by his men, headed towards the gates.

*****

It turned out Delaney was not only more than adept at selling bread, working the counter was an even better fount of gossip than the parties she went to most nights.  She soon learned that midday was the best time to be up front, as that was when the working people came in.  The guards’ shift change mid-afternoon was second best.  She blessed her memory every night as she sat up scribbling down notes that she would burn once her letter to her dear Uncle Clery was written.

The beautiful Lady Massie did in fact come in twice a week to purchase cookies or miniature cakes or delicate flaky pastries, and time always slowed down for those precious few minutes where Delaney could gaze into those large, expressive eyes as they exchanged smiles.  A couple of weeks into her new position, the Lady thanked her shyly by name, and it was days before she stopped dreaming of the sound of her name in that musical voice.

During one of her afternoon training sessions with Fulke, she paused for a water break as he worked her yet again on how to block an overhead knife strike.  “Do you know anything about Lady Massie?” she asked innocently.

“Massie?  Massie?”  He thought for a moment.  “I don’t know a Lady Massie.  I know old Lord Massie, maybe she’s his wife?”

There was no ring on those delicate hands that Delaney had studied as she’d handed over packets of pastry.  “Does he have a daughter?”

Fulke shrugged.  “All I know about the old bastard is he’s one of the sycophantic pricks who keeps kissing the King’s ass every time he decides to invade somewhere new, since he’s made profiting from war an art form.  Hell, I think he’s funding half the invasion of Fenharrow at the moment.  Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.  She comes into the bakery all the time and I was wondering who she was.”  Delaney thought her tone was utterly nonchalant, but Fulke eyed her suspiciously.   She squared up to him.  “Again,” she said, and he sighed as he repositioned her feet and ran through the exercise for yet another time.

One morning a group of raucous soldiers came in to the bakery as Delaney was putting out fresh loaves.   She listened as she wrapped their orders more slowly than strictly necessary.  

“I heard it was an utter massacre,” one young man was exclaiming.  “A hundred and sixty rebels dead in under fifteen minutes.  I can’t wait to get down there, do more than train for once.”  

Delaney’s heart leaped into her throat, her hands shaking slightly as she finished taping the packet shut.  Clery and Kerrin and Flinn, all her friends in Orynth, Raedan, Aedion…

“Do you really think we’re getting sent down to Fenharrow?” another asked, reaching for the package she handed him without looking at her.  Fenharrow.  She closed her eyes briefly in a silent prayer of thanks.

“I’d bet a month’s pay on it,” said the first.  “After those bastards tried to burn down the camp and almost killed that major?  They’re going to send us all south.”  They pushed back through the door, still chattering, and the sudden silence when the door closed was a relief.

South, not north.  But was it really any better that a hundred and sixty people were dead, just because she didn’t know them?  She felt a surge of guilt for thanking the gods that it was not her rebels who had been destroyed.  As if the people in Fenharrow mattered less.  Come to think of it, this must have been the attack noted a couple of weeks ago on the casualty lists.  But only the Adarlan losses had been noted: three regulars killed, one officer seriously wounded.  Not even a hint of the destruction that had been wrought.

Another wave of people came in, and she tried her best to turn her focus onto her job, to smile and look pleasant as she took people’s money.  Yet Luk came to her an hour before her scheduled break and ordered her to go early.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, girl,” he said when she protested.  “You’re going to make my cakes bitter.  Get out of here, get some fresh air.”

The spring sunshine was weak but optimistic when she pushed through the belled door.  It was chilly enough she was glad she’d grabbed her cloak, but the city had finally lost that dingy gray look it had borne for the past months.  She headed into the market square, dodging aristos and peasants alike as they all did their shopping.  Stopping at a cafe for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, she found a seat at a painted iron table right on the edge of the square.  The people bustling by held no interest for her today; still all she could think of was her friends falling under the sword.  Her sandwich lay in front of her, barely touched, as she rested her elbows on the table and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“Are you all right?” came a tentative voice from over her shoulder.  Whipping around, she saw a tall girl who seemed to be all angles and remarkable blue-gray eyes looking at her with a concerned expression.  Two other girls stood a few paces back, studying her with superior airs.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Delaney said, with a hideous attempt at a smile.  

“You hear that, Cherise?” called one of the other girls.  “She’s fine, let’s go.  I’m hungry.”

Cherise glared at the girl over her shoulder before turning back to Delaney.  “Ignore them,” she said, loudly enough for them to hear, “they’re idiots.”  She gave Delaney a conspirator’s grin and Delaney couldn’t help but smile back.  

“I’m really fine, but thanks for asking.”

The gray-eyed girl pulled out a chair and sat, uninvited.  “You look sad,” she said bluntly.

Delaney struggled to come up with a reply.  “I just heard about the rebel attack in Fenharrow,” she finally settled on.  

One of the other girls, pale and sharp featured, snorted.  “You’re a bit behind the times, aren’t you?” she drawled.  

“Well, I understand,” the other one said dramatically, taking a few steps closer, “I was absolutely devastated when I learned it was Major Paget who was wounded.”

Cherise rolled her eyes.  “Just because you danced with him one time…”

“That’s one more time than either of you,” the dark-haired girl snapped.  

“Well, I heard he lost a foot,” the other girl said slyly, “so I think it was your last time as well.”

“It wasn’t a foot, it was a hand.”

“That’s even worse,” the pointy girl said.  “Can you imagine him touching you with his stump?”  She shuddered, and Delaney had to sit on her hands to keep from getting up and slapping her.

“As long as he didn’t lose his most important part, I wouldn’t care.”  They erupted into giggles.

“His head?” Delaney interjected drily, and they all three looked at her in a bit of shock before Cherise began to grin.

“That’s not what I meant,” the dark-haired girl replied disdainfully.

“Oh, so you’re saying you’d fuck him if he didn’t have a head?”

Cherise burst out laughing.  The other two glared at her.  “You’re disgusting,” said the pointy girl.

“Sorry,” Delaney said, not sounding sorry at all.  They stared at each other.  The other girl looked away first.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said to her companions.  The dark haired girl followed her, but Cherise stayed seated.  

“Rousalie’s always been a bit of a bitch,” she said.  “Just ignore her.”

“I don’t really plan on ever talking to her again,” Delaney replied, picking up her sandwich again, “so it’s probably a moot point.”  She took a bite and chewed pointedly, waiting for the gray-eyed girl to leave.

She didn’t.  “What’s your name?”

“Delaney.”

“Nice to meet you, Delaney.  I’m Cherise.”

“Yes, I gathered that.”  

Rather than being offended, she looked coolly amused.  “Well, Delaney, I hope to run into you again soon.  I could use some new friends, you see.  Mine are shallow and stupid.”  She stood up and extended her hand.  Delaney looked at it for a moment before taking it.  “See you around.”

She was halfway across the square before Delaney caught up to her.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Cherise said, her wide mouth turning up, “I hope it’s contagious.”  At Delaney’s obvious confusion, she laughed.  “This city could use more people like you.  Everyone else I know is boring.”  

Delaney looked down at the cobbles, the few little pieces of grass that were managing to poke out between them despite the thousands of feet that trampled over them every day.  “I’m not really that interesting,” she muttered.

“Do you know Major Paget?” Cherise asked, tilting her head slightly.

Delaney was thrown by the apparent non sequitur, and had to think for a moment before she recognized the name.  “The officer who was injured in Fenharrow?  No, never met him.  Why?”  

Cherise’s expression grew even more amused.  “Ugh, he stopped here last spring for a week on his way to another camp.  Everyone was half in love with him.”  She rolled her eyes, clearly excepting herself from the class of everyone.  “It was ridiculous.”

“I take it he’s handsome?” Delaney asked, beginning to smile herself.

“Handsome, and polite, and not interested in a damn one of them.”  She laughed.

“Why did you think I knew him?”

“I don’t know, you just seemed…more upset about how Brigitte and Rousalie were talking than most girls would be.”

Delaney shrugged, keeping her tone as nonchalant as she could.  “My brother’s a soldier.”  She noted how Cherise’s face immediately changed, became serious.  “I’d hate to think of people talking about him like that if…”  The image of Raedan lying unconscious and bloody in the forest, the one that had haunted her for weeks, popped into her mind.

“And that’s why you’re so sad.”

She shook herself, coming back to the present.  “He’s not in Fenharrow, at least I’m pretty sure he’s not, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe.”

Cherise took her hand and squeezed it impulsively.  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Probably, at least for now,” Delaney agreed.  “But those three soldiers who died, and all those rebels.  What about their sisters?  Their families?”

The tall girl looked as though she’d been struck.  Delaney freed herself and turned to leave.  “Please,” Cherise said quietly.  “Please be my friend.”

“I’m around,” Delaney said over her shoulder.  “You can find me any time.”  Not that she would; no, Cherise’s clothes put her squarely in the “don’t associate with bakery employees” set.  She set into a jog across the square; her break was almost over.  So she never looked back to see the longing in those gray-blue eyes as they followed her through the crowd.

*****

The light filtering through the window was bright; it was well past dawn.  Mikkal couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in this late.  He stretched and the arm around his chest tightened, pulling him in against that broad chest.  Lips grazed his neck, and he could feel his lover’s arousal pressing into his ass.  He let himself slump back, let his fingers intertwine with the ones splayed across his body.  Looking down past his own hardening cock, he could see those long fair legs tangled with his own and he sighed in contentment.

Turning his head, he tried to roll over to meet those lips with his own.  At the movement, though, that big hard body began to break apart.  He shifted his legs, and the ones they were pressed against dissolved into so much sand.  The hand engulfing his own disappeared, taking his fingers with it.  Panicking, he thrashed around, desperate to see his lover, to hold onto him and never let go; but by the time he got himself flipped over Aedion was gone.

Mikkal shot awake, reaching automatically across the bed to find only cool sheets.  Ignoring the burning in his lower abdomen he pushed himself into a sitting position.  The moonlight was shining through the window onto his pillow; he must have forgotten to close the drapes.  There was moisture on his cheeks, and he swiped at them furiously.  

He had to stop this.  He had to get out of here, but it had been over a month since the rebel attack and he still wasn’t strong enough to mount a horse.  When he woke up the day after, he had expected it to be his hand that hurt the most, but it was his damn abdomen.  Every time he turned, even just his head; every time he sat or stood or even used the gods-damned toilet the pain ripped through him.  The healers had stitched him together, had stopped the bleeding and saved his worthless life.  They kept telling him how fortunate he was that the knife hadn’t penetrated the membrane inside his body; if it had he would have died of infection.  They kept telling him if the arrow had hit an inch lower, it would have severed the main artery to his arm and he would have bled to death.

It seemed he just couldn’t catch a break.

He didn’t bother to bite back his grunt as he stood, awkwardly lighting his lamp with his left hand.  Sitting on the desk was the untouched letter that had arrived from his father earlier via express messenger.  It was rather fatter than normal, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it contained.  What reproaches he could expect for putting himself in danger, as evidently Major Thrayer had seen fit to tell General Paget all he had observed from the watch tower.  At least he hadn’t been able to see what had really happened to his hand.

The letter he was really waiting for still had not come.  With the support of General Chambers he had submitted a request for release from the army, citing his injuries.  Not that he had any notion of what he would do once released.  It wasn’t like he could be a farmer or a laborer; even with two functional hands he hadn’t a clue how to do that type of work.  

With a sigh, he picked up his father’s letter and ripped open the seal.   There was a second sealed letter inside.  He scanned his father’s first.  Not surprisingly, it contained the hope that when he did recover and was released from his obligation to the army, he would return home.  It was the second letter he had received from his father, the first having been written in response to Major Thayer’s and this evidently written not long after.  He had already dictated a letter reassuring his father that he was on the mend.  This time, he would write his own, though he knew it would barely be legible.  But first…

He reached for the second letter, and his hand began to shake as he picked it up.  He had not heard from Aedion since a week before the attack.  On the back, beneath the seal, was written in his father’s hand, This was found in Ashryver’s room.  I don’t know if he intended to send it.  Mikkal had a brief moment of terror before he remembered Aedion would have left for the north by the time this had been sent.  Taking a breath, he opened it and scanned it, his heart fracturing more with each word.  

Aedion was right.  He hadn’t let him in, not completely, for if Aedion had seen him for the coward he was he would have scorned him and for good reason.  It had been yet another truth Mikkal had hidden from, had put off facing.  Too much of a coward to really embrace the fighting, too much of a coward to rebel against Adarlan even as he recognized the evil it was perpetrating; too much of a coward to even admit to Aedion how much he loved him.  

It was the postscript that kept him from falling into total despair.  That hastily written pair of sentences, added on at the end.  Who am I trying to fool?  I love you yet.  He couldn’t make any of this up to him, but…  He pulled a piece of paper to him, and picked up a pen in his left hand.  It still felt so foreign to him, like he was learning to play a new instrument.  Slowly, painstakingly, he began to write.

It was dawn by the time he had finished his letters, enclosing Aedion’s in care of his father’s since the gods only knew where he was now.  Standing naked in front of the mirror, he studied the long puckered purple scar that slashed below his navel.  Looked at the bones now jutting through the skin, at the muscle that had gone soft, at the mangled hand that would, in fact, be his salvation.  Pulling on his clothes, Mikkal turned off his light and headed out to the courtyard, and for the first time since he had been woken up that horrible night he joined in the morning workout.  He was as slow and awkward as the most pathetic of new recruits, and every movement hurt, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on.  After breakfast he barely made it back to his bed before collapsing and falling into a sleep so deep he didn’t dream.  The afternoon was spent supervising training he couldn’t participate in, correcting footwork and grips over and over.  And so his new routine was born while he waited and waited for the letter from the King.

*****

Somehow, Aedion was not surprised when a knock came before he had even settled into his room in the inn.  A messenger stood outside holding a note; he dropped a copper in the waiting hand and took the sealed paper.

I would be delighted if you would join me for dinner.  Clery.  There was an address below the signature, one Aedion didn’t immediately recognize.  He pulled out his map of the city.

The years he had been away had struck Aedion like blows as he had ridden through the city.  On the surface Orynth was still beautiful, with the Staghorns rising behind the white castle on the hill, the broad winding streets, the parks that were just beginning to bloom with early flowers.  The colors, the noise, and the smells of cooking meat and fresh-baked bread and spices in the market had been nearly overwhelming to Raedan and Osment, who had never seen anything larger than the market town near camp.  Yet to him it felt as though it were dying.  Its lifeblood, its people - there were so few compared to the teeming streets he had been used to, and they moved so heavily, as if weighted down with loss and fear.

He could not help but notice the way the people had stopped to gape at him when he first rode through the gates.  It was enough to make him pull his hood up, hiding his bright hair and his eyes.  He was grateful for the cloak masking the insignia on his uniform, though his heart ached with the knowledge he was riding through his home city wearing the garb of its enemy.

An hour later, he threw his cloak back over his clothes, then went and knocked on the door of the room Raedan and Hirons were sharing.  The lieutenant answered the door.

“I’m going to head out,” Aedion told him.  “You should eat and get some rest, I don’t know what to expect tomorrow.”  Hirons nodded, and Aedion went to Osment’s and Dorsey’s room with the same message before heading down the stairs.  Feet came racing after him, and he sighed as Raedan’s scent hit him.  

“I’m going out alone,” he said, without turning to look at his brother.

“I know,” Raedan said, still following as they walked out into the street.  Half a block down, Aedion stopped and glared at him in exasperation.  “What?  I’m going out alone too, we just happen to be going in the same direction.”  His expression was innocent, though stubborn humor danced in his eyes.  

Aedion growled, debating whether or not to officially order Raedan back to the inn before he started walking again, following the route he’d memorized.  The address Clery had given him was in a fine neighborhood, but stood far from the glorious house he had owned near the palace when still a lord.  He paused at the gate, looking up at the tall, narrow townhouse, before pushing through with Raedan still at his heels.  The door opened before he could knock, a civil-looking housekeeper greeting him formally and showing the pair of them into a warm sitting room.

“Lord Clery,” Aedion said bowing reflexively on beholding the older gentleman.

“Not a lord anymore, Prince,” Clery said, bowing in return, not bothering to hide his displeasure as he beheld Raedan standing behind him.  “And who is your companion?”  

Aedion’s lips twitched as he replied, “Allow me to introduce Raedan Lamar.”

Clery’s mouth dropped open briefly before he rushed to take Raedan’s hands in his own.  “You’re Delaney’s brother!”  he exclaimed, and it was Raedan’s turn to look shocked.  This was why Aedion had let him come along, and those gray-green eyes turned to him in a mute appeal for information.  

“I sent Delaney to Orynth, Raedan,” Aedion said quietly.  “That night, when…” He glanced at Clery.  “When everything happened.  She’s been here this whole time.”

“Not quite,” Clery said, looking a little anxious.  “She’s in Rifthold now.”

It took Aedion two breaths to understand, and he lunged for Clery, lifting him off his feet and pressing him against the wall.  “You’re using her as a spy?” he snarled in Clery’s face.

The older man blanched.  “It was her idea,” he choked out, and a heartbeat later Aedion let him drop, though he didn’t take his furious turquoise eyes off of him.  Raedan pushed his way in between them, shoving at Aedion’s shoulder until he backed up a wary step, then two.  Clery straightened his clothes and met Aedion’s eyes calmly.

“Come on, man,” Raedan said quietly, “let him explain.”

So Clery did, about Delaney’s determination that had been redoubled after Raedan’s injury.  About all the measures he put in place to keep her safe, many unknown even to her; about her weekly letters and Fulke’s regular reports.  Aedion didn’t know Fulke, but that wasn’t surprising; no doubt most of Clery’s men would be strangers to him, especially now.  He had not known Clery as well as some of the other lords, like Darrow and Cal Lochan and the Allsbrook family.  But he had never doubted the man’s loyalty to Terrasen, nor his cunning as one of King Orlon’s preferred advisers.

He rubbed his hands over his face once Clery had finished.  Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had been looking forward to seeing her, to telling her about everything that had happened.  To hearing her own stories, and her thoughts on what to do moving forward.  She always saw things a little differently from him, a little more clearly.  Letting his hands dropped, he leaned back in the chair Clery had persuaded him to sit in.  Raedan was looking between the two men, pride and concern warring on his face.  

“I appreciate what precautions you’ve taken,” he said finally.  “I suppose I should have known she would find a way into the middle of the mess.”

Raedan laughed, and Clery relaxed.  

“I’m sorry about that,” Aedion said, gesturing to the wall.

“You forget, I knew Rhoe his whole life.”  He was looking at the wall with a faraway expression, seeing something other than honey-colored paneling.  “He would’ve left me with bruises, and not apologized for it afterwards when he was your age.”  He smiled fondly at the memory.  “Shall we go up to dinner?” he asked, and Aedion’s stomach growled loudly in response, earning another laugh from Raedan.  They headed up the narrow stairs and into the small dining room where the housekeeper was setting a fourth place.  

“My apologies,” Clery said, gesturing for them to sit.  “I had invited another guest, not realizing you’d be bringing one of your own.  He should be here shortly.”  His eyes flicked to Raedan, then back to Aedion.  Raedan did not miss the look.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” he offered.

The townhouse door opened before Clery could answer, and there came the sound of boots echoing over the hall tiles, then the stairs.  Aedion turned to the door, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of leather and resin that preceded the man.  

“Sorry, Clery,” came a voice like hooves on gravel, “I was-”  The man entered the room and froze, eyes locked on Aedion, a muscle twitching in his cheek.  Aedion held his gaze unblinkingly, assessing.  Though his features looked as though they’d been carved from granite, he was younger than Aedion had thought when he first appeared, perhaps only a few years older than himself.  No gray touched his thick brown hair, nor the stubble that lined his jaw.  But his hazelnut-colored eyes were as hard as his voice, and there was deep anger simmering there.

Finally the man turned to glare at Clery.  “Is this a rutting joke?” he growled.  “You tell me…you send me that message, and this is what you mean?”

“Cathal,” Clery said soothingly, “just sit down, let’s talk.”

“You expect me to take this seriously?  A seventeen year old fallen prince in a gods-damned Adarlanian uniform?”  

Aedion could hear Raedan’s teeth grinding from across the table and he shot him a warning look.  

“And who the hell are you?” the man - Cathal - asked, looking at Raedan.  “Let me guess, you’re the soldier who’s been warming Ashryver’s bed.”

Raedan laughed, though there was little humor in the sound.  Clery leaped to his feet and put a placating hand on Cathal’s arm.  “That’s Delaney’s brother, Raedan,” he said.

Cathal snorted.  “You look pretty good for a corpse.”

Aedion and Raedan both glanced at Clery. “He’s been north of the Staghorns all winter,” Clery said by way of explanation.

Cathal shook his head.  “This is just a rutting waste of time.”  He turned to go but Aedion moved faster, on his feet and blocking the door before the other three men could blink.  Clery backed away a step involuntarily.

“Why don’t you sit down, and we can listen to what Clery has to say,” Aedion said as pleasantly as he could manage.  

“How about you just go back to hiding in Adarlan, Prince,” Cathal snapped, bristling.  “The gods know you’ve been doing enough of that for the past three years while my people have been butchered.”  

“And what, exactly, was I supposed to do,” Aedion snarled.  

“That’s why I asked you both here,” Clery said to Cathal, “so we could learn what’s happened.”  

“You’re honestly going to trust any answer he gives?”  Cathal was shouting now.  “He didn’t just survive, he’s become a gods-damned officer.  And apparently he’s taken another officer as his lover, and you think there is one ounce of loyalty to Terrasen left in him?”

Raedan eased to his feet and walked around the table, one hand resting casually on his dagger hilt.  

“Don’t worry,” Clery said in an undertone, “Cathal won’t hurt him.”

“That’s not who I’m worried about,” Raedan replied, just as quietly.  There was a flicker of something that might have been fear in Cathal’s eyes as the words registered.  Aedion smiled grimly.

“Are you really such a stubborn prick you can’t even sit down and listen?” he asked.  Anger was warring with reason in Cathal’s face, and Aedion pressed him further.  “Or is it that you have such a brilliant plan to protect Terrasen that you don’t need me?”

Turquoise eyes stared into brown ones for a long moment.  “You have one hour,” Cathal finally said, before going to sit in the vacant seat at the foot of the table.  A servant appeared promptly with soup, and Aedion fell on his as if he were starving.

Clery and Cathal were gaping at him, and Raedan looked to be struggling not to laugh when Aedion surfaced for air a few minutes later.  

“When did you last eat?” Clery asked in some concern.

“Around midday,” Raedan answered for him, before taking an exaggeratedly polite spoonful of the soup.

Clery muffled his surprise, and Cathal turned to Aedion and said drily, “Well, princeling, I’m amazed you survived such hardship as not eating for an afternoon.”

“It is impressive, I know,” Aedion replied, mimicking his tone.  A little flash of surprised humor lit Cathal’s face for a brief moment before the stony expression returned.

The next course was brought in, and Clery turned to Aedion.  “Why don’t you tell us what’s happened, and what you want from us.”

With a deep breath, Aedion began.  Even Raedan hadn’t heard all of it.  He had never known about the scar on Aedion’s palm that he showed them all, hadn’t realized that he began planning to send Delaney to Terrasen from the moment she confessed her desire to leave the camp months before the need arose.   He glossed over the details of the night Delaney had finally fled, though he couldn’t stop the roughening of his voice or keep his eyes from briefly meeting Raedan’s.  Nor could Raedan stop the trembling of his hands when Aedion told of the attack in Oakwald.

“Do you understand now, why I couldn’t just leave?” he asked Cathal when he had finished.  “My choices were die, or feign cooperation.  I wasn’t going to help anyone but myself if I died.”

Cathal looked flatly skeptical.  “Your story is certainly compelling,” he said.  “But I still find it hard to believe Adarlan would be so stupid as to send you back here without some way of leashing you.”

“It has baffled me, too,” Clery said.

Aedion huffed a laugh.  “Me too, if I’m being honest,” he said.  Raedan set his fork down and passed the remains of his plate across the table for Aedion to polish off.

Cathal studied Raedan for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass.  “I expect they’re using your lover to ensure your cooperation.”

Raedan stared back, a dangerous spark deep in his eyes.  “You seem to have a fascination with who Aedion takes to bed,” he said.  “You keep bringing it up.”

“Are you trying to imply that it’s not you?”

Aedion and Raedan looked at each other and both laughed.  “Hardly,” Raedan said.  “I have no interest in men.”

“And even if you did, it would be too much like incest,” Aedion added, and Raedan nodded.

“But,” Cathal turned to Aedion, “do you deny that you have an Adarlanian lover?”

“I’ve fucked a lot of people,” Aedion said lazily.  “I’m not sure why it’s relevant.”

“Because according to reports, at least one of them wears that gods-damned uniform,” Cathal growled, “and I have concerns about how you can remain loyal to Terrasen while sharing your bed with an officer who no doubt would happily see my country burn.”

“I wouldn’t go there,” Raedan said warily.  

“Or what?  Is he going to attack me because I dare to question the integrity of a soldier he welcomed into his bed?”

“It’s a valid question,” Clery said mildly.

Aedion watched the flickering candles on the table, debating protesting the existence of any such relationship.  Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to deny Mikkal.  “I understand your concerns,” he said, too quietly, “but I can assure you they are unfounded.  He…did not support the invasions.”    

It was Clery who pushed this time.  “Do you deny that Adarlan could well use him to force your cooperation?”

“Not likely,” Aedion said grimly.  “Or if that was their plan, they certainly didn’t go about it properly.”

“What do you mean?” Clery asked.

Aedion couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.  “They sent him to Fenharrow six months ago.  He was gravely wounded over a month ago, I got word just before I left.  For all I know, he’s already dead.”  His laugh made all three men flinch.  “If they hoped to use him as some sort of a leash, don’t you think they should have kept him safer?”

A silence followed.  “No,” Aedion said at last.  “I’ve decided this is a test.  They figure that either you’ll kill me and save them the trouble, or I’ll declare myself a citizen of Terrasen, side with you publicly, and they can hang me in the market square in a grand celebration, and spike my corpse on the palace gates.  Of if by some miracle I actually follow orders, they can use me as a means to keep Adarlan’s foot on Terrasen’s neck.”  Raedan leaned back in his chair, watching him, tapping his knee absent-mindedly with his fingers.  “I don’t think it has occurred to them that I might play a more subtle game.”  One side of his mouth quirked up.  “One of the advantages of being seen as merely a cocky brute.”

Cathal held his eye for a long moment, then turned to Raedan.  “Well, if you’re not his lover, what is your role in all of this?  You have no reason to care about the fate of Terrasen.”

“Have you ever had a friend who was so close they were your brother in all but blood?  Where you’ve seen each other at your absolute worst moments, and it makes no difference?” Raedan asked quietly.  

“Yes,” Cathal said, face so tight with pain Aedion reached halfway across the table to him before his brain caught up.  He slowly withdrew his hand, settling it in his lap.

“Then you understand.  My allegiance is to Aedion alone.”  He looked across the table, a small smile on his lips as he took in Aedion’s expression.  “Don’t look so shocked, you fool,” he said, and Aedion laughed.  A grin flashed across Cathal’s face, disappearing so quickly it seemed as if the expression was afraid of being caught.  Aedion couldn’t help but notice how it much it changed him, though.  How much younger it made him look.

Clery called for port, and once it was poured he settled back in his chair, glass in hand.  “Now that we’ve cleared the air, perhaps you can tell us what your plans are.”

“I don’t think so,” Aedion replied slowly.

“Excuse me?” Cathal said flatly.  “Why the hell am I here then?”

“You’re acting like I invited you,” Aedion snorted.  “I’ve been in Orynth all of,” he checked the clock on the mantel, “four hours.  I don’t know you, I barely know Clery, I expected to see Delaney here and for all I know she’s buried under a floorboard somewhere instead of in Rifthold.”  Clery and Raedan both choked, and Aedion felt a twinge of guilt until a glance at Raedan revealed him smothering a laugh.  

“I could turn you in,” Cathal bristled.  “I could go to the garrison commander right now and tell him you’ve been meeting with rebels.”

“Cathal,” Clery warned.

“You could,” Aedion said, “if you want to get Clery killed, go right ahead.  It seems counter-productive to me.”

“I don’t have to tell him which rebels.”

“Ah, but see, he knows I’m here.”

Three faces wore identical expressions of horrified shock.  He tilted his chair onto its back feet, long legs stretched out in front of him.  “I was under orders to report to him when we arrived.  Since I had barely set my stuff down in my room when the note arrived, I brought it along.  I had a hunch that Clery was smart enough to meet with officers on a regular basis, keeping up appearances.”  He tilted his head at Clery, who nodded stiffly in response.  “I’m not exactly inconspicuous.  If I’m going to a private home the same night I arrive, it could look suspicious.  So I told him I’d gotten an invitation to dine with you, and asked him if it was some sort of a mistake.”  He shrugged.  “He assured me that you had extended the same courtesy to him, and recommended I take you up on it as you serve excellent food.  He was quite right, by the way.”  Cathal opened and closed his mouth once or twice, but nothing came out.  

“But what would you have done if you were wrong?”  Clery asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

“I would have declined the invitation as having been in error,” he said with a shrug.  “You were clever enough not to put my name on it.”    

Clery was looking from Cathal to Raedan as if expecting them to help in some way, but they seemed just as dumbstruck.  He tossed his hands in the air and let them fall in his lap.  “Delaney always did say you were smart.”

“And you didn’t believe her?” Aedion tsked.  “You should have known better.”

“Well, now I do.”

Cathal stood.  “I think I’ve had all I can take for tonight.  Thank you for the meal,” with a bow to Clery before turning to Aedion.  “Ashryver.  You’ll forgive me for not bowing while you’re wearing that uniform.”

Aedion rose and held out his hand, which Cathal took hesitantly.  “I’ll be in touch through Clery,” he said, and Cathal nodded and left, looking like he’d been through a whirlwind.

Before Aedion and Raedan took their leave, Clery brought them into his study and began rifling through a large stack of papers.  Pulling out a few sheets, he looked up at the two young men opposite him.  “What’s his name?” he asked, and Aedion looked at him stupidly for a moment.

Raedan, reading the sheets upside down, caught on faster.  “Paget,” he said.  “Major Mikkal Paget.”

Clery scanned down one sheet, then another.  On the third, he paused.  “This reports that he suffered partial amputation of one hand and an abdominal wound.”  He looked up and Aedion nodded.  “Well, he’s not on the two most recent casualty reports,” he said gently.  “If he had died from his injuries, he would have been listed.”  

Aedion looked at his feet, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes, and Raedan bumped his arm with his shoulder.  “He’s all right,” Raedan said, his voice thick. “He’s all right.”

Out in the entrance hall, Clery put his hand on Aedion’s arm, pulling him to a stop.  “Give Cathal a chance,” he said.  “He lost everything in the takeover, and the battles afterwards.”

Aedion met his eyes, taking in the lines around them that had deepened so much in the years since he’d seen Clery last.  “So did I,” he said.  “Remind him of that.”  With a slight bow, he turned and followed his brother out into the street.  The lamps had come on, and he realized he had forgotten how the lights turned the white buildings they illuminated to a buttery gold.  The noises of people talking, of doors closing, of children laughing, followed them as they walked towards the inn in silence.  Through a window thrown open to catch the chill spring air they could hear music spilling.  It was a simple song on a piano, picked out by fumbling fingers, but Aedion couldn’t help but stop and listen.  He looked over his shoulder at the palace that loomed over the city with the mountain rising behind it, then at Raedan, who had stopped a few paces away.

“Welcome to Orynth,” he said, and they continued on, shoulder to shoulder, up the street.

Never Thought You’d Care

Lysaedion one-shot, modern AU, smut and fluff and a little angst.  NSFW.

The snow was just beginning to drift down, little flakes floating in the air but disappearing as soon as they hit the ground.  Aedion looked up to watch it fall for a moment, blinking away the flakes that landed on his eyelashes, enjoying the tiny dots of cold pricking his face.  When the light changed, he crossed the street to the club.  He nodded at the bouncer and walked right in, ignoring the glares from the people waiting in line.

Lysandra was still behind the bar, shirt tied up along her ribcage, pants sitting low on her hips, showing off every curve and her navel piercing.  She ignored the men who were drooling over her like dogs, just kept flipping her bottles in her hand and pouring the drinks with practiced speed.  Personally, Aedion had a hard time keeping from smashing all their stupid faces into the bar, but he was pretty sure Lysandra wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.  After all, he had no rights to her.  He was just her roommate’s cousin, he reminded himself sternly, even if he did spend more time at the apartment she shared with Aelin than he did at his own place.  And though Aelin was developing eye strain from constantly rolling them at their flirtatious joking around, it had been months and Lysandra had shown no active interest.  Aedion could take a hint.  Not that it stopped him from showing up here to walk her home every night that she worked late.

Those beautiful green eyes noticed him then, and her face tightened almost imperceptibly before she poured him his favorite porter and slid it down the counter at him.  He wondered idly what was bothering her, but figured she’d tell him on the way home.  Usually that was her chance to unload all of the frustrations of working this shit job while she saved for school.  Just as he finished draining his glass, her replacement bartender appeared and she gave him a nod and slipped into the back.  Aedion headed outside.

The snow had started to stick, and the flakes were coming faster.  By the time Lysandra left through the staff door, so enveloped in her huge wool coat and scarf that only her eyes and hair showed, the shoulders of his jacket looked like they had been dusted with powdered sugar.  She reached him and just kept walking, so he turned and walked with her, stuffing his hands in his pockets since he hadn’t remembered gloves.  When they reached the end of the block and she still hadn’t said a word, he decided he had to ask.  

“What’s bugging you?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, then her face softened and she looked almost guilty.  “I’m sorry, it’s just…do you ever think you know somebody, and then find out that you’re totally wrong about a major assumption you’ve made and it changes everything?”

“Ummm…” He thought for a minute.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She sighed.  “Never mind.  I’m just being stupid and unfair.”

Something about the way she kept glancing at him sideways made him wonder if she was talking about him, though he had no clue what he’d done.  “That seems unlikely,” he said. “Want to give me some specifics here?”  She shook her head and he let it go.  

They continued on, the snow seeming to dampen the usual noises of the city; he could hear the flakes hissing as they landed on the pavement.  When they were nearing the brick building that housed her and Aelin’s apartment, she stopped abruptly and turned to face him.  “I didn’t know you were gay,” she blurted out.

He burst out laughing.  “Where the hell did that come from?”

Now she really looked self-conscious.  “The new girl at work.  Heather.  She saw you there last night, and she told me today, and I feel like such an idiot.  I mean, it’s none of my business…”

“Heather?” he asked thoughtfully.  Heather, Heather.  Did he know a Heather?  Oh, right, that Heather.  “I’m not gay.”

“But then…Why did she say you were?”

He shrugged.  “Probably because she walked in on me in bed with her brother last year.”  Lysandra’s jaw dropped, and he laughed again.  He wished he could whip his phone out and take a picture of her expression, but he doubted that would go over well.  “I’m bi, Lysandra.  Aelin never told you?”  She shook her head, and he took his hand out of his pocket to tap her on the chin.  She closed her mouth.  “I guess she never thought you’d care.”

“I don’t.  I mean, I care, but it’s fine.  I mean…” She let out a frustrated breath, looking down at the sidewalk, her cheeks turning red from more than the cold.

Aedion took a step closer, his hair falling in his face as he looked down at her. “Lysandra,” he said gently, “I’m glad you care.”  

Lysandra glanced up at him through the fringe of her lashes and damn, she was devastating.  He reached up and brushed her glossy black hair off her cheek with his fingertips.  Her scarf had slipped down so that perfect full mouth was exposed, and he ran his thumb lightly over her lower lip.  “I’d like to kiss you,” he whispered.  She nodded, not taking her eyes off of his as he slowly bent down to meet her mouth with his own.

Her lips were so soft, so smooth.  Aedion felt a twinge of guilt at the fact that he had forgotten to buy chapstick, but that thought was driven out of his head along with all others as she rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him back.  His arms wrapped around her of their own volition, but she didn’t stiffen or pull back, just melted further into him.  He ran the tip of his tongue lightly along the seam of her mouth and she opened for him, and he moaned deep in the back of his throat as her tongue began playing with his own.  It had been a while – months, actually – since he had been with anybody, and he fought to control the surge of desire that threatened to overwhelm him.

He didn’t know how long they stood there on the sidewalk; all he knew was they were both panting when they finally broke apart.  A brisk breeze drove the snow into his collar, and Lysandra shivered.  “You should go inside,” he murmured, though he didn’t want to let go of her.

She nodded, glancing at the door to her building, then back at him.  “Aelin’s probably staying with Rowan tonight,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow.  She rolled her eyes even as a grin spread across her face.  “Do you want to come in?”

He brushed his lips against her cheek, a whisper of a kiss.  “I’d love to,” he breathed into her ear, and she shivered again, “but only if you’re sure.”  After all, he knew enough of her history to know she would have plenty of reasons to not want a man in her apartment, in her bed.  But she slipped her arm through his and turned towards the door.

They paused on each landing to kiss again, her icy hands finding their way inside his open jacket on the first, under his shirt on the second, his resulting flinch making her smile against his lips.  When they reached the third floor, they stumbled down the hall, only breaking apart so Lysandra could fumble her key into the lock.  Before she could finish turning the key, his mouth was back on hers; when she finally got the door open they practically fell into the dark apartment.  He kicked the door closed, and she shoved him back against it, bunching his shirt in her fists as she stretched up to keep their mouths joined.  

Aedion pulled away long enough to shrug out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor.  Then he carefully unwound her scarf, and she laughed when he managed to get it tangled in her hair anyway.  He swore under his breath as he worked it free, then flung it in the vague direction of the coat hooks on the wall.  The buttons on her coat were easier to manage, and that soon joined her scarf. Finally there weren’t so many damn layers between them, and he could feel the heat of her body through his t-shirt as she reached up and dragged his face back down to hers.

His hands slid down to cup her ass, pressing her against him, all too aware that his arousal was pushing into her abdomen.  But she didn’t pull away, just slipped her hands back under his shirt and up his back.  Aedion paused to tug his shirt off, and she bit her lip as she looked at him.  The tattoo on his left pectoral drew her eye, and she traced it with a finger, flicking his nipple and chuckling when he shivered.  

“You’re kind of beautiful,” she said, and he couldn’t stop the heat from rising in his face.  He ducked his head, and she cupped his cheek in her hand.  He turned just enough to press his lips against her palm, his turquoise eyes holding hers.  She took a step back and, in one smooth movement, pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it next to his.  

For a moment he was struck stupid, she was so perfect.  “Gods, you’re stunning,” he said, his voice hoarse.  Her lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile, but that was raw need in her eyes as she stepped in close again.

This time, he let his desire swamp him, let his hands roam all over her body as hers explored his own, let himself get lost in the clash of lips and tongues and teeth.  He flicked her bra open, sliding the straps off her shoulders, and she dropped her arms to let it fall at her feet.  She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his jeans and dragged him after her as she backed towards the couch.  When she reached it, she spun, pushing him down on it.  He was more than happy to comply, especially as she straddled him, her hands going immediately to undo his fly.  

There was no containing his moan as she gripped him through his boxers.  Before she could ease the thin cotton over his cock, he asked, “Are you certain she’s not coming back tonight?”

Lysandra knew immediately what he meant.  “Pretty sure.”  She glanced at the door.  “Maybe we should head into my room, just in case.”

Aedion nodded, pulling her down for another kiss before standing, holding her against his chest with one arm under her ass and the other around her ribcage.  He was nearly to her bedroom door when she murmured against his mouth, “Um, I should grab…something.”  He grinned at her unexpected shyness, and set her down gently on her feet.  She headed into the kitchen for some reason and pulled open one of the drawers, digging through an impressive amount of junk but not finding what she was seeking.  “Shit!” she said, digging further.

He came up behind her, watching over her shoulder.  “What are you looking for?”

“Condoms!  They were in here when I moved in, but I haven’t needed any so I never checked again.”  She finally pulled out a box, but it was empty, and she cursed again.

He definitely did not want to know why his baby cousin kept condoms in the kitchen in the first place, let alone why said box would’ve gone empty while she had a roommate.  The tiny bathroom held nothing but a sink, a toilet, and a shower so small he couldn’t even fit in it, so he knew there wouldn’t be any in there.  He wrapped his arms around Lysandra, who was throwing her hands up in despair, and tugged her back against his broad chest.  “Do you have any?” she asked.

“Not with me.  I’ve got some at home but that’s a bit of a walk.”

“Shit.”  She sagged back against him, and he grazed his nose up her neck before sucking her earlobe briefly into his mouth.

“It’s fine,” he whispered into her ear.  “There’s plenty we can do without them.”

She turned in his arms and put her hand over his tattoo.  “I know,” she said, pouting just enough to be adorable.  “I just really wanted…”  His mouth on hers cut off the rest of the sentence, and he began moving them back towards her bedroom step by step.  As they passed Aelin’s, a mildly disturbing thought popped into his brain.

“Wait.”  He looked at the door, Lysandra’s eyes following his own.  “As much as I hate to even consider this, I can’t imagine Aelin doesn’t have some in her room.”

“Should I text her?”

“Fuck, no.” He shuddered theatrically and she laughed a little.  “Just go in and look.”  

Tentatively, she opened the door and tiptoed in, and he bit back his grin at the unnecessary caution.  A quick rummage in the bedside table had Lysandra waving a black box in triumph.  “It’s almost full!”  Gleefully she grabbed a strip and tiptoed back out, evidently concerned about leaving footprints on the wood floor.  Aedion reached for them, but she yanked them away and almost ran into her room, laughing breathlessly as he prowled after her, flicking on the light as he entered.  Reaching the bed, she turned and let herself fall backwards and he bent over her, brushing her navel and its piercing with his lips, then his tongue.  He worked his way up her body, teasing her nipples, nibbling along her collarbone, before reaching her jaw.  All laughter was gone by the time he claimed her mouth and her hands found the waistband of his jeans again.

Her delicate fingers lightly stroking him nearly drove him wild.  Pushing back off the bed, he tugged her boots and pants off before kicking off his own.  And holy shit, was she unbelievably, blindingly gorgeous as she lay nearly bare before him, just her black lacy thong barely covering her.  Carefully, he stretched out next to her, her hooded eyes tracking every movement.  She reached for him, hand sliding over his abdomen and around to the small of his back, pulling him over so he was half on top of her.  Holding himself up on one elbow, he reached down, tracing the fingers of his free hand up the inside of her thigh and then tickling lightly along the edges of the lace.  There was a sharp intake of breath from her as he dipped beneath, feeling her slickness, and he had to close his eyes for a moment as he fought for control.  Control she undid in the next moment as she widened her knees and curled her pelvis, her thigh providing some impressive friction for his hard on.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, and he hooked his thumb through the band of her thong and twisted, tearing right through the fabric.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, more laughter than heat in her voice.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he growled, and he rocked back on his knees to survey her, only to see her doing the same to him.  Somehow he felt almost self-conscious under that gaze.  Though he had been far from celibate in his life, nobody had ever stripped him as bare as she did with those green eyes that saw everything.

He traced her entrance again with his finger, watching her squirm, teasing her until she was writhing.  “Stop wasting time,” she finally gasped, and he grinned and slowly pushed that finger into her, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as her wet heat enveloped him.  He stroked her once, twice, until her thighs opened further even as she ground out, “It’s not your finger I’m after.”

Huffing a laugh, he bent down and added his tongue, licking above where his finger still moved in her, gently rolling that little bundle of nerves at her apex.  “Aedion,” she moaned, and his cock twitched at the sound of his name on her lips.  Abandoning her for a moment, he lunged up to the little strip of foil packets she had abandoned near the pillows and tore one open, almost dropping it in his haste.  She sat up and took the condom from him, pinching the tip and reaching down to roll it on him with deft ease.  He bit the inside of his cheek hard at the feel of those cool hands on his cock.

Lysandra kissed him, lightly running her tongue over his lips, then lay back down with feline grace.  He followed her, feeling as though invisible strings connected his heart to hers, as if he had no choice but to cover her with his body.  “Are you sure?” he whispered, even as his cock nudged at her entrance.

“Yes,” she murmured in response, sliding her hand down to his ass.  He eased into her, far more slowly than he wanted to, letting her adjust to his hard length, letting himself adjust to the warm grip of her core around him.  She squeezed his ass, and he drove farther into her in response before slowly dragging out.  With each movement the sensation ratcheted up, and soon she was moaning beneath him, hooking her ankles around his thighs to deepen the penetration.  When her breaths were coming in short gasps, he shifted enough to slip his hand between them, finding that sensitive ball of tissue with his finger.  She cried out almost immediately, and he felt her spasm around him as her body arched up off the bed into him.  Her fingernails raked up his back and that was all he needed to send him over the edge with his own hoarse cry, thrusting in hard short bursts to draw out both their climaxes.

“Gods, Aedion, that was…incredible,” Lysandra panted in his ear as he half-collapsed on her, barely able to hold himself up on his elbows.  He pressed a trail of breathless kisses along her jaw, her neck, before gently extracting himself and rolling onto his side next to her.  He kept one hand resting on her abdomen and his calf draped across her ankles, unable to completely stop touching her.  She lay staring at the ceiling as her breathing slowly quieted, then carefully withdrew, rising with a murmured, “Excuse me.”

Aedion watched as she walked out of the room, the light playing across her glorious curves.  The bathroom door clicked shut, and he rolled onto his back, tucking one hand behind his head while he replayed the highlights from the last hour in his mind.  He had never honestly thought he would be so lucky as to have Lysandra look twice at him, let alone pull him into her bed.  A chill ran over him as the sweat on his body began drying in the cool room air, and he nabbed the box of tissues on the nightstand to clean himself up before sliding under the covers.

Lysandra appeared in the doorway, wrapped snugly in slightly shabby pink pajamas, just as he was getting comfortable.  She looked surprised to see him taking up most of her bed.  “You stayed,” she said, not sounding entirely pleased.  Aedion tried not to flinch.  Why the hell would she want him to stay? She could grace the cover of any magazine, and he was her roommate’s idiot cousin.  Suitable as a fuck buddy, but not much else.  

He cast about for something light to say, something that would make her want him in her bed.  His fingers found the remaining condoms and he held them up between his index and middle fingers.  “Well, we’ve still got two of these, seems a shame to let them go to waste.”

She gave a forced laugh and looked down at the floor, but he didn’t miss the ripple of agony that flashed across her face.  He was out of the bed and drawing her into his arms before she could move, cursing himself for the royal asshole he was.  Aelin had sketched just the barest details for him of Lysandra’s past, mostly as a warning for him not to screw around with her roommate, but he knew enough.  What she had had to do to survive on the streets after her mother kicked her out when she was barely fifteen, what had been done to her. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Lys, it was just a stupid joke,” he murmured earnestly, but she remained rigid in his arms.  “Shit, sweetheart, I really am sorry.  I’ll go, if you’d rather.”

“Maybe you’d better.”  But there was none of the anger in her voice he so richly deserved, just shame, and pain.  So he didn’t let go, just stood there and held her, dropping butterfly kisses on her hair, then her temple.

“Lysandra, honestly, I was just looking for way to convince you to let me stay.  I don’t expect anything from you, ever.  It’s just, you’re perfect.”  She huffed in denial, but he went on, “And I could never deserve someone like you, but I want to be with you as much as you’ll let me.”

“I’m not perfect,” she said, her voice thick.

“You are,” he said.  “Any faults you think you have just make you more perfect.” He kissed her cheek, the moisture there wicking onto his lips so he could taste the salt.

“You can’t be more perfect,” she said, the barest hint of a smile beginning to play on the corners of her mouth.  “You’re either perfect or you’re not.”

“Well, I can’t be perfect at all, because I’m a giant fucking mess.  But you,” he tilted her head up to brush her lips lightly with his own.  “You can be perfect, and more perfect, and more and more perfect, because you’re you.”  Finally she relaxed against him, her arms sliding around his waist, and he rested his cheek on her hair.

“You really want to stay?” she asked finally.

“As long as you’ll let me.  I’ll be like the stray cat you just can’t get rid of.”

She laughed, a real laugh that time, and looked up at him.  “Biggest damn cat I’ve ever seen.”  

“Stray ghost leopard, then,”  He scooped her up in his arms and she laughed again as he pulled down the covers and set her gently on the bed, then tucked her in.  Holding her eyes, he walked around the bed and stood there, waiting, a silent question.  With a dramatic sigh, she flipped back the covers and he slipped between them, opening his arm so she could settle her head on his shoulder.  Reaching over her, he shut off the light.

As the darkness settled around them, she said quietly, “I’ve never woken up with someone before.”  

Aedion pressed his lips to her forehead and tucked her in closer against him.  “Good night, Lysandra.  I promise I’ll still be here in the morning.”  And he said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening as her breathing slowed and deepened and for the first time in her life she fell asleep with someone who loved her.

*****

Aelin was running late, thanks to Rowan’s idea of suitable breakfast time activities, and she still had to shower and change before class.  She slipped her key in the lock, but it was already unlocked.  Weird.  Lysandra was paranoid about break-ins.  She tried the door, and it seemed stuck on something.  She palmed the switchblade that Rowan had given her, and shoved harder at the door, bursting into the room.

It was a leather jacket that the door had been hung up on.  A man’s leather jacket.  She picked it up and studied it.  Aedion’s leather jacket.  She looked around the room, seeing Lysandra’s favorite scarf and coat in a heap near the coat rack, one of Aedion’s well-worn t-shirts near the couch, Lysandra’s shirt and bra on the floor next to it.  A grin began to spread across her face as she walked into the kitchen and noticed the empty box of condoms on the counter.  “Well it’s about damn time,” she muttered, and hurried into the bathroom to get ready.  

The Forging of  the Wolf, Chapter 13

Aedion’s saga continues.  A little smut, a lot of angst, and some violence.  Trigger warning for self-harm.  Read the earlier chapters:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  Chapter 12. 

Delaney reached the top of the hill and pulled Horse to a stop.  A light snow had been falling off and on for hours, and the scene before her belonged in one of the paintings in Clery’s parlor.  Below her lay the lights of the city, sprawling along the curve of the river that from here was a broad gray streak.  Far off the distance, she could see the castle rising up, towering above the smaller buildings, bluish gray in the dim light that filtered through the clouds.  It looked strange and fragile compared to the white beauty of Orynth.  Turi had told her it was made of glass, as bizarre as that seemed; she wondered how it was even possible to build a structure that size from glass.  Having watched the glassblowers in Orynth a time or two, she smiled at the image of a giant as big as the continent blowing through a pipe the size of the river below, spinning and crimping to build the form.  

She had finally reached Rifthold.  It had taken weeks for her to master the letter-writing codes well enough to please Clery.  He had found her a group of merchants to travel with, deeming that safer than her traveling as a lone woman, no matter how many times she had pointed out she’d made it to Orynth on her own.  In the end she was grateful; it was much more pleasant to camp with the others than it would have been alone, and they helped shield her from the occasional patrols as well.  

One of the merchants rode up next to her.  “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Delaney said.

Margite snorted.  “Only from afar, believe me.  Once you’re down there, the smell alone is enough to make you forget all about this view.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“At least you’re working in a bakery, that should help mask it,” the young merchant said, grinning, as she turned her horse to start the twisting road down the hill.  Delaney followed, and they soon caught up with the others.  Horse had the peculiar habit of sliding down hills on his hindquarters.  Delaney had not realized this was unusual, but it had caused quite a lot of alarm among the merchants until she explained it was just his way.  They slid past Margite and Rou, and finally caught up with Coline and Olivyi at the bottom.  Horse stood and shook his sparse mane, obviously quite proud of himself.  

Coline laughed.  “I’m going to miss the two of you,” she said in her honey-sweet voice that could convince a milliner to buy a hat - and did, regularly.  “I wish you could keep traveling with us.”

Delaney smiled.  “I hardly think I’d be much of an asset, I could’t sell bread to a starving man.”

“Don’t tell your new employer that,” Olivyi quipped.  

“Thankfully, I don’t think they expect me to sell it, just bake it.  That I can manage.”

They were near the gates, where she counted three guards perusing everyone who passed.  There wasn’t a line; whether that was due to the weather or the approaching nightfall she didn’t know.  The men seemed bored, barely scanning the five of them on horseback, only stopping Julot the driver with the wagon full of goods.  They paused, waiting for the inspection to finish, Delaney allowing Horse to pick at the sparse grass as payment for getting them there safely.  When one of the guards thumped on the wagon, she tugged up his head and they headed into the city proper.

It was enormous, much larger than Orynth, but it lacked the classic majesty of the white city.  The main road ran parallel to the river though several blocks away, and Margite had not been joking about the smell.  Dead fish odor permeated everything, though some neighborhoods blended that with the even more delightful smells of fetid piss and garbage.  She hoped she’d get used to it in time, but for now, she wrinkled her nose and the others laughed.  After a while, they reached the market district.  There, though they were right along the river, the smells of coffee, bread, and spices outcompeted the less pleasant odors from the river.  The road opened up before them into a large square.  It was deserted at the moment, all of the stalls coated in a layer of fine powdery snow, and starkly beautiful with the lights from the castle hovering over it all.  

Rou led them through the square and towards the warehouses at the far end.  There, the merchants unloaded the wagon into their reserved area with the efficiency that comes from long practice.  Delaney helped where she could, mostly just getting underfoot and sliding around on the slick cobbles.  Finally, Julot unhitched the horses and he, Rou, and Olivyi backed the wagon in before pulling the door closed and padlocking it.

They dropped the horses at the stable of the boarding house where the merchants would be staying and began walking through the section of the market square that contained most of the bakeries.  There were still lights on in most of the windows, people inside working in preparation for the approaching solstice celebration.  When they reached the address Delaney had been given, there were lights on but the door was locked.  Suddenly she was glad for her small posse of merchants.  She hesitated briefly before knocking, and Coline gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and raised her hand.

A rap on the glass door had a black-haired, red-cheeked young woman poking her head through an interior door, then scurrying over to open it.  “We’re closed,” she said politely, “but we’ll be open first thing tomorrow morning.  Is there something  that you’re looking for?”

“I’m Delaney,” she said, feeling like an utter idiot when the woman looked at her blankly.  “Um, my cousin Fulke spoke with someone here about a job for me?”

At Fulke’s name, the other woman’s face had cleared.  “Ah yes, welcome, Delaney.  I’m Lina.  Would your friends like to come in?”  Delaney looked around to them, wondering if her panic showed on her face.  

Margite gave her a hug.  “You’ll be fine,” she said.  “We’ll come by tomorrow, see how you’re making out.  And you know where we’re staying.”  Delaney nodded.  “Good luck my friend.”

This was echoed by the rest of them, and Delaney murmured her thanks.  It wasn’t enough; she owed them so much more. After the emotional whirlwind she had been on for the past eight months, their easy acceptance of her into their ranks had somehow made the ground under her feet more steady even as the terrain had changed from the rugged forests of pine and rock near Orynth to the broad plains of grass in northern Adarlan.   This trip had been the first time she had truly been able to see how varied and lovely this world was; almost her whole life had been spent in the training camp, and on her trip to Orynth she had seldom been able to feel easy enough to just…look.  Margite and Coline, and Rou and Olivyi and even silent Julot - they had given her that.

With a deep breath, she smiled through the tears that burned her eyes and waved as they left.  Turning back to Lina, she was ready to apologize for making the woman wait but she saw such a softness in her round face that she knew the apology was unnecessary.  “Thank you for understanding,” she said instead.  

Lina smiled.  “Good friends are always a blessing,” she replied, stepping back holding the door open.  “Come on in.”

The bakery was new and familiar at the same time.  The warm, rich, yeasty and sweet smell swamped her and she breathed in deep.  The small store at the front opened into a large bustling workspace in the back, at least double the size of Ea’s.  A dozen men and women of a wide range of ages were scattered through the space, and there was flour floating in the sweltering air.  Everyone looked up as Delaney followed Lina into the room, and there were quick smiles of greeting all around before they returned to their work.  

“You came at a bit of an awkward time,” Lina said apologetically.  “With solstice in a couple of days, we’re really busy.  I can quickly show you where your room is, so you can get some rest, and I can show you the ropes in the morning if you like.”

Delaney shook her head.  “No, I’ll help, just tell me where I can put my stuff and wash up.”

Lina gratefully took her to the small wash room and she quickly washed her face and hands and put her hair up in a knot before rejoining the other bakers.  An older man with a pleasant open face called her over and, after a few questions, directed her to a station to roll out and bake cookies.  In what seemed like no time, there were dozens of perfectly golden cookies cooling on racks and Delaney was wiping the sweat from her flushed face.  

The older man approached and surveyed the cookies, gently touching one to test the texture, then picking it up and breaking it in half.  “These are perfect,” he said, nibbling on one half while handing the other to her.  “Luk.”

“Delaney,” she replied, taking the cookie then shaking his outstretched hand.

“Welcome to Rifthold, Delaney.”

*****

“Again.”

Aedion spun his sword in his hand, eyeing the officers who faced him.  In the two months since Mikkal had left, he had been working as much as he could drag his pathetic ass down to the pitch.  A number of his fellow officers had taken it upon themselves to try to beat the shit out of him regularly.  They generally failed, though when it was three on one - he glared at Ivry, Bellamy, and Levett - they certainly could make him sweat for it.  Somehow, even Colonel Sayre, General Paget’s right-hand man, had gotten involved, and it was he who was calling for them to repeat the exercise.

He was exhausted, though he wouldn’t admit it.  Each night, his dreams drove him from sleep; he had finally stopped reaching for that warm male body, finally stopped hoping for that beautiful voice to begin singing while strong arms wrapped around him.  So instead he read, now devouring books about history and strategy rather than the silliness he had previously favored.

Ivry, Bellamy, and Levett got set, and Aedion lifted his sword, but before they went Sayre called out, “Wait.”  Everyone relaxed, and Sayre limped over to Aedion.  “I’ve been watching you for weeks now, boy,” he said, loudly enough for the others to hear, “and I want to see you fight like you would in battle.”  Aedion looked at him in surprise.  “You’re plenty well-schooled in all the techniques, but as far as I can tell you lack the ability to put an opponent down and keep ‘em there.  Prove me wrong.”

“I could hurt somebody,” Aedion said.

Sayre nodded thoughtfully.  “True.”  He turned to the other officers, and they all nodded back.  “Just try to stay your killing blow.”

At least they’re all wearing armor, Aedion thought, as he hefted his sword and his shield.  The armor and the shield were on Sayre’s insistence, and had become standard protocol when he trained.  The latter was because it had been determined Aedion was sloppy with protection, that if he was on a battlefield where there were archers he would need to be able to use it.  He still preferred fighting with two blades, but perhaps…perhaps he was underestimating the usefulness of the shield.

Bellamy charged first, and Aedion parried, then slammed the shield into him, knocking him off his feet and sending his sword flying, before spinning to counter Ivry.  Ivry was too quick, too balanced on his feet for the same maneuver to work, and they clashed, then circled.  When Aedion heard Levett come at his blind side, he lunged at Ivry, pushing him onto his back foot, before spinning to counter Levett with his shield.  A blow from the fist holding hilt of his sword against Levett’s temple dropped him to the ground, and Aedion turned back to Ivry.  For the first time since they’d met, Ivry looked unnerved, but he didn’t pause, just continued on the offensive.  In a few more moves, Ivry was disarmed, and Aedion stopped.  

Bellamy was still on the ground, though he’d managed to roll onto his hands and knees.  Levett was out cold; Sayre and Aedion both rushed to check on him, Aedion sheathing his sword as he moved.  “Well, he’s breathing,” Sayre said grimly.  Levett blinked, then groaned, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes from the light.  Aedion moved to fetch the healer, but looked up to see Raedan already returning with her in tow.  He hadn’t even realized Raedan had been among the gathered watchers, though he wasn’t surprised.

“Levett,” Sayre said quietly, “can you hear me?”

“Mmhmm,” Levett responded, still not taking his arm away from his eyes.  

The healer arrived then and bent over him, talking quietly.  After a few minutes, he rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and Aedion was right there, helping him as they walked slowly off the field.  When they reached the infirmary, Aedion lifted Levett and set him gently in one of the beds.  “I’m sorry,” he said, as the healer disappeared to grab a tonic.

“For what?” Levett croaked, trying to smile.  “Not your fault I’m slow.”

Before he could respond, the healer was there shooing him out.  When he turned to leave, Sayre was right behind him, and they walked out together.  “The only thing you did wrong, boy,” the colonel said once they were back outside, “is apologize.”  He clapped Aedion on his armored back before heading off towards his office.

Aedion shook his head in disbelief, then headed towards Ivry’s house.  He couldn’t stop his hand from slipping into his pocket and touching the worn, folded paper that lay there.  He had been carrying it around since he had found it, tucked deep into his saddle bag, about two weeks after Mikkal had left.  He didn’t need to pull it out to read it.  When he closed his eyes, that elegant flowing script was all he could see.

Dearest Aedion,

There was so much I should have told you and didn’t.  I don’t think you have any idea how brilliant you truly are.  You need to be willing to embrace every part of you, if you are going to achieve what you hope to.  Your heritage is a blessing.  Don’t fear it.  Your strength, your speed - these things will save you.  

We never really spoke much of your family, but I know what was done to them.  And I can guess by whom.  You have the strength, the courage, and the intelligence to do what needs to be done.  I wish I could be there to help you, to see you set things right at last.  For I have every faith you will do so, and no matter where I am, I will know - and be proud of you.

I am grateful that the gods saw fit to let us have each other, even if it was only for a few months.  I see now that this was why they spared me; that they denied all my prayers while I was in Fenharrow so that I could have the joy of knowing you.  Now that I am going back into that hell,  know that no matter what my thoughts will always be of you.

With love, Mikkal

When he had first read this, he had been angry, so angry, with himself as well as with Mikkal.  The last paragraph - he should have known.  Should have understood the shadows he had seen lurking in those amber eyes.  Mikkal had hinted at it enough, but he had been too caught up in everything, too happy, to recognize it.  But Mikkal…he should have told him.

Perhaps that shared pain, those shared unanswered prayers for death, were what had drawn them to each other.

Now, softened by the intervening weeks, he clung to the first paragraph.  That and the memory of their last night were what dragged him out from his tangled sheets each morning, what pushed him to pick up the weapons that had become so heavy.  For though he was learning all he could about strategy, he was no closer to figuring out how to actually pull off his plans.  

He had received his promotion to Captain a few weeks ago, a necessary step before he could be sent into Terrasen with a company of his own.  It was the weather that kept him where he was, as the snow coming down from the Staghorns would be making the roads challenging at best farther north.  Here they had had a few snowfalls, but the sun had returned in between to melt it away.  In Perranth, or Orynth, they would not be so lucky.  He didn’t know to which city he would be sent first.  Orynth was four times the size of Perranth, and contained the majority of the lords who still lived and likely most of the rebels.  On the other hand, Perranth was more securely under Adarlan control, given that that piece-of-shit Vernon had surrendered completely to the King of Adarlan after he gave his own brother and niece over to the butchering blocks.

This was what should have been occupying his thoughts, but at the moment, he just wanted to find some release.  The fight was over so quickly that it had just whetted his appetite, especially since he had finally loosened the tight leash he kept on himself.  He knocked on Ivry’s door and was welcomed in by Mrs. Ivry, who promptly handed him tiny Morghanna and went to get her husband.  He emerged fresh from his bath a few minutes later, smiling a bit at the sight of his daughter being cradled in Aedion’s huge hands.

“I could use a ride into town,” Aedion said quietly,  not wanting to wake the sleeping baby.  “Any errands I can run for you?”

Ivry was more than happy to hand him a list, and Aedion was off after transferring Morghanna carefully to her father.  Avenar sensed his mood, and kicked up her heels as he let her into a gallop once they hit the road.  Once they hit the town, he tied her and completed his errands before allowing his feet to carry him towards The Sow’s Ear.  The small tavern was at the far end of town from the inn, and had a rather different clientele.  He dodged drunken dancers before landing at the bar, accepting his glass of ale from the curvy bartender.  Lizabet gave him a wink, and he sipped slowly, watching her and the other staff serving the patrons, waiting for her signal.  When she tapped on the bar and the brown-haired woman took her place, he rose from his stool and walked out into the alley.

It was the ale - far superior to that of the inn - that had first brought him here, but it was the bartender that kept him coming back.  That first visit, she had dropped a note in front of him inviting him to meet her in the alley during her break.  He had been a bit startled when she had declined his offer of a visit to the inn, instead talking him through taking her against the brick wall of the tavern.  Now it was a regular occurrence, with him finding excuses to make it into town multiple times per week.  

Lizabet was waiting behind the tavern, and they lost no time.  As he covered her mouth with his, she unbuttoned his pants, freeing the arousal that had sprung the moment he’d stepped out of the building, then lifted her skirts.  He picked her up with one arm under her ass and the other supporting her shoulders, and she reached between them to guide him into her.  It was a matter of a few thrusts before she was moaning into his mouth, a few more before he felt her core clenching around him.  He found his release not long after, ignoring the hollow feeling that always persisted despite the waves of pleasure coursing through his body.  

As she was straightening her skirts, he asked, “How long do you have?”  Sometimes they could manage another session.

“I need to get back,” she said with a smirk, “but I can send one of the other girls out.”  She had offered this a number of times, and he had taken her up on it once or twice, but he shook his head.  The door closed behind her, and he turned and headed back to Avenar.  On the ride home, he couldn’t fight the wave of shame that washed over him.  It had not been that long since Mikkal had left, and he couldn’t stop rutting like a tomcat in an alley.  He cursed his lack of self control.  Yet he knew in two days, or three, he’d be back there.  It was a pale imitation of making love, but at least it was a few minutes of feigned closeness.

Once he was back in his room, he pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen.  As he had every week for the past two months, he began to write.

Dearest Mikkal…

*****

The hammering outside was driving into Mikkal’s brain.  The camp he was at, that had begun as a temporary holding during the initial push into Fenharrow, was being made permanent.  The dining hall, kitchens, infirmary, and main house were already built.  Now the barracks were going up, at his insistence.  The original plan had been to build the officers’ houses first, but he pointed out that it was much more efficient to build one large building to house the barracks, and the officers could always bunk in if they wished to get out of the tents.  It had been the first time he had pushed back a bit against General Chambers.  Since he had been careful to do it behind closed doors it had been accepted, if not with grace, at least with grudging respect.

He just wished it wasn’t being built right next to his gods-damned tent.  But then, the general was entitled to his bit of revenge.

“Major Paget?”  One of the pages entered with a stack of letters for him, and he nodded to the corner of his desk then thanked the boy for setting them there.  Finishing up his report, he leaned back in his char, studying the pile of envelopes.  Taking a deep breath, he reached for it.

The first few were the expected responses from some of his fellow officers at nearby camps, concerning his inquiries regarding the welfare of the locals caught between the rebels and Adarlan’s forces.  There was a letter in his father’s strong hand.  And then - there it was.  Aedion’s scrawl.  Starting at the top, he read through, making notes about where the farms and markets were still thriving, and where they were burned out or gone fallow. The latter list was far longer.  He shook his head as he jotted down the last few names; he needed to present this to General Chambers.  It was vital to get food to the regions where the farms and markets were gone as soon as possible.

His father had written primarily to congratulate him on his promotion to major.  There were little bits of information about the camp; his mother was enjoying her time watching the Ivry’s baby, evidently Raedan Lamar had made a full recovery, and Major Bellamy was engaged to a girl from his hometown.  And at the end:  Ashryver continues to work with Colonel Sayre as you had suggested.  We will be putting together a small company of men to accompany him in the spring, when we expect him to begin to rally a force in the north.  

Lastly, he reached for Aedion’s letter.  He just held it for several long minutes, fingers tracing the letters that made up his name.  Sighing, he flipped it over and broke the seal.  His heart cracked anew as he read.  Each of these letters had the same effect.  After the first one, that had been so crackling with anger and pain he had barely been able to finish it, he had actually put in for a transfer back north.  It had been denied, and even though he told himself that was expected, the only thing that kept his dagger from plunging into his own skin was imagining the anguish he would cause his mother.

He had not been able to answer any of the letters.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; it was that when he picked up his pen it seemed to be physically impossible for him to actually make it move across the paper.  Setting the paper down on the desk, he leaned back in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Shit.”

A lieutenant stuck his head through the flap then.  “Major Paget?”

“Yes?”

“You’re wanted by the general, sir.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.”  Picking the letter up, he caressed it lightly before dropping it into the box with the others and left the tent.

*****

Delaney was beginning to get the feel of Rifthold.  She shared the rooms above the bakery with several other young women, and though the days were long and hectic, they often went out afterwards.  There were always a dozen parties to be found, and it seemed like everyone in the whole city between the ages of fifteen and thirty managed to be at one of them.  At first she had hated it; the noise, the crush of bodies, and the smell of sweat and alcohol and worse all combined to make her feel nauseated.  But now she was used to it, and was coming to even enjoy it.  Gossip flowed with the liquor, and she found that as long as she had a drink in her hand and acted vaguely interested she was easily incorporated into conversation.

Fulke had come to see her as soon as she had sent word of her safe arrival, greeting her with a hug and some clothes.  He agreed to take on Horse, so she wouldn’t have to worry about selling him.  He also insisted she renew her self-defense lessons, something she grumbled about but was secretly pleased to hear.  She had one day off per week, and spent that afternoon with him training.  He then had her and a rotating cast of friends for dinner.  About half the friends were rebels, from all over the empire.  The rest were people he met in the course of his cover job as an arms merchant.  Once Delaney convinced him to invite her merchant friends, and that was by far her favorite evening.  Rou and Fulke hit it off immediately, and the small flat was filled with all their laughter.  When her friends left the city a few days later, they assured her they would visit on their return; it was the only thing that kept her from grieving their departure.

Otherwise the winter wore on uneventfully.  Her weekly letters to her dear Uncle Clery went out like clockwork, largely full of unimportant nonsense so far.  She caught occasional glimpses of young Prince Dorian when he rode out on his horse, always with a brown-haired youth of about Raedan’s age at his side.  Now that she was in Adarlan, she was able to keep better track of its soldiers, and had indeed confirmed that Raedan was still a soldier in General Paget’s camp.  Aedion’s promotion to captain made her grin, but she couldn’t brag as she wished to so she settled for cutting out the clipping with his name and tucking it in with her meager possessions.

It was getting close to spring, though you wouldn’t know it in the city still filled with dingy slush.  She was bringing fresh rolls up to the front when she first saw her.  Rich, golden brown hair braided into a crown around her head; warm brown eyes flecked with gold; and such finely modeled features that she looked like one of the rare porcelain dolls she had seen in the shops.  The woman was probably a year or two older than Delaney herself, and she smiled so sweetly at Lina, who was working the counter that day, that Delaney froze.  When she turned to leave, her packet of cookies - cookies Delaney herself had baked - in her hand, she saw Delaney gaping at her and paused.  A tinge of shyness crept into the smile but she held her gaze for a long moment.  When she finally left, Delaney nearly fell over and she realized she had been holding her breath the whole time.

“Does she come in often?” Delaney asked as she dumped the rolls into their basket.

“Who?” Lina asked absent-mindedly, taking advantage of a short lull to neaten the glass case.

“That woman with the cookies.”

“Lady Massie?  Yes, she’s in regularly.  Loves our cookies and the miniature cakes.”

Lady.  Of course she was an aristo, and Delaney herself was the unclaimed daughter of a soldier and a camp laundress.  Oh well.  At least she could look at her.  But to be able to see her regularly…it became of vital urgency that she learn the sales aspect of the bakery as soon as possible.

*****

It was the middle of the night when a runner started pounding on the door of Mikkal’s small cottage, still so new it smelled of paint.  He yanked open the door, and the wild-eyed boy panted out, “We’re under attack.  Rebels, hundreds of them.”  Cursing, Mikkal threw on his tunic and boots and his light armor, the runner helping fasten him in, then grabbed his sword and dagger, buckling them on as he moved.  Running out and up the closest watch tower, he met one of his fellow majors at the top, staring grimly down at the men with torches surrounding the camp.  A number of their own soldiers were marching through the gate, ready to engage.  As they watched, the rebels dipped their arrows in the flames and sent them soaring over the wall.  

“Well, shit,” Mikkal said as the arrows landed on the newly built buildings.  Most of them extinguished on impact, but a few started to burn.  Turning, he ran back down the stairs and towards the stables.  Chetak was already saddled along with the other officers’ horses, and he threw himself on and spurred him into a gallop.  They raced through the camp, the gates swinging open again as he approached.  The Adarlanian soldiers parted as he burst through, and he charged down on the rebels, using Chetak’s big body to drive them back without drawing his blade.  They began giving ground to get away from the plunging hooves, and his men surged behind him to aid in pushing back.  A few took aim at the horse with their bows and Mikkal roared in fury as they let fly.  Chetak grunted and lurched as an arrow hit him in the hindquarters.  Pulling him up, Mikkal reached back and yanked it out, sitting the resulting buck, then throwing his leg over and dropping to the ground.  The horse, not being a fool, spun and galloped back to the camp while Mikkal turned to the assailants.  They were poorly armed, with cheap leather armor, and his own troops were at his back as arrows began to fly from the watch towers.  One by one, the rebels began to drop, but they did not retreat; all who could stay on their feet engaged.  Mikkal found himself attacked by three opponents, whom he quickly disarmed, then disabled with strokes to the backs of their legs.

“I don’t want to kill any of you,” he screamed in frustration, as the third man fell and a fourth came in to take their place.  There was no sign any of them heard.  The fourth man went down, and as he did so an impact drove into Mikkal’s left shoulder, bringing him down to his knees on ground that was already slick with blood.  Looking down, he saw an arrow protruding from the joint of his armor - am impressive, or lucky, shot.  He brought his sword up, then sliced down, shearing the shaft so it no longer protruded before lurching back onto this feet.  Looking down the hill, he saw his soldiers pushing the rebels back, continuing to pursue even as they turned to run.  Mikkal realized - this wasn’t going to be a mere victory for Adarlan, it was going to be a wholesale slaughter.  

He ran down into the fray, screaming at his men to stop, but his voice was drowned out by the cries of the dying rebels, by the bloodlust he knew was roaring through the veins of the soldiers.  As he reached the front and tried to turn back to get the attention of his men, a rebel leaped on him from behind and he went down, rolling, hooking the man’s ankles so when they stopped he was on top.  There was a thin burn from under where his armor ended but he couldn’t acknowledge it as the man slashed upwards with a dagger, just as he brought his own sword down.  His honed blade sliced through the man’s throat and sank deep into the spine beneath.  The threat eliminated, Mikkal sat back on the man’s abdomen and looked numbly at his throbbing sword hand.  The little finger was gone, the ring finger cut to the bone.  

A sudden cessation of noise made Mikkal look up.  The rout was over; the ground was littered with lumps he couldn’t bring himself to consider.  It was too dark to even begin to guess at the numbers, or to try to differentiate how many of those mounds on the grass were his own men.  Chest heaving, he looked down at the corpse between his knees.  The man’s dagger was laying in the grass next to him, and there was something next to it.  He reached down and picked the object up with his left hand, feeling a dull twinge of pain in his right and another just above his pelvis, and stared at it stupidly.  After several long seconds it registered that it was his finger.  Dropping it, he pressed his hand down on the chest of the rebel, studying it.  He could still hold a sword, still fight, still murder in the name of the King once his ring finger healed.  If only that knife had been sharper, had come up with more force…

There was nobody near him.  He reached down and picked up the dagger.  Gripping it in his bloody left hand, he studied his right.  Angling the knife to fit into the existing wound, he sucked in a breath and yanked, drawing the blade through the ring finger and deeply into the middle one.  Biting down on his cry, he dropped his head for a moment and breathed, trying not to be sick from the sharp metallic smell of the blood that mixed with the smells of urine and shit leaking from the dead man beneath him.  Curling his index finger in, he finished the job on the middle finger, severing it at the first knuckle.  

He did vomit then, though the pain was more muted than he expected; it was more from the sight of the finger dropping, the quiet thud as it hit the ground.  He dropped the dagger next to it before vomiting again.  The spasms caused the burn in his lower abdomen to increase.  Once he was finally done retching, he stood shakily.  There was a sticky wetness seeping into his waistband and shirt and he looked down, but he couldn’t see past the edge of his armor.  

Voices sounded nearby, and he turned towards them and tried to walk up the hill.  The voices were familiar, but he couldn’t see anybody; suddenly he couldn’t see much at all, it was so dark, as if the moon and stars had disappeared behind clouds.  He took a few staggering steps before his legs wouldn’t work at all, and there was a distant shout as he went down on his knees.

Suddenly there were hands on him, rolling him onto his back, and low fervent cursing.  His armor was unbuckled and he felt a pull in his left shoulder as the front was lifted off.  The arrow.  He tried to help but his arms, like his legs, wouldn’t move.  Somehow the moon and stars reappeared then, and there was enough light that he recognized one of his lieutenants and a couple of other men, one of whom had turned aside to retch.  One of the men was kneeling behind him, gently elevating his head, and he looked down, to see his abdomen gaping open, the torn muscle glistening through the blood.

“Shit,” he tried to say, but nothing came out.  Figures, he thought.  Now the gods see fit to answer my prayers.  His last thought before the world went black was, Aedion, I’m sorry.

*****

It was during a gray thaw that Aedion’s orders finally came.  As early as safe passage was possible, he was to select a small number of soldiers to head to Orynth.  There they were to try to glean what information they could about the Bane, most of which was rumored to be north of the Staghorns.  He was then to use his judgment whether to return to camp or continue north for more information, but he was to report back before taking any action to recruit members of the Terrasen army.

This led to a series of arguments about how many soldiers should accompany him.  Aedion initially wanted to go alone, but accepted the general’s flat refusal.  Sayre wanted to send a small force of around thirty; Aedion insisted that would come across as overly aggressive for their purposes.

In the end, they settled on five total: three regulars, one lieutenant, and Aedion himself.  Few enough to travel quickly, but not so few they would be vulnerable.  The first person he approached was Raedan; he hadn’t even gotten halfway through his first sentence before Raedan asked, “When do we leave?”  Aedion had blinked at him, and Raedan had given him a twisted smile.  “I’ll follow you anywhere, Aedion.”  

“It’s going to be rough.  Not too many inns on the way, we’ll be camping a lot, and I have no idea when we’ll be back.  Even if we’ll be back, when it comes down to it.”

“Anywhere.”  And that was that.

The rest of the soldiers were a bit harder to select.  Raedan took it upon himself to make suggestions, all of which Aedion ignored.  Not that he didn’t trust Raedan, but he knew what he needed.  He ended up selecting Osment and Dorsey, for the other regulars, and Lieutenant Hirons.  The latter was from the class of lieutenants that had preceded Aedion’s own, and he was good-humored and hard working.  Not the best fighter but clever and good in the woods, which would be much more important on this mission.

Spring came early.  It was barely past the equinox when the rain replaced the snow and the flowers began to emerge.  Finally the general settled on a date, and it was a good several weeks earlier than originally planned.  Aedion was eager to get going; he had nothing to hold him now, especially since Raedan was coming with him.  The sooner he could get away from his cold sheets and empty bed the better.  Plus when he was hundreds of miles to the north he could pretend that was the reason his letters had all gone unanswered.

Two days before he was due to leave, he found himself buried in Lizabet in the alley yet again.  He kind of figured fucking opportunities would be thin on the ground, given he had no interest in any of his companions.  When they had both finished and she was straightening herself, he blurted out, “I’m leaving in a few days.”

“Oh?” she said, tucking her shirt farther into her skirt.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.  If I’ll be back.”

She looked at him then, and gave the most casual of shrugs.  “Well, then,” was all she said, and she turned and went back into the tavern with no hint of a backwards glance, no trace of disappointment in her face.  He stared at the door for a moment, then started to laugh.  Still chuckling, he headed back to the camp.

One of the stable boys took Avenar’s reins from him as soon as he dismounted.  “You’re wanted in General Paget’s study, sir,” he said, and Aedion thanked him.  He wondered what part of the plan had changed; he’d spent more time in that study in the past two weeks than he had in the previous ten months.  He walked to the main house and knocked on the door.  Mrs. Giffard let him in, and for once her pleasant face was grim as she led him to the study and knocked on the door.  He could smell fear and grief in the air, and a gnawing dread began in his stomach.

The voice that called “Enter” was almost unrecognizable.  Aedion walked in, and the general’s gray, drawn face was decades older than it had been the day before.  He reeled back as if he’d been punched in the gut.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” he said, his own voice a mockery of its usual self.  “Mikkal, he’s…”

“No,” the general said, shaking his head and coming around the desk to put a hand on Aedion’s arm.  “No, they think he’s going to live, at least as of three weeks ago.”

Aedion dropped into the seat behind him and covered his face in his hands.  General Paget stood near him, patting his shoulder.  “What happened?”  He forgot to add the sir, and the general did not correct him.

“Rebels attacked his camp in the middle of the night, setting fire to the buildings.  He rode out to try to drive them back, and he ended up in the midst of the fighting.  When they found him, he was next to the body of a rebel, and…” The general’s voice broke.  He took several deep, shuddering breaths and continued, “and he was missing most of his right hand, and was nearly gutted.  He also had the head of an arrow in his shoulder, they said he was hit early on and cut off the shaft so he could keep fighting.”

Aedion was shaking his head, thinking of that body he knew so well, those hands, mutilated.  More scars marring his skin.  “But they think he’ll be all right?”

“They think he’ll live,” General Paget repeated.  

Aedion caught the distinction.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

There was a long pause before Paget replied.  “He never drew his dagger.  He rode out there without a shield, and he never even drew his dagger, just his sword.”  

It took a while before he understood.  His turquoise eyes were as hard as gemstones when he met the general’s.  “You don’t mean…you think he didn’t intend to survive.”

“It was a rout, son, not a single rebel escaped.  According to the major who sent me the letter, by the time he was hit with the arrow, the fight was all but over.  And he ran back in.  He went to the front of the lines and engaged again.”  There were tears coursing down that rugged face, that Aedion had seen angry and calm and passionate but never so full of despair.

So you still pray for death, Mikkal, after all we had?  Were you thinking of me as you tried to die?  What kind of love is that, or was it never love for you at all?  He dropped his head back in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw a kaleidoscope of light as he fought back the tears, the anger that flared at the betrayal.

Abruptly he stood, and bowed to the general.  “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

“I don’t expect to hear more before you leave.  Do you want me to send updates?  It may be hard while you travel.”

“Thank you, sir, but no.  I don’t think it’s practical.”  And I’m not sure I want to know.  He bowed and turned to leave.

“He does…care for you a great deal, Aedion.”  General Paget had never used his name before that he could recall.

His hand resting on the door handle, Aedion looked back at him.  “Not enough, sir.”  With another bow, he opened the door and left.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 12

Sorry it’s taken so long!  NSFW.  Read the rest of Aedion’s backstory:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.  

General Paget allowed Aedion and Mikkal to remain with Raedan a couple more days before ordering them back to camp.  Mikkal suspected it was his father’s tactful way of allowing him some time to get himself together after receiving the orders.

It didn’t really help.

Now, as they rode through the gates, he felt like he was being sucked under the quicksand again.  He had first gotten trapped in it two years ago, when he had watched his arrow enter the body of a man in Terrasen armor.  He had kept fighting in that moment; had had to, in order to make his way clear of the mob of blade-wielding flesh, each fallen man dragging him farther and farther in.  Being sent to Fenharrow after that battle had been a relief, a chance to get as far away as possible from the site of his cowardice.  But it had followed him, as the fighting had, and the moment his knife had slashed the throat of the man whose own dagger had just pierced his chest he had been pulled completely under.  He had still been dragging himself out when he stopped in a town to delay coming home and had seen a huge golden-haired man coolly returning his gaze in the inn.  

It was still just mid-afternoon, and the late summer sun had baked the grass in the camp brown. They passed his mother out strolling around the square, accompanying Mrs. Ivry and her new baby.  The women waved and they returned the gesture.  “I guess we’ll have to say hello after we’ve put away the horses,” he muttered.  Aedion laughed.  

“Since you’re so enthusiastic, I can untack Chetak for you,” he offered.  

“How about I take care of Avenar, and you can go charm the ladies and gush over the baby.”

“Don’t you like babies?” Aedion asked, grinning.

Mikkal gave a theatrical shudder.  “They’re fine, as long as I don’t have to touch them.  Or listen to them cry.  Or carry them around.  Actually, they’re kind of awful.”

“You’re a cold-hearted bastard,” Aedion chuckled, shaking his head.  

Watching Aedion with tiny Morghanna half an hour later, Mikkal found that cold heart melting just a little.  Mrs. Ivry was more than happy to hand her baby over to the warrior, and he somehow knew exactly how to cradle that small head in his palm, supporting her body with his forearm.  

“See, now,” his mother said at his elbow.  “Don’t you want that?”

Yes, he thought, but not the baby, just the one holding it.  He made a noncommittal noise, and she looked up at him.  

“I just want you to be happy, Mikkal,” she said.  “Don’t you want to fall in love?”

“I have, Mother,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes as his father’s advice to him from weeks ago echoed in his head.

“You have?”  She perked up like a dog being offered a juicy bone.  “With whom?”

He gestured with his chin in the direction of Aedion, who chose that exact moment to look up at him and smile over his armful of infant.  Looking down at his mother, he watched her eyes travel from him to Aedion and back again.  “Oh,” she said faintly.  “But…”  He waited for the outburst, the disappointment and the tears.  The latter did well up as she turned her face up to his.  “But you’re leaving.  Isn’t he staying here?”

The ground shifted under his feet, then firmed up.  “You’re not…disappointed?”

She slipped her hand around his arm.  “Of course I am.  You’re going to have a whole country separating you.  Unless you think he could be reassigned?”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, then bent and kissed the top of her head.  “I don’t think so, Mother.”  

“Well,” she said, patting his arm, “I’ll talk to your father.  Maybe he can do something.”  She looked at him seriously.  “You deserve to be happy, Mikkal.  Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been through.”  That possibility terrified him more than he could admit.  He turned the subject back to more mundane things, and she chattered about the baby and the doings in town while he walked her back to the house.

Late that night, wrapped up so closely with Aedion they might still have been joined, he murmured into the dark, “I told my mother today.”

“Hmmm?” Aedion said, nuzzling into the back of his neck.  “What did you tell her?”

“That I -” am in love with you.  “That we’re together.”

Aedion nipped at his ear.  “And what was her response?”

Mikkal gave a little a laugh, still not believing it.  “She was just upset that I have to leave, and you can’t come with me.”  The arms around him tightened, pulling him even closer.  

*****

For days, Delaney did not leave her room.  Clery came and sat with her; so did Kerrin, and various other friends she had made but now barely recognized. Though she spoke and ate and saw to her needs mechanically, nothing really registered.  She couldn’t have told if it was day or night, fair or rainy, hot or cold.  All she could think about, all she could see waking or sleeping, was Raedan.  

*****

Aedion had been back at camp for almost a week when he received word that Raedan had returned and was in the infirmary.  He dropped Avenar’s brushes back in the bucket and left her with a quick pat, half-running to the long building he’d thankfully rarely needed to visit.

“My brother,” Aedion greeted Raedan, who gave a poor attempt at a smile in return as they clasped hands.  “You all right?  You look…”

Raedan grimaced. “The trip was a bit rough,” he said, his voice tight.  “I’ll be fine.”

The healer appeared then with some sort of concoction that Raedan sipped at while she returned to her office.  They sat in silence until his expression eased a bit as the herbs took effect.  “I’m glad you’re back,” Aedion said, not quite understanding the shadow that flickered over that pale face in response.  He looked around the unfamiliar room, searching for something to say, something to close the gap that had opened between them that night in the tower.  

“You killed that man, didn’t you,” Raedan said abruptly.  Aedion met his eyes, startled by the anguish in them.

“Yes, I did.”  He paused as the healer’s assistant came over.  

“Do you want to take your evening meal here, Lieutenant?  I can have the kitchen bring it over.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”  After she walked off and the room was empty again, he turned back to Raedan and asked the question that had been on his mind since the incident.  “How much do you remember?”

Raedan looked down at his hands, folded over the sheet.  “I remember when I saw the rope marks on the tree, and realized you’d climbed up.  I knew nobody had found you yet, so I figured you had some trick up your sleeve.”  A small smile flared, then disappeared.  “So then I followed where the branches looked different, until I got to that stream.  It was obvious you’d gone into it, but I couldn’t figure out where you’d come out.  So I was looking around on that far bank, and I heard someone right behind me.  I thought it was you, and I started to turn around.  And then I felt the knife…”

Oh gods. Oh, holy forsaking gods. “You thought -” he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Just for a moment.”  Raedan sniffed and wiped surreptitiously at his face.  “Then he said something, and I realized it wasn’t you, his voice was totally different.  I had fallen down, and he rolled me over, and that was when I…I knew I was going to die.”  Aedion wanted to touch him, hold him, something to prove to them both that he had made it through, but he didn’t know what to do.  How it would be received.  So he pressed his fingers between his knees and waited.

Raedan sniffed again, and when he spoke next he sounded almost as if he were in a trance.  “And then I heard you shout, and the man fell, and you were there.”  He turned his tear-streaked face to Aedion’s.  “I kind of thought I heard you yelling at someone, but it might’ve been a dream; I had the strangest dreams.”  There was a short silence, and he seemed to shake himself before going on in a more normal voice.  “The next thing I was certain of was waking up in that cottage with my chest feeling like it was on fire and Captain Paget watching me.”  

“I’m just so glad I got there in time.”

“And you really…you killed him.”  Aedion nodded, not certain why he seemed so fixed on this detail.  “You…” Raedan’s breath caught.  

“Raedan, I’ve killed people before,” he reminded him.

“But that was an accident.  You didn’t mean to.”  

Aedion’s brow furrowed.  “With Balam, that’s true, not that I regret it.  But…I I killed people before that, and believe me, I meant to.”

Raedan didn’t answer, just shook his head and stared at the bumps his feet made under the sheet.  The healer’s assistant came over then with two covered trays.  “You doing all right, honey?” she asked Raedan as she set a tray carefully on his lap.  “Need any more of that tonic?”  

“No, thank you, I’m doing better,” he replied.  She smiled at him before handing Aedion his tray and leaving them alone.  They both uncovered their food.  Aedion started to eat, until he noticed Raedan just poking at his meat with his fork.  He set his own utensils down.

“He was from Terrasen, did you know that?” Raedan asked

Yes.  “No.  How do you know?  I thought they couldn’t figure out who he was.”

“You have the same accent.  Or had, rather.”  He brushed at his cheek again.

Damn.  Raedan really was sometimes too observant for his own good.  Or at least for Aedion’s.  “Why are you so upset I killed someone who was trying to kill you?”

“I’m not upset,” Raedan snapped, and Aedion bit back his incredulous laugh.  Raedan let his head drop back until it hit the wall.  After a moment, he met Aedion’s steady eyes.  “It’s just…He was from Terrasen.  And you had to…”  He wrapped his arm around himself, palm pressing against his side.  

“Raedan.”  Aedion rested his hand lightly on his shoulder.  “I don’t care where he was from.  He tried to kill you without provocation.”

“He had provocation,” was the quiet reply.  

A long moment passed while Aedion sorted through what Raedan had said.  “What did he say to you?” he finally asked.

Raedan picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of meat and lifted it halfway to his mouth before setting it back down.  “He said…He said, ‘For my son.’”

Aedion closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face.  When he opened his eyes again, Raedan was watching him.  “I did what I did,” Aedion said firmly, “and I would do it again.”

Raedan held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded once and turned his attention at last to his food.  They talked of lighter subjects while they ate, of Raedan’s expected rehabilitation, of the boredom that comes from long hours of inactivity.  “I can bring you some books,” Aedion offered.

“I’ve seen the crap you read,” Raedan replied.  “I’m not interested in that romantic shit.”

Aedion grinned.  “I know it’s not fine literature, but there’s fucking,” he offered.

Raedan looked at him, humor playing on his face.  “I’m not sure I should in my condition.”

At that, Aedion roared with laughter, earning a reprimand from the healer.  “In the books, smartass,” he said after she had disappeared back into her office.

“I know, you idiot.  I think I just want something…funny though.  Do you have anything like that?”

Aedion shrugged.  “Well, some of the writing in those books is laughable.”  Raedan grinned.  “I’ll see what I can find you in town.  Mikkal and I were going to go tomorrow.”

All amusement left Raedan’s face.  “When does he leave?”

“Five days,” Aedion said quietly, unable to keep the flicker of pain off his face.

“Why the hell are you sitting here with me then?”

Aedion’s lips twisted into what he hoped would pass for a smile.  “I have a meeting in a little while.  I’ll spend time with him afterwards.”  Raedan nodded, and after a pause asked about one of the other regulars’ ongoing struggles with remaining awake on watch.  They talked about training and camp problems until Aedion had to leave for his meeting.  Judging by the way Raedan’s eyelids were beginning to droop, he figured it was about time anyway.

An hour later, he slipped through Mikkal’s small house and into his room.  Mikkal was in his bathing room, toweling off, and Aedion came up behind him and gathered him into his arms.  Dropping the towel on the sink, Mikkal leaned back against him, and Aedion pressed his lips against Mikkal’s neck before resting his chin against the bare shoulder.  

“Everything all right?” Mikkal asked, giving a little squeeze to one of the arms wrapped around him.

No.  You’re leaving.  “I guess so.”  Aedion sighed.  “Raedan was a little strange.”

“How so?”

He sighed again.  “I don’t know.  It was…it was almost like he was upset with me for saving him.”

Mikkal’s body went taut against his.  After a long moment, he relaxed again.  “Well,” he said slowly, “maybe he feels…guilty.”

“Why the hell would he feel guilty?”  Aedion asked, pulling away just enough to be able to see part of Mikkal’s face.  “I told him I didn’t mind, that I’d do it again; he’s like my brother.”  

“But that might not be what he feels guilty about.”

Aedion thought about that for a moment.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Look, he almost died.  I’d bet he thought he was going to.”  Aedion made a noise of agreement.  “So, maybe he feels bad that someone else did.”

“I can understand that,” Aedion muttered.

“Mmm.”  Mikkal turned in his arms and Aedion rested his forehead on the shorter man’s, as he had done so many times before.  “And maybe he feels a little bad about that fight you two had.”

Aedion growled a little.  “He thought it was me at first.”

“What?” Mikkal asked sharply, pulling away just enough to be able to look him in the eye.  “Is that a joke?”  He shook his head mutely.  “That bastard!” Mikkal snarled, and Aedion actually flinched at the fury in that beloved voice.  “I will kill him, I will kill him myself.”

Aedion laughed a little and cupped that beautiful face in his hands.  “That would waste a lot of hard work on my part,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching up.  “And to be fair, he only thought it for a second because he heard footsteps and assumed it was me.”

A tiny fraction of the anger drained out.  “Still.  That he would ever think that you would hurt him…”

“I know.”  Aedion kissed Mikkal lightly.  When he got little reaction, he kissed him again, then a third time, teasing him a little with his lips and tongue.  Finally Mikkal thawed, and when he responded it was with the fiery intensity that always took Aedion’s breath away.  His hands ran up that smooth, muscled back and he let himself be pushed back against the wall.  

Mikkal grunted as his hip drove into one of Aedion’s knives.  “Really?” he said drily.  “You didn’t think to take these off?”

“What’s the fun in that?” Aedion asked, his crooked grin spreading.  He watched as Mikkal’s clever fingers divested him of his weapons, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor, before turning to his tunic.  When that joined the knives on the floor and they were wrapped around each other again, Aedion broke away to whisper, “You forgot one,” as he nudged him with his hips.  

Mikkal chuckled.  “I have special plans for that one,” he said, flicking open the top button of Aedion’s pants.  “Unless you want me to drop it on the floor with the blades?”  The next button.  “But I think that would ruin my fun.”  He undid the last button and slipped one hand in to grip Aedion’s cock while the other shoved the material over his hips.

Aedion kicked off his boots then stepped out of his pants.  As soon as he was free Mikkal shoved him back against the wall again, taking his mouth with a brutal kiss.  Their hands roamed each other, and when they finally broke apart Aedion couldn’t even think.  He pushed off the wall and spun Mikkal around.  

There was something about being with this man, some bridge between them that strengthened with each stroke, each guttural moan, each panting breath.  He didn’t know what it was. All he knew, as they half-staggered out of the bathing room to collapse onto the bed and start up all over again, was that he had no idea how he was going to function in another five days.  Whether he would be able to keep breathing when he watched Mikkal ride out through those gates for the last time.  So he squeezed his eyes closed, memorizing every sonorous cry of his name, the feel of that lean muscled body under his hands, the taste of him on his lips.

When they were finally spent, sprawled out with Mikkal’s head on his shoulder, Aedion watched Mikkal run a long finger over the scar on his palm.  “How did you get this?” Mikkal murmured.  “I’ve been wondering for ages.”

“I’m not sure I should tell you,” he replied honestly.

Amber-colored eyes flicked up to his.  “You don’t have to, I was just wondering.”  He looked back down at his fingers tracing the pale crescent shape.  “It looks kind of like teeth.”

“It was.”  He had spoken aloud unintentionally, and Mikkal glanced back at his face before taking his hand and bringing it to his mouth.  The feel of those soft lips brushing lightly against the scar made a tremor run through him.  Mikkal shifted, and the room went dark before a strong arm and leg wrapped around him again.   He took a deep breath.  “It was a vow I made,” he said quietly.  He huffed air through his nose, thinking of how poorly he was keeping that vow.  “Right after I was captured.”

“You did it to yourself?” Mikkal asked, and he nodded, remembering that dusty camp, the dim tent, the blood dripping through his fingers.

“I needed a…reminder.  Of everything that had been taken from me, and everything that still could be.  All I wanted to do was try to help my people.”  Mikkal’s arm tightened around him, and Aedion was silent for a while.  “That’s still all I want,” he finally whispered, acknowledging the lie to himself as soon as it left his mouth.  There was a long enough pause that he was not sure if Mikkal was even still awake.

“I know,” came the eventual reply, and Aedion’s heart ached with the quiet pain in those two words.  

“I’ve done a piss-poor job so far.”

Mikkal moved so he was resting on his elbow and rubbed his free hand over his face.  “You haven’t had a whole hell of a lot of opportunity yet,” he said.  “Once they send you up there, you’ll have a better chance to see what’s really needed.”  

“I know what’s needed,” he replied, a bit sharply.  “But I shouldn’t…”  He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek to shut himself up.

“You shouldn’t tell me.” Mikkal finished.  “You’re not sure you can trust me, after all this.”  He laughed, a terrible, bitter sound.  “You think I don’t know what you want to do?  You think I don’t agree with you?  You honestly think that just because…”  He heaved a deep breath.  “Just because I was born in Adarlan, that I’m blind to its atrocities?  Go to hell, Aedion.”  He got out of bed and crossed to the bathing room.  There was some rustling of clothing, and then he left the room.  Aedion could hear his footsteps down the stairs, then the door of the house close behind him.

*****

As soon as he hit the fresh air, Mikkal could breathe a little easier.  He walked aimlessly, just needing to be away from Aedion’s mistrust, from the revelation of his own insignificance, form the room that still smelled like their lovemaking.  When he finally went back maybe Aedion would be gone.  Maybe that would be for the best, given that there were only a handful of days left.  It was just…he had let himself hope that Aedion maybe felt as he did.  But then he’d always been foolish that way.

His feet carried him towards his parents’ house, then around to the side garden that his mother loved.  It was late enough in the year that most of the flowers were long past, but there were still some rich orange and yellow ones that were bright even in the moonlight near the bench she like to sit on.  He sat in her preferred spot for a few minutes, before he felt driven to move and headed instead to lean over the low wall, looking across the camp towards the gate that he would ride through for the last time soon enough.  His hand found his dagger, and he began twirling it mindlessly, flipping it through his fingers like he often did back when he’d had night watch.  The truth was, now that his head was clearer, he understood Aedion’s reluctance to be open about his plans in Terrasen.  It was probably smart, actually; and that wasn’t really what had hurt anyway, it had just been a little salt in the wound.  

A footstep sounded on the gravel behind him and he knew who it would be.  “Mikkal.”  He didn’t move, even though there was something like anguish in that deep voice.  The steps came closer, and he had to force himself not to turn around.  “Mikkal, I’m…I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything.  I understand.”  He half-turned and gave a flicker of a smile.  “You’re right, of course.”  

Aedion stepped in front of him, sliding between him and the wall and taking his face in his hands.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Aedion said, and Mikkal wanted to pull away.  He wanted to find the strength to not respond when Aedion’s lips lightly brushed his, to keep his arms from wrapping automatically around the big frame, to maintain the distance that had forced its way between them not an hour ago.  But he couldn’t.  He surrendered himself completely.

*****

Turi finally reached the town mid-afternoon.  He had had four days of riding hard to mull over this peculiar assignment, and had ultimately reached the conclusion that Clery had lost his mind.  Sure, he could mimic an Adarlanian accent as well as anybody, but being sent into the lion’s den to try to find out how this camp was dealing with the death of one of their own at the hands of a Terrasen spy?  Flinn had sworn that he had stripped Aisnir of all possible links to their country,  but this still seemed like an unnecessary risk.  And why Clery needed the name of the murdered man was just another mystery.  Turi hated feeling like information was being withheld.  At least he might have the chance to see Ashryver for himself; he was still having a hard time believing that headstrong boy could have survived the hell of the past two years, no matter what Fulke and Flinn had claimed.

He stopped at the large inn near the town center and handed the exhausted horse to a stable hand.  Clery was smart about how he had his stops arranged, it was pretty easy to keep on a fresh horse, but this last leg was over twenty miles and he’d ridden it at a pretty fast clip.  He requested a room, and then headed out to see what sort of gossip he could pick up on.

There was a small tea shop he stopped in but it was an off time and there were only a couple of other patrons who were talking about getting their gardens set for winter.  Next stop was a book store, and he had been browsing in there for only a couple of minutes, listening to two young women discuss which officer they hoped to land that evening, when he heard a deep voice with an accent that was decidedly Terrasen.  He peered around the stacks, and saw two men towering over the bookseller.  The speaker was a giant of a lieutenant, broad-shouldered as well as tall, with golden hair.  The other man was perhaps an inch or two shorter, much more slender, with black hair and a captain’s insignia on his uniform.  They turned to follow the bookseller to a section, and the bigger man’s eyes passed briefly over him as they passed.  

It was Ashryver.  There was no doubt of that, not with those eyes, Evalin’s eyes.  He had to clamp down on the urge to go to him.  Pulling a book off the shelf at random, he flipped through it while surreptitiously watching the two officers peruse the books the seller had pointed out.  Before they could make a selection, he took the book in his hand up to the seller and purchased it, leaving quickly so he could find a good spot to observe them when they were finished.  They emerged onto the street a little while later, walking shoulder to shoulder with matching strides.  They headed in the direction of the inn, and he followed at a discreet distance, wondering who the other man was.  

Once in the inn’s tavern, he sat at the bar where he could easily see the two officers at their table.  When his flagon of ale and stew arrived, he ate while trying to not be obvious about watching them.  Not for the first time he wished he had not been an abject failure in training to be a spy, but Clery trusted him and he would do the best he could.  

The drunken man next to him turned to him abruptly.  “You’re not from around here, are you,” he slurred.

“No, sir, I’m just passing through,” Turi replied in his best possible Rifthold accent.

The man nodded sagely, looking in the direction Turi’s eyes kept straying.  “Ah, our fine young officers.  The pride and joy of the camp, as it were.”

“Oh?”  Turi tried to control his breathing, to not act too eager.

“Lieutenant Ashryver and Captain Paget,” the drunk went on, a little too loudly.  Turi’s eyes flicked back to the men in question, but they were still deep in conversation.  “They’re inseparable, they are.  Always together.  Day and night, if you get my meaning.”  Turi nodded; it would’ve been hard to miss his insinuation.  “And a good thing.  The captain is a bit of a re…res…restraining influence on the lieutenant.”

Turi chuckled.  “Hard to believe anyone could restrain a man like that.”

“Ah, well, that’s the truth.  You won’t believe it, but I heard he killed a man with one blow.”  He raised his eyebrows, challenging Turi to argue with him.  Turi obliged.

“One blow?  That seems unlikely.”

“Well it happened down south, you know.”  As if somehow the south made men more vulnerable.  “But I did see him drop one of his fellow lieutenants in the street a few months back.”

“He killed a lieutenant?”  And didn’t end up in prison? he didn’t add.

“Nah, nah, didn’t kill him, just floored him.  The bastard deserved it, too.”  That must’ve been the incident Fulke observed.  “It was after that he took up with young Captain Paget there, and since then it’s been pretty quiet.”  He finished his ale and looked longingly at Turi’s half full glass.  Turi took the hint and signaled for another round.  “Until last week, that is.”

“What happened last week?”

The man lifted his new glass in a grateful gesture, then downed a quarter of it in one gulp.  “Heard it myself from one of the men who was there.  I know most of ‘em, you know.  The men at the camp.  Friends, like.”  Pride crept into his voice, and Turi nodded politely.  “There was an attack on one of the young men, someone out in the woods stabbed him in the chest.  Ashryver downed him.  Knife in the eye.  Man I talked to, he was one of the ones who went out to try to identify the attacker.  Said it took two of ‘em to get the knife out of the man’s eye, it was in so deep.”

“Who would attack a soldier on a training exercise?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?  Nobody knows who the fellow was, or what he had against the young man.”

“The lieutenant must’ve been upset.”

“They said he was like a wild animal.”  The man pointed his finger at Turi.  “Picked that boy up and ran back with him barefoot, three miles they said.  Saved his life.”

“The soldier didn’t die?”

“Nope.  Least, not according to the folks I talked to.”  

Now that was interesting.  Flinn had sounded sure the unknown man was dead.  He made a noncommittal noise and the man settled back into his ale, muttering occasionally about other rumored exploits of the officers.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ashryver and his companion rise to leave, pausing briefly at the exit to talk to a large older woman in an apron.  She laughed and patted the captain on the arm, and the two of them disappeared out onto the street.  

Turi dropped a couple coins onto the bar and, with a nod to his muttering companion, followed the men.  When he reached the street he could see the captain striding off in the direction of the camp, but there was no sign of Ashryver.  The black-haired man paused, looking in a window, then entered the shop.  Turi looked around him; the street was quiet, just an older couple walking slowly and perusing the various shops on the far side.  He followed the captain.

He was almost at the store the man had gone into when hands shot out of the shadows of a narrow alley between buildings and dragged him deep within.  One covered his mouth, the other had his arms pinned, trapping him against a massive body.  He didn’t struggle; there was no point, unless he wanted to get his neck broken.  Once they were deep enough to not be easily noticed from the street, Ashryver’s deep voice said behind him, “I’m going to let you go, but if you run, or draw attention to yourself, I’m going to kill you.  Understand?”  Turi nodded, and the hands holding him dropped and he spun around.

He could barely see the prince in the shadows, just making out the strong planes of his face in the faint light from the street.  “Why have you been following us?” Ashryver asked.

“I’m not,” Turi tried, in his long-practiced Adarlanian accent.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

Footsteps sounded in the alley, and Turi looked, hoping for someone to save him.  Instead, it was the captain, blocking any escape route.  And while he might have seemed small compared to Ashryver, he still towered over Turi.  There were strange flashes of light from his right hand, and Turi realized he was twirling a dagger.  He wondered if Ashryver was just the distraction, if the killing blow would come from this other man.  Why had he had been so stupid, so careless?  He silently cursed Clery for sending him on this errand.  

“I’m going to try again.  Why have you been following us?”

Turi swallowed hard, and spoke in his normal voice.  “I…We had heard that a soldier was killed recently in Oakwald.  I came to find out what happened.”

“You came, or you were sent.”

He hesitated, unsure why Ashryver was making the distinction.  “I was sent.”

“And who sent such a piss-poor spy after us?”

“I’m not a spy,” Turi snapped, then cringed away, expecting a blow for his tone.  When none came, he continued, “I’m a messenger.”  The two men exchanged looks.  

“For someone I know?”  After a quick glance at the captain, Turi nodded once.  “And why does anyone from Terrasen care about what happened to a regular from Adarlan?”

“I don’t know.”  The men exchanged a look.  “I’ve been wondering that for the past four days, to be honest.”

Ashryver’s nostrils flared.  “And this still doesn’t explain why you’re following me.”

“I…”  Why was he following Ashryver?  Now that the question was posed to him, it seemed a monstrously idiotic thing to do.  “I don’t even know,” he finally said.  “I just…I saw you and recognized you and…” he trailed off.

To his surprise, it was the captain who filled in for him quietly.  “And you couldn’t believe it.”  He nodded again.  The aristocratic young man caught and held Ashryver’s eye.  “If you want me to leave so you can talk to him, that’s fine.”

Ashryver shook his head.  “No.  Stay.”  He turned to Turi.  “What’s your name, messenger?”

“Turi.”

“Well, Turi, I can guess who sent you, after the catastrophe last week.  And because of that, I will tell you what you want to know.  But you must promise me that you will deliver my whole message.”

“I promise,” Turi said.

“Do you need to write it down?”

Turi shook his head.  “No.  That’s why they use me.”  

Ashryver gave a grim smile, and Turi supposed he knew as well as anyone the dangers involved in written correspondence.  “Tell him that the soldier who was stabbed is named Raedan Lamar.  Tell him that he is to never go after someone under my protection again, or it will not end well for him.  And tell Delaney - do you know who Delaney is?”  

Turi couldn’t keep the flash of surprise from his features.  “The messenger girl Clery took in?”

Ashryver nodded.  “Tell Delaney that Raedan is safe, he got to a healer in time.” 

Turi wondered why the young girl would care, but only asked, “Is that all?”

The captain looked at Ashryver and they seemed to have a silent conversation before the prince turned to Turi again.  “That’s all.  For now.”  The officers started to move up the alley, before he turned back.  “If anybody wants to see me, I come to town once a week at about this time.  When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, if my horse is rested enough.”

Those strange eyes - even stranger in the moonlight - stared into his for a long moment.  “Safe travels,” the lieutenant-prince said finally, and turned away.  This time, when the two officers disappeared from the alley, he didn’t follow them.  Instead, he leaned against the wall, pressed one shaking hand to his temple, and swore softly.

Because damn.  If they weren’t careful, Ashryver was going to mow them all down.  But if they handled him right…  

Suddenly exhausted, he staggered back to his room in the inn.  It was not for him to find a way to set Prince Aedion Ashryver at the head of the Bane.  That was Clery’s problem, and Lord Darrow’s.  As he prepared for bed, he couldn’t help grinning to himself.  In five days he would be home.  And then they would begin to plan.

*****

It took every ounce of discipline Aedion possessed to even make it back to camp without dragging Mikkal off the road into a clump of bushes.  There was something about the way he had prowled down the alley, flipping that dagger, so smooth and strong and threatening; it had been hard to concentrate on the task at hand over the surge of desire.  The whole setup had been Mikkal’s idea, and the simple plan had worked flawlessly.  Aedion shook his head, thinking about it.  Clery was getting either foolish or desperate, but he had smelled no deceit on the messenger.  Just fear.  And home.  

Remembering the easy grace with which Mikkal had handled himself caused all other thoughts to fall out of his brain.  Never had he unsaddled Avenar so quickly, nor given her such a poor excuse for a rubdown.  It was mere minutes after their arrival that he was pushing Mikkal into the shadows behind the stable, taking his mouth with his own, hands desperate to find skin.  

“Aedion,” Mikkal murmured, and he felt hands pressing against his chest.  “Aedion, wait.”  He broke off immediately, though couldn’t stop the low growl of frustration.  Mikkal grinned.  “Come on.”  Aedion resisted being dragged out of the shadows, pulling Mikkal in closer and kissing him until he pulled away again.  “Nobody ever died because they had to keep their pants on for a few minutes.”

“There’s a first time for everything.  Do you want to take that chance?”  He followed Mikkal towards his rooms, soon passing him and grabbing his hand to pull him along faster.  They were laughing like schoolchildren as they crashed through his small house and into his bedroom.  The door had barely clicked shut behind them before Aedion had shoved Mikkal against it and dropped to his knees.

The guttural moan Mikkal made as Aedion took him into his mouth was almost enough to shred Aedion’s shaky self control.  The fingers curling in his hair, the way that long body leaned back against the door, the complete and utter surrender… When Mikkal went suddenly still, Aedion knew he was close to his release and upped his tempo, working his tongue over the broad smooth head of him, listening for that telltale hitch of breath.  

When Mikkal’s shuddering climax was over and he was limp against the door, Aedion kissed his way up his body before scooping him up in his arms.  Mikkal laughed under his breath as he was swung onto the bed, and he grabbed Aedion’s face in his hands and drew him down on top of him for a kiss.  Before Aedion could roll him, Mikkal hooked his foot around his ankles and surged upwards, flipping them both with an ease that shocked a laugh out of Aedion.  He wondered briefly how much Mikkal held himself back, how much he hid, but that thought fled along with all others as his clothes were stripped from him and that clever mouth took him in.

It was sweet torture to remain on his back, to keep his movements small and allow Mikkal to control the rhythm.  Every sweep of his tongue, every careful graze of his teeth heightened the sensation until the pleasure was very nearly pain.  When the climax finally hit it was in overwhelming waves, and as it passed he was startled and a little embarrassed to realize he was blinking back tears.  Not that Mikkal seemed to care as he crawled up and collapsed against him.  

They lay in their standard position, Mikkal’s head on his shoulder, one arm resting on his ribs, one leg wrapped between his.  After a few minutes, Aedion pressed his lips gently against that silky black hair.  Mikkal’s arm tightened in response and he said sleepily, “Just give me a moment.  Then you can have your way with me.”

Aedion gave a breathless laugh and kissed his hair again.  He must have dozed off for a little bit, because suddenly he was awake and aware Mikkal was watching him.  Reaching up, he brushed his thumb against his cheek.  Mikkal closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.  “What am I going to do?” Aedion murmured, and Mikkal’s breath caught and his face tightened.  After a long moment, those clear amber eyes opened, and Aedion’s own breathing hitched at the expression in them.

“You’re going to be fine,” Mikkal said fiercely.  “You’ll be in Terrasen by spring.  You’ll be home.  And you’ll be able to keep your vow.”

“But you won’t be with me,” Aedion whispered.

“You don’t need me.  You’ll move on.”

“How can you say that?”

The smile Mikkal gave as he brushed Aedion’s hair back off his forehead was heartbreaking.  “Because everyone always does.”

Aedion didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t know how many people Mikkal had let go before him, how many he had loved.  Maybe it really was that inevitable.  Maybe Mikkal would go south, and he would go north, and in a few months this would seem like nothing but a fading dream.  He drew Mikkal to him again.  If it was all just going to be a dream, it might as well be a good one.  

*****

A while later, as they lay tangled up in each other, still panting, Aedion whispered in Mikkal’s ear, “What about you?  What are you going to do all the way down there in Fenharrow?”

He was silent for a long time.  “You don’t need to worry about me.  I’ll be all right.”  He wondered if Aedion could smell the lie.

*****

The light filtering into Delaney’s window touched her awake.  She didn’t know how long she had been in her room, how many days or weeks had passed since the world had been smothered in a gray haze with the realization that Raedan was gone.  This morning, she felt…clear.  Empty, hollow, but clear.  She swung her feet out of bed, pressed them to the cold floor, and rose, stiff and shaky.  Her chest still hurt, as sharp as if she were the one who had taken the blade, and it took her a long time to cross the room and open the doors to her wardrobe.  There were too many clothes in there, it was too hard to pick something, so she sat on the corner of her desk for a while, just staring.  Eventually she grabbed trousers and a shirt at random and pulled them on before creeping down the stairs.  

Her appearance in the breakfast room caused a bit of a stir.  The housekeeper seemed inclined to make a fuss, but at a glance from Clery settled for pouring her tea and putting a sweet bun on her plate.  Delaney picked at the food and sipped at the tea without tasting any of it.  It fell into the hollow spot and sat there like a brick.  Clery shook out a paper and started to read, glancing up at her occasionally.  

“I want to do something,” she said abruptly, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears.  

Clery set the paper down slowly.  “All right.  What did you have in mind?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead.  “I don’t know.”

He looked her up and down.  “Start by taking a bath.  Then we can talk more.”

She soaked in the bath long enough that the water was nearly cold before she rose to towel off.  It was most peculiar; she knew her eyes were open, but time passed in great leaps as if she were asleep.  The brush tangled in her shoulder-length hair and she started to yank at it when a knock sounded at the door, and the housekeeper entered.  

“Here, honey, let me help you.”  She gently freed the brush and began working at her hair.  “You know, you can talk to any one of us if you ever want to.  You don’t have to; do what you need to, my dear.  We’re here.”

Delaney nodded mutely.  She didn’t know what to say, didn’t think there was anything in her to say.  When the housekeeper was done and her hair was as smooth as it got these days, she dressed in fresh clothes somebody had selected for her and headed to Clery’s study.  

He studied her for a moment, then handed her a paper.  A letter from Fulke, in which he stated that he had found his beloved young cousin a job in a bakery in Rifthold, and she could join him there whenever she wished.  Delaney read it twice and then handed it back to him.  “Do you still wish to help us?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said, surprising herself.  “I think…yes.”

“I need you to be certain.”

She nodded.  “What Adarlan did…what it’s doing, it’s not right.  And if it hadn’t conquered, hadn’t destroyed everything, hadn’t killed so many people, then Rae…my brother would still be…”  The tears that had been absent for days welled up fresh.

Clery walked around the desk and gathered her up in a hug.  “War is hell, and it is always the innocent who suffer the most.”  He hesitated for a long moment.  “Aisnir’s son went to the butchering blocks because he had magic.  It doesn’t make what he did right, not by any means, but his son was as undeserving of his fate as your brother.”  Delaney nodded.   “That is what we’re trying to do.  We’re trying to find ways to protect the innocent, so if you’re truly willing to be my eyes and ears -”

“I am.”

“Then let’s get you ready.”

*****

They were down to three more mornings of waking up together.  Not that Aedion was counting, or trying desperately to hold onto each precious minute.  Only three more days of laughing and training and eating together; three nights of having Mikkal there to soothe his nightmares, to sing to him, his voice a tether keeping the crushing black from sweeping him away.  

When Mikkal moved to get out of bed Aedion dragged him back in, kissing his back and neck until he surrendered, laughing.  As they lay for a moment, Mikkal half on top of him, a memory triggered from the night before.  “How come you never spar with me?” Aedion asked.  

Mikkal freed himself and turned to face him.  “Because I’m not an idiot.”

“But last night you were able to flip me easily.”

“I hardly think one effective maneuver when you weren’t expecting it means I could hold my own against you in the ring,” he replied drily.  “Especially given which brain you were using in that moment.”  

Aedion laughed.  “It wouldn’t have to be hand-to-hand.  If you were to spar with me, what weapon would you choose?”

“Probably sword.”

Aedion was surprised.  He’d seen Mikkal handle the bow and knives when helping out in training, but had never seen him so much as lift a sword.  “Why?”

One black eyebrow went up.  “Because it’s the only weapon I might be able to occupy you with for more than 30 seconds.”

“Really?”  

“Yes, you arrogant bastard.”  His affectionate tone eliminated any sting from the words, and he bent down to kiss him before escaping the bed for good.  

Aedion followed him into the bathing room.  “Will you spar with me?”

Mikkal looked at him in disbelief.  “This is so important to you that you have to watch me pee?”  Aedion just waited.  “Fine.  I’ll spar with you.”

“Today?”

“If you insist.”

Aedion began questioning his decision to push the matter when he walked towards the pitch a few hours later and saw every single officer in camp waiting.  Their gleeful expressions as they watched him approaching gave him pause.  He stopped next to Mikkal.  “What are they all doing here?”

“They just want to see me get my ass handed to me, I imagine.  General’s son and all.”  He said it casually, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes.  

“Why do I doubt that?”  

Mikkal shrugged, and began unbuttoning his jacket.  “Are we doing an exhibition here, or are we actually fighting?” he asked, hand on his dagger belt.

“Fighting.”  He took his own jacket off and dropped it on the browning grass next to Mikkal’s.

“Sword and dagger, then.”  Aedion nodded, and Mikkal left the belt in place.  Side by side, they strode onto the pitch and faced each other.  

“I’ll call time,” said Major Ivry from where he stood on the edge of the pitch.  Mikkal nodded his agreement, and Aedion was a bit surprised to see a feral smile beginning to spread on that well-loved face as he drew his sword.  

Ivry whistled, and they began.  Mikkal’s initial aggression forced Aedion onto his back foot.  Unlike most fighters who take the first rush, Mikkal didn’t immediately lunge, but feinted to Aedion’s left then, anticipating the block, spun and swung his dagger at his exposed right.  Aedion parried the blow easily, but it was an unusual maneuver and he eyed Mikkal warily as he shifted to the offensive.  Mikkal kept his footwork pristine as he backpedaled, his parrying blow hard enough Aedion felt the reverberations in his teeth.  He snarled, and Mikkal gave a short laugh as he danced around and struck again.  

The fight dragged on, the seconds passing into minutes, until they were both panting and flushed, sweating through their shirts.  Aedion had never fought someone with Mikkal’s speed, he realized; nor someone with that long of a reach, almost equal to his own.  He found himself tapping into his fae strength, trying to disarm him, and finally Mikkal’s grip on his sword seemed to weaken.  He stepped in to trap the sword with his own weapons - and felt a burn snake up his forearm as the tip of Mikkal’s dagger struck through his sleeve.

“Time!” yelled Ivry.  Aedion wasn’t sure if the five minutes had actually passed, or if it was called because any bloodletting was considered the end of a sparring session.

“Shit!”  Aedion stared down at his arm in shock as Mikkal sheathed his weapons.  It was just a scratch, but he didn’t remember the last time someone had managed to draw blood on him with a weapon.  The battle where he was captured, probably.  There was a roar of noise all around him, and he looked up to see every single officer applauding.

“Come on,” Mikkal said, “let’s walk around for a minute or we’re both going to cramp up.”  Aedion followed him, ignoring the men who clapped them on the shoulders as they passed.  

“That was the best fight I’ve ever seen,” Ivry said, grinning from ear to ear as he joined them.  “Gods, man, you fight dirty, Paget.”

Mikkal laughed.  “I’ve got to use any advantage I can going up against this one.”

“How was that dirty?” Aedion asked.

Ivry smile got wider, if that was possible.  “Did you really think he lost his grip?”  He patted Aedion on the shoulder, a little condescendingly, and jogged back to the rest of the men.

Aedion stopped, sputtering, “Are you…did you…is he…”

Mikkal’s face was abruptly dead serious.  “You’re still holding back, Aedion.”  He shook his head.  “There is only one reason why I was able to stay on that pitch with you today.  And that’s because you are still not fighting with your heart.  You’re so used to outmatching everyone you go up against that you never reach the depths of your reserves.  

“You underestimated me today, just like I thought you would.  Don’t do it again.  Not with me, not with anybody.  It’ll get you killed.”  Mikkal started walking again, then paused and turned after a few feet when he realized Aedion wasn’t behind him.  His face was flushed, his hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, his eyes still glowing with the aftermath of adrenaline from the fight.  He looked like he did right after he came.  Aedion had never wanted him more than he did in that moment, and Mikkal seemed to sense it.  He walked back, a sensual smile playing on his lips.  “Now’s not the time,” he murmured, “half he camp is watching us.  Let’s keep walking then get some water.”

They walked in silence around half the pitch.  “You set this all up, didn’t you.”

Mikkal looked at him out of the corner of his eye.  “You’re pretty predictable.”  Aedion growled.  “Though I didn’t expect you to take this long to ask to spar.”

“It never really occurred to me.  You don’t seem…”

“Like a fighter?”  His voice was bitter.  “Just because I hate it doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.”

“You didn’t hate it today.”

“No, I suppose not.”  Mikkal sighed.  “I don’t hate it in the moment.  It’s the aftermath that bothers me.”  The bulk of the officers had dispersed by the time they were approaching again, but the remainder had been joined by their charges for training.  Aedion held back his reply as he recognized his own men and realized he needed stay to assist.  He took the gentle ribbing from the soldiers with a grin, but couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to Mikkal walking off the pitch, head bowed.  

*****

The next two days passed in a haze, Mikkal’s only clear memories being fighting and fucking.  He knew he spent time with his mother; knew he visited Raedan in the infirmary; knew he must have eaten and slept and gone to meetings.  But all he could recall was Aedion.  

After that spectacular session on the pitch, Aedion had insisted on working with him and the sword as much as possible before he left.  The truth was, there wasn’t anything he could teach him about the moves or the handling of a weapon; it was ruthlessness Aedion needed to learn, and Mikkal wasn’t sure he could teach that.  Not to the man he loved.  Not when Mikkal himself was regretting every wound he’d ever inflicted, every life he’d ever taken; when all their faces had become Aedion’s, or his mother’s.

The night before he left, he went to see his father.  The general was in his study, as he always was in the evening.  Mikkal knocked and entered on his father’s command, and was surprised to see his father grinning at him from the other side of his desk.

“That was a hell of a fight, son,” General Paget said by way of greeting.  

“I didn’t know you saw it,” Mikkal replied, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

His father studied him for a moment.  “You’ve gotten stronger.”

Mikkal huffed a quiet laugh.  “It would be hard to train Ashryver for five months and not get stronger.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.  You all set for your trip?”  Mikkal nodded, not quite able to meet his eye.  He hated this.  Hated the fact that he knew deep in his bones that this would be the last time he sat in this study, the last time those gray eyes would fix on him, always seeing more than he wanted.

“I’m…sorry, son,” his father said, quite gently for him.  Mikkal looked at him in surprise.  “I know it’s hard for you to leave.  Your mother told me you talked to her?”

“I’m afraid for him,” he said, not quite an answer but a truth he needed to share.  “He’s too careful, still.  That’s why I beat him the other day, you know.”

“And you don’t think that’s just because it was you?”

“It could be, but I don’t think so.  I pissed him off on purpose, you see.  And he fought harder against me than he has against anyone else since he’d been here.”  

The general nodded thoughtfully.  “You’re more skilled than he’s used to, though.  And if he hadn’t seen you train, he wouldn’t have had a reason to know that.”

“Yes, but that’s my concern.  He starts from a point of underestimating his opponent, of trying to match their skill instead of just fighting his fight.  And I don’t know how to fix that.”

“You can’t.”  One corner of the general’s lips quirked up.  “Don’t give me that look, son.  You can’t fix it, nobody can but him.  He’ll figure it out in battle soon enough.”

“But what if he doesn’t?  At least, not in time?”

His father shook his head, expression softer than he’d ever seen it.  “You can’t protect him from himself, Mikkal.  No matter how much you love him.”  Looking at the grief and understanding in those wise gray eyes, Mikkal realized his father was not really talking about Aedion.

*****

Delaney heard voices in the study when she entered the townhouse.  The last few days had settled into a routine, and she was slowly beginning to remember who she had been.  That first day, she had gone and spoken with Mabina.  The seamstress had been so kind it felt like she was talking to a different person than the bitter taskmaster she’d become accustomed to.  Then again, now Delaney understood.  They could speak the common language of loss.

The past few days she had gone back to Ea’s bakery.  It had made sense, since that would be the role she’d be playing in a month or so.  She was grateful, too, for the return to something she had been good at, had enjoyed.  It made getting through each day a little easier.

Not wanting to deal with whoever Clery was talking to, she started up the stairs to her room, hoping to sneak past the study on her way.  She cringed when he called her name, and slunk back to stand in the doorway.

The visitor was Turi, one of the other messengers Clery employed.  She hadn’t seen him for a while, perhaps only once or twice since her messenger duties had ceased.  Clery’s face was glowing, and Turi looked confused, a feeling Delaney found herself sharing.  

“Delaney, Turi’s got some information for you.”  Clery’s voice was nearly shaking with excitement.  

Turi stood and gave her a small bow, which served to confuse her further.  “I was told to tell you, miss, that Raedan is safe, that he got to a healer in time.”  He looked at her in some alarm.  “Miss?  Are you all right?”  

The room tilted, then Clery was there, supporting her, guiding her into a chair.  She raised a shaking hand to her mouth.  “What did you say?” she whispered.

“Why don’t you tell her the whole thing, Turi,” Clery suggested.

So he did.  He told her every detail of his ride, and his encounter with the drunk in the tavern and then with Aedion.  Every word he said had the ring of truth.  This time, when he repeated Aedion’s message, she let herself believe it, and the tears began to fall.

*****

Aedion had no intention of sleeping this last night.  Mikkal came back from the meeting with the general a little pale, and Aedion had hesitated, not wanting to press him.  But Mikkal had practically attacked him, literally ripping his shirt off as he shoved him back onto the bed.  Mikkal’s clothes suffered similarly.  Aedion was not gentle when he flipped Mikkal onto his knees, was not careful as he joined them, yet Mikkal cried out for more more more and Aedion responded.   With his hands and his mouth and his cock, he responded, until Mikkal was shuddering underneath him with the force of his climax.  Then Aedion pulled him up against his chest and bit down on his neck, hard enough to bruise, needing to mark him as he had their very first time together.   And like that first time, as he went over the edge with his teeth still buried in Mikkal’s skin, there was grief staining the pleasure, though this time he at least knew why.

Afterwards they lay face to face, so close they were sharing breath, their whole bodies pressed against each other, Mikkal’s fingers tracing his ear, his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.  “I need you to promise me something,” Mikkal murmured.

“Anything.”

“I need you to promise me that you will learn how to lie.”

“What?”  Aedion pulled back a fraction, so he could better read Mikkal’s face.

“I need you to learn how to lie.  To do what you plan…you’re too honest.”

Aedion didn’t know how to respond.  “What makes you think I’m planning something?”

“Like I said, I’m not an idiot.  I’ve seen enough.  You came back from the forest missing two of your daggers, Aedion, and that man in town…You’re planning to do what I lack the balls for.  But to pull it off, to do it without being caught by the King, you’ll need to have both sides fooled.”  It was true; he’d thought the same thing himself.  “And they’re going to hate you for it, Aedion.  The people you’re doing this for…if you do it right, they’re going to hate you.”

“I know.”  It was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make, if it could help keep his people safe.

Mikkal kissed him then, and Aedion couldn’t tell whose tears he was tasting on those perfect lips.

*****

A little after sunrise, a tall black-haired man rode through the gates of the camp, letting his horse pick his way down the hill.  He knew the road he had to travel, and his mind was not on what lay ahead but on what he was leaving behind.  The only three people in the world he loved remained behind those walls.  He had left with those three words unsaid to the one who mattered the most.  He had tried to show it with every kiss and touch, with every song sung to chase away the darkness, but if he had said them, had heard them in return, he never would have been able to leave.  The road was gilded with the light as he reached the flat and touched his horse into an easy canter, but all he could see was empty blackness yawning before him.  

He never knew that a young golden haired lieutenant stood alone in a watchtower, watching him leave, whispering his name, praying to whatever gods there still were that they would find their way back to each other.

Just Once.  (Maybe Twice.)

This has been a long time coming, but finally here’s the Nessian smut fic for my 500 followers giveaway.  I ended up doing a modern AU for a change, deciding to make it loosely related to The Costume Party.  Hope y’all enjoy it, especially @empress-ofbloodshed!  Definitely NSFW.

“Hey, don’t look, but there’s a cute guy checking you out over by the bar.”  

Naturally, Nesta had to look.  And what do you know, Feyre was kind of right, though Nesta wasn’t totally sure she’d call six-foot-four of solid muscle and tattoos peeking out from under his t-shirt “cute”.   Then again, Feyre had enough ink for a sorority full of college girls, so she supposed tastes differ.  But the guy was undeniably attractive, with a strong jaw and full mouth and light brown eyes.  He was also undeniably staring at her, and his expression turned cocky when he realized she had noticed him.  Ick.  No doubt he was just a standard-issue asshole, and god knew she didn’t need another one of those.

Mor plopped into their booth, Andromache right behind her, both flushed from dancing.  “Ooh, who are we checking out?” she asked, seeing that the sisters were both looking at the bar.

“That guy with the tats looks like he’s into Nesta,” Feyre explained.

“Oh, god.”  Mor laughed as she realized who they were talking about.  “That’s just Cassian.”

Feyre’s brow crinkled.  “Cassian?  Like, Rhys’ brother?”  Rhys was Feyre’s nauseatingly perfect new boyfriend, and Mor’s cousin.  Nesta hadn’t known he had a brother, but she’d be damned if she’d date, let alone go to bed with, this guy if that was the case.  Talk about asking for trouble.

“They’re not really brothers,” Andromache said.  “Rhys’ mom did foster care, Cassian was one of the fosters for a while.”

“I though he was in the military,” Feyre said.

Mor shrugged.  “Reserves.  He got back from deployment at the end of last year.”

She snuck another glance, but he was talking to some brunette chick in a clingy dress.  Good.  The last thing she wanted was some hyper-responsible military type when she was trying to avoid all emotion.

“Actually…”  Mor tapped her wine glass.  “If you’re really just looking to get laid, Cassian’s not a bad option,” she said, looking sideways at Nesta.  “What?” she asked defensively at Andromache’s and Feyre’s glares.  “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

It was, in fact, why they were there.  

After her one and only relationship had ended in disaster, she hadn’t even tried to go on dates.  It had been months since Tomas’ sentencing, over a year since that terrible night, and earlier in the week Mor had declared that it was time to rip the band-aid off and get her back out there.  “Get back on the man” was the exact phrase Mor had used, much to Nesta’s disgust.  Why she was letting Feyre’s roommate bully her into such an idiotic plan, she had no idea.  But the truth was, she kind of wanted to get it over with, and meaningless sex with a total stranger had a certain appeal.  Just once, she wanted to fuck somebody.  Just once, she wanted to have a man inside her and have it be nothing more than gym activity that felt good.

Sex with Feyre’s quasi-brother-in-law, on the other hand, seemed loaded with potential for further catastrophe.

Still, she was appreciative when Feyre asked for her, “What makes you think Cassian’s a good choice?”

Mor grinned.  “Well, back in the day, when I was young and naive -” Andromache rolled her eyes.  “Well, young at least, I may have learned what assets he had besides all that muscle.”

“In other words,” her girlfriend interjected, “she lost her virginity to him.”

Okay, yeah, definitely not an option.  “So you want me to go to bed with someone who was so horrible that he turned you gay?” she said.  

Andromache snorted her cosmopolitan out her nose and Mor laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.  “See, this is why we keep you around,” she said, when she finally caught her breath.  “And no, he’s a good guy, really.  He just doesn’t really do relationships, so, no strings.  Perfect, right?”

That did sound perfect, exactly what she was looking for.  When she looked back to where he’d been standing, though, he was gone, as was the brunette.  Which was for the best, she decided, even as her thumb strayed to the empty spot on her left ring finger.  While the others chatted about something inane, she scanned the crowd.  There were a number of men there, and quite a few who caught her looking at them and returned the look with interest, but they were all just so…ordinary.

“Hey, Mor.  Andromache,” came a deep, resonant voice from behind her.  She craned her head around and, of course, the tattooed man was leaning on the back of their booth, grinning down at her.  “Going to introduce me to your friends?”

With a dramatic sigh, Mor obliged.  “This is my roommate, Feyre, and this is her sister, Nesta.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he said, reaching over the booth and extending his hand.  Nesta just looked at it.  After an awkward moment, Feyre leaned across her to shake it.  “Rhys has mentioned you, Feyre.”

She smiled and said something conventional in response.  Cassian evidently saw that as an invitation, and he walked around to slide in next to Andromache, across from Feyre.  He took up half the booth, but seemed oblivious to the fact that he was crowding the rest of them.  He, Mor, and Andromache fell into easy conversation, and Nesta wondered how they could be so relaxed together.  Then again, Mor was always comfortable in every situation.  It was her special gift.  Though being born beautiful and rich no doubt helped.  Not that Nesta was bitter.

“So.”  Cassian’s attention turned to Nesta.  “What do you do here in Velaris, Nes?”

“Don’t call me that,” she replied automatically, and he grinned wickedly.

“Oh, so you prefer Nessie?”  Great, he was a comedian.  She just rolled her eyes and said nothing.  “No, really, Nesta, what do you do?”

“I’m a paralegal,” she said after a pause.

“She’s applying to law school,” Feyre added, ignoring the glare she received in response.  

Cassian whistled.  “So you’re smart, too.  That’s cool.”  She looked at him levelly.  He returned the look with an appraising one of his own.  Then Andromache elbowed him and he looked away, and Nesta was left wondering if she’d passed whatever test that had been.  Then being annoyed with herself for caring.

He stood, letting Mor and Andromache out of the booth so they could hit the dance floor.  The music was pounding, almost oppressive, and he turned back to the sisters with an eager light in his green-flecked eyes.  “Well, Paralegal Nesta, would you like to dance?” he asked.

“I don’t dance.”

“I can show you,” he offered, holding out his hand.  “This type of dancing isn’t that difficult.”

She ignored the broad hand for a second time.  “I didn’t say I can’t, just that I don’t.”

“I see,” he said nodding, lips twitching as though he were fighting a smile.  “Can I ask you a question then?”

“No.”

Of course he asked it anyway.  “Why come to a dance club if you don’t dance?”  Feyre was struggling not to laugh, and Nesta could cheerfully have strangled her.

“Go on, Nesta,” her sister encouraged, sliding out of the booth to free her.  “I’ll watch the drinks.”  Nesta glared from Feyre to Cassian, but neither of them seemed likely to budge.  Rolling her eyes, Nesta clambered out.  Just as she passed, Feyre whispered, “There’s condoms in your purse.”  Nesta flipped her off as she followed Cassian out onto the floor.

This is going to be a bloodbath, she thought, seeing a path clear around his towering bulk.  Videos she’d seen of entire rooms of people being knocked over by one bad dancer flashed through her mind as he turned to her, a wild joy on his rough-hewn face.

Then he started to dance.  And damn her but that hulking brute could move.  It was like watching fully clothed porn (not that she had ever watched such a thing), his muscles rippling under his snug shirt, his hips moving in a sensual rhythm.  He was both utterly free and completely aware of everybody around him.  When he held his hand out for a third time, she took it and let herself be dragged into the melee.  

She lost track of time as they danced.  Lost track of everything, actually, except for the vibrant man moving with her, until finally the music slowed a little and she realized she was spent.  Turning abruptly, she shoved her way through the crowd towards the natural break made by the entrance into the bathrooms.  Reaching the wall, she turned around to lean against it, only to find Cassian looming behind her.  

“What,” she snapped, though there wasn’t much force behind it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and damnit, that was genuine concern in his face.  

“Fine.  Just need a break.  You should go back out there.”

He just leaned against the wall next to her, looking down at her.  “Was that so bad?”  

She wanted to come up with a clever retort, but he was just so close.  The words failed on her lips as she met his eyes.  

“You were right, you know,” he said, bending a little closer.

“Of course I was,” she replied.  “About what?”

“You do know how to dance.”  With that he kissed her, gently, lingeringly.  When he pulled away to gauge her reaction, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching up and drawing him in again.  This kiss was deeper, fuller, and she found herself opening for him, responding as his tongue swept in.  Her core went molten on her, and she pulled him closer until he was pressed up against her.

What the hell is wrong with you? Her brain interjected abruptly.  Remember what happened.  Remember.  Remember.  Reflexively, her knee shot up, but he somehow caught it before it made contact with his groin, pushing it to the side as he pulled back.

“You could have just said no,” he said mildly.  “Or, I don’t know, taken your tongue out of my mouth.  I wouldn’t have pushed you.”

“Go to hell,” she said, hating the roughness in her voice.  She stumbled through the crowd towards their booth, nearly skidding to a stop when she saw that Feyre wasn’t alone.  Somehow Rhys had materialized, just as he always seemed to even on a girls’ night, and they were totally wrapped around each other.  Shoving down the useless tears, she grabbed her purse from where it had fallen to the floor.

Feyre disengaged when she realized someone was there.  “Are you okay?” she asked.

Nesta tried a smile.  “Fine, just tired.  I think I’m gonna head home.”

“Want some company?” Rhys asked.  “We’d be happy to go with you, I think Mor’s probably going to go home with Andromache.”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” Nesta said, shaking her head, hoping the denial wasn’t too strenuous.  She headed for the door to find Cassian standing there as if he was waiting for her.  Sighing, she crossed her arms and brushed past him as if he were statuary.  He followed.

“Fuck off, Cassian, I’m going home.”

“Okay,” he said, still walking just behind her.

“That was not an invitation, asshole.”

He snorted.  “No shit, princess, but I’m not letting you walk home alone at this time of night.”

She stopped and whipped around to glare at him.  “And I don’t want you knowing where I live, okay, you’re probably some freaking axe-murderer!”

“Axes are way too messy, but I get your point.”  He pulled out his phone.  “At least let me call you a cab.”

“When did you turn so damn altruistic?” she asked, putting as much scorn in her voice as she could muster.

“I’ve always been altruistic.  And yes,” he added, grinning at her skeptical look, “I know what it means.  I only look like a brainless sex god.”

“It’s not that far.  Honestly, just go back to the club, find some other chick to bone, and leave me the hell alone.”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, he glared at her for a moment.  “Do you really think Mor and Rhys would have let me hang with you if they didn’t trust me?”

“Yeah, well, it’s the people you trust who can do the most harm, isn’t it.”

He took a step back and looked her up and down.  “And you know that on a personal level, I’m betting.”

“Just…leave me alone, Cassian.”  He didn’t answer, but looked down at his phone and started texting rapidly.  “Who are you texting?”

“Rhys.”

‘Why?”

He paused briefly.  “Well, since you won’t let me walk you home, and you won’t let me call you a cab, I’m asking him to come out and take you home.”

Just exactly what she didn’t need, her baby sister having reason to go all mother-hen on her yet again.  “Ugh, fine, you can walk me home.  Just try not to be too annoying.”  She spun on her heel and headed up the street, all too aware of that big body next to her, trying not to notice if he walked as fluidly as he danced.  (He did.)  At least he was capable of being quiet, and she had to admit that she did feel safer with him there when she passed a gaggle of frat boys out in front of one of the other clubs.  A couple of them started to stare at her chest before they noticed Cassian looming on her other side, and they quickly found the brick buildings much more interesting.

He was silent for most of their walk, until she turned onto her street.  Perking up, he asked, “Wait, do you live down here?”

“Yes, why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Because,” he said, pointing at one of the brownstones down the street, “I live right there.”

Shit.  It just figured that of all the hundreds of people in the club that night, she ended up dancing with a bossy arrogant prick who not only had slept with her sister’s roommate and probably half of the city, but who also lived two buildings down from her.  

“Well, then, you know this street is safe.  How about you just leave me here.”

“If you prefer,” he said.  She could’ve sworn hurt flashed across his face, and she felt a twinge of guilt.  “Here, can I see your phone?”

“No, and why?”

He sighed.  “Since we’re neighbors, I want you to have my number in case you ever need anything.  But I doubt you want me to have yours, so I was going to put it in your phone and that way you don’t have to worry about me knowing how to contact you.”  Oh.  She unlocked her phone and handed it to him, and he entered his number then handed it back, holding it for just a second longer than he had to.  “Have a good night, Nesta.”

She gave him a nod and walked towards her apartment building as he mounted the steps of his own, disappearing into the shadows of the doorway.  Though she couldn’t see him, she could feel his eyes on her, watching until she made it into her building and closed the door behind her.

Her apartment was dark and cold, just like it always seemed to be no matter how many lights she turned on, no matter how many colorful paintings she hung on the walls.  It always seemed to reflect the hollowness she had felt since the day Tomas had been shoved into that cop car.  Longer than that, actually; really it had started the night after he’d slipped his ring on her finger and they’d sworn their oaths to each other.  When she’d moved to Velaris, she’d assumed the city would drive it away, but the noise and bustle of the the people and cars just made the emptiness yawn wider.  

Maybe she should get a dog.

She flicked on the TV but there was nothing she wanted to watch.  Her small bookcase was overflowing, with extras stacked on top.  She scanned the titles, so many of them old friends, but none of them were speaking to her today.  Pride and Prejudice was on top, so she grabbed that and settled down on her couch.  She didn’t even make it to the introduction of Mr. Bingley before she had closed it and dropped it on the couch next to her, attention pulled by the phone sitting on the small trunk she used as a coffee table.  Damn it.

Grabbing the phone, she opened up her contacts and laughed; she couldn’t help it.  Cassian had entered himself as “Hot Asshole from Rita’s.”  Before she could second guess herself, she tapped out a text and hit send.  

It turns out that staring at a phone doesn’t make the person respond any faster.  She had given up and started gathering the stuff to make hot chocolate when she heard that fateful bing.  With a slightly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she picked it up and looked at the screen.  “Your place or mine” the text read.  Biting her lip, she typed in “Yours” and then paused, thumb hovering over the send button, before finally pressing the screen.  Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her keys and her jacket, hit the lights, and left.

Thirty seconds later she was standing at the door of his brownstone, staring at the names on the little list next to the buzzers.  The only option that made sense was C. Bardhyl.  She pressed the button, and was almost immediately buzzed in.  The sound of the door clicking shut behind her sounded oddly ominous, and for a moment she moved to push it open again before stopping herself.  Taking a deep breath, she started climbing the stairs.

The door on the third floor opened before she could knock on it, and Cassian stood aside to let her in, dressed only in gray sweatpants.  “You’re not wearing a shirt,” she blurted out by way of greeting.

“Observant, aren’t you,” he said.  “Hey, I put pants on, I thought that was enough of a concession to your delicate sensibilities.”  At the mention of pants her eyes flicked south, and Cassian grinned.  “Want some coffee?” he asked as he headed towards his small kitchen.  “I just made some.”

“No, I’m nervous enough already.”  Cassian paused and looked at her with some concern.  Damn her stupid mouth.  She needed to just not talk.  To distract herself from the fluttering in her stomach that had ramped up even more at the sight of his ridiculous body, she looked around the room.  It was not quite what she expected, sparse and airy and spotlessly clean.  He had almost as many books as she did, though his tastes ran more to science fiction and history.  There was one picture, of a younger Cassian with his arms around two other men.  Boys, rather; they looked to be in high school.  One of them, with the deep violet-blue eyes and arrogant expression, she recognized as Rhys.  The other was unfamiliar, with the same coloring as Cassian but a much narrower build and a face that was beautiful rather than ruggedly handsome.  She was distracted from studying the picture by him setting down two cups and a small plate of cookies on the table next to the couch.  

“I made you some herbal tea,” he said with a nod at the mug with a white tag hanging out next to the handle.  “In case you want it.”  

Nesta stared at the plain white mug, at the faint color of the tea seeping into the hot water.  It was all so utterly normal that she just…couldn’t. She didn’t know what she had been expecting from this, from him; some dim part of her had just skipped all the parts between the knock on the door to him throwing her down on the bed and thrusting into her.  Somehow she had been expecting to open the door and walk straight into a porn movie (again, not that she watched that kind of stuff) and for him to be standing there, with tea and cookies, all nice and human and real…

“I’ve gotta go,” she said.  She looked around for her jacket, then realized she was still clutching it, had never even put it down.  “Yeah.  I, uh…I’ll see you around.”

“That’s fine, Nesta,” Cassian said, his tone too gentle, “you can do whatever you need to.”  He bent to pick up his mug of coffee.  In addition to the tattoos swirling around his shoulders that she had seen glimpses of in the club, there was one in what looked to be characters of some kind that ran down his spine.  She hadn’t noticed it when she first got there, a little overly taken aback by the anatomy lesson his abdominal muscles were providing, but it was quite striking.

“What does that tattoo mean?” she asked.

He knew which one she meant, and his face changed.  “It’s a memorial.”  His deep voice was suffused with enough pain that she didn’t push further, but her eyes caught on the thin silver chain around his neck, the dog tags that hung between his collarbones.  She wondered if he ever took that chain off, or if it was another memorial.

Dropping her jacket on the arm of the chair, she sat and picked up her mug.  He didn’t comment on her decision to stay, just sipped his coffee and watched her.  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she confessed abruptly.

“If you were anyone else, I’d say you were here to get laid,” he said, amused.  “But with you, well, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, piqued that he evidently saw her as different.

“You don’t exactly seem like a fool-around kind of girl.”

No, she never had been.  But it wasn’t like her faithfulness had ever gotten her much, other than some broken bones.  “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, feeling the heat rise in her face.

He looked slightly alarmed.  “Never gone home with a stranger?  Or never…”

“Oh!’ She could feel her blush deepening.  “Oh, no, I was m-, er, I meant gone home with a stranger.”

His lips twitched up in a slightly crooked smile that softened his face.  “I suppose I should be honored you chose me, then.”  She didn’t know how to respond to that, and the silence grew awkward as she sipped her tea.  Clearing his throat, he stood and carried his mug over to the sink, then came back and flopped down on the couch, sprawling like a lion at the zoo.  She couldn’t help but watch the way his muscles rippled under his skin; it didn’t look natural somehow, more like he belonged in some kind of an exhibit than out here in the real world.

“Do you take steroids or something?” she asked, and then dropped her face into her hands, utterly mortified.

There was a beat of silence, then he burst into laughter.  “Do you always say everything that pops into your head?”

“No,” she moaned, “only at the worst possible times.”  

“Well, the military frowns upon steroid use, I’m afraid,” he said in a mock-professorial tone,  “so I’m stuck with just being a workout junkie.”  

She started to laugh then too, at her own sheer ridiculousness, and that set him off again.  When they finally stopped, the silence that fell was easier.  She found she didn’t mind his eyes on her as much as she should.  Found she actually kind of liked that he seemed approving of what he saw, that she wanted to know what those scar-flecked hands felt like on her body.

“I don’t know how this works,” she said.

“It works however you want it to.”  He shrugged, looking completely nonchalant.  “If you want to go home, that’s fine, I understand.  If you want to sit and watch a movie, that’s cool too, I have a ton of them and there’s always Netflix.  If you want me to kiss you, and see where that leads…” A slow smile spread across his face, “Well, I’m more than happy to oblige you.  As long as you keep your knees where they belong.”

She gave a small, forced laugh and looked at her hands, then back up at him.  She knew her desire was showing on her face; she hoped her fear wasn’t.  He stood up and walked over to her chair, brushing her hair back lightly from her forehead.  “You say stop, and I stop, Nesta.  No matter what.”

The next day, the next week, she would wonder what made her turn her head to press her mouth to his wrist.  Whether it was the gentleness of his fingers in her hair, or the naked sincerity in his tone, or just the overwhelming beauty of that body so close to hers.  Whatever it was, the brush of her lips on his skin was spark to powder.

She didn’t know how she ended up on her feet, but there she was, with his lips on hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressing into her back, holding her against him.  Her own arms found their way around him, and she relished the feel of his lean bulk, the muscle moving underneath her hands as his tongue played with hers.  

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard, and Nesta was pretty certain parts of her that had long been ice had caught on fire.  “Do you want to take this into the bedroom?” he asked huskily.

She knew if she said no, he would let go of her instantly, would let her walk away without question or judgement.  “Yes,” she said, and he kissed her again, scooping one arm under her ass to pick her up and carry her down the short hallway into his room.  The only things that registered were that the room was small and ninety percent bed.  He set her on her feet and she reached behind her to unzip her dress.

“Allow me,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation she turned her back to him.  His fingers brushed lightly against the back of her neck, moving her hair out of the way, and she shivered as a jolt went through her core.  His lips traced where the fingers had been, and she heard the zipper slowly being drawn down, felt the fabric fall away from her skin as his hands eased it off her shoulders and let it drop to her feet.  She waited for him to drop his pants, push her down on the bed, but instead he just stood there, caressing her skin with his hands and mouth.  It was ecstatic torture.

Nesta turned in his hands to face him, and he took her mouth with his again.  This time there was nothing patient about the kiss; it was urgent, pulsing, and she responded in kind.  He drew her closer, and she was stupidly startled to feel his arousal pushing into her abdomen.  It was odd to think of seeing another man, touching one; odder to want to.  But he had no inhibitions as he unhooked her bra and slid it off to join her dress on the floor, so why should she?  Her hand found his waistband and slipped beneath, brushing against the smooth head of him.  He shuddered and his breath caught, and she smiled a little against his lips and reached in a little farther to stroke him lightly again.

Those pants, though loose, still blocked her access.  She eased them over his hips, freeing his arousal, and her mouth went completely dry at the sight of him.  Granted, her sample size was small, but holy shit…

Cassian chuckled.  “That’s a new one,” he said, and she realized in horror that she had actually said that out loud.  But come on, he looked like a porn star (okay, okay, maybe she’d watched it once or twice).  And this was probably her only chance to be with a guy like that.  She looked up and met his eyes, then took a step backwards.  When she felt the bed against her legs, she sat, then lay down carefully, never breaking eye contact.  He followed her, stretching out next to her and propping himself up on one elbow while the other hand slid across her stomach.

“Don’t you want to turn the lights off?” she asked, relieved her voice was steady.

“No, unless you want me to.”  He grinned lazily at her expression.  The hand on her stomach moved up to cup her breast, thumb gently rolling over her nipple.  “I want to watch you when I make you come, Nesta.  Besides,” he went on, shifting to kiss her other breast, “why would I not want to be able to see these?”  

She flushed and looked away, embarrassed.  It had never occurred to her that someone might want to look at her body, might not need the safety of cloaking darkness.  “Hey,” he said, releasing her breast to press his hand to her cheek, drawing her face to his.  “If you’re not comfortable with that, that’s fine.  It’s just…you’re so beautiful.”  The earnestness in his voice had her blinking back tears.  She shook her head in a mute denial.  “You are, Nesta.  Every inch of you.”  He lightly kissed her lips, then her jaw.  “You have the most beautiful eyes, and your mouth drives me crazy.”  He returned to it before moving down to her throat, then her collarbones.  “And these,” cupping her breast again, “women spend a fortune trying to buy what you have naturally.”  He took her nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, and she felt a rush of heat in her core.  His hand glided down her body, pausing when it reached the edge of her lace panties.  A calloused finger tip began tracing along the edge, then shifted to where the fabric met her thigh, ever so lightly tickling, teasing, until she felt her thighs widen almost involuntarily.

Looking down, she caught her breath at the sight of him, and she understood why he wanted the lights on.  The muscles in his shoulders bulging as he supported his weight, that thick, glossy black hair falling across his forehead, long lashes obscuring her view of his eyes as he focused so intently on his task.  And the broad hand dipping between her thighs, pushing the lace off to the side so he could brush up against the edge of her…  She lifted her hips and he took the hint, tugging the panties down.  He released her breast so he could slide them all the way off, before kneeling between her thighs, nudging her more open with his knees.  

From this view, she could see all of him, and god, she wanted to feel him inside her.  Something tickled at the back of her mind, she felt like there was something she had to do, but she couldn’t remember what it was.  But it was his fingers that found her core, tracing her until she was practically twitching with need.  One finger slid into her and she gave a little moan of relief.  He kept the movements slow and she closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the feel of him, of each stroke ratcheting her up until she started to writhe, needing more of him, needing him to find that spot her own fingers knew so well.

And then he did, but not with his fingers.  No, that felt like his tongue, and a jolt went through her of mixed pleasure and fear.  “What -” she gasped, opening her eyes, and true to his word he was out and away from her instantaneously.  She wanted to cry at the loss of him.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to push too far, I thought you were good with it.”

“I.  Um.  I was, I am, I just…”  She was blushing fiercely, cursing herself for being unable to form a coherent sentence, cursing him for taking himself away from her.

Realization dawned on his face.  “You’ve never had anyone go down on you before?”  He shook his head.  “Idiots.  Your previous lovers were idiots.”  She was grateful he gave her credit for the plural, however inaccurate that was.  He ran one hand up her thigh, but got nowhere near where she wanted him.  “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he leaned over her to kiss her lips while his fingers found her again.

This time, she was a little more prepared for the feel of his mouth on her, though it still was almost overwhelming.  She wanted something to hold in her arms as he brought her closer to the brink, as her breathing came quicker and her body began to bow off the bed.  She settled for running her fingers through his hair and then her climax hit her and she couldn’t think of anything at all but the contractions of her core around his fingers and the last lingering strokes of his tongue.

She was drifting, vaguely aware of lying on a comfortable bed, of the huge male body next to her, of featherlight kisses on her cheek and jaw.  Her body felt completely and utterly wrung out, and yet…  With an effort she opened her eyes and turned to Cassian, who was looking quite proud of himself.  Fair enough, he should be.  

“Was that all right?” he asked, and she huffed out the skeleton of a laugh, all she could manage in her current state.

“Yeah, I should say so,” she murmured, and he grinned as he bent to kiss her again.  The movement pushed his body against hers, and she could feel his cock against her thigh.  When he pulled back, she couldn’t keep herself from looking down.  “What about you?”

He shrugged.  “I’m fine,” he said, despite the evidence to the contrary.  She rolled to face him, brushing her fingers against his stomach, daring herself to reach lower.  He was as thick as her wrist, and she could barely close her fingers around him.  With an indistinct noise, he pushed gently against her.  “Do you really want to?” he asked quietly, reaching a hand out to rest on her hip.

She nodded, but he didn’t move.  “Yes,” she said, or tried to, but it came out more like a squeak.  Clearing her throat, she repeated herself.  Rolling them both so he was resting on his elbows on top of her, he kissed her deeply for a long moment, then pushed up to his knees.  He reached over her to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer and pulling out a box.  

Pausing before he opened the box, he met her eyes.  “I’m clean, I’ve been tested recently,” he said, and a flash of irritation at her own stupidity flared through her.  It hadn’t even occurred to her to ask, or to insist on protection.  Mor was right, Cassian really was a good guy, thank whatever powers there were.

“Me too,” she said.  It had been last year, the last time she’d been in the hospital, but she’d been celibate since then so she figured it counted.  She bit her lip as she watched him, with practiced ease, tear open a condom and roll it on.  Tomas had never worn one; he said they didn’t feel as good, and that if she got pregnant and didn’t want to be that was on her.  There was something shockingly sensual about it, about watching Cassian’s large, deft hands handle himself, and she felt heat growing again between her legs.

He turned his attention back to her, trailing his lips and tongue and teeth up her body, from her navel to her breasts, over her collarbones, up her neck to nibble on her ear.  His hand eased between her legs again, testing, and he growled deep in his throat when he felt how ready she was.  Part of her thought she should be embarrassed, but there was another part that overruled it defiantly.   Why shouldn’t she enjoy him?  God knows she’d had enough pleasureless sex.  She opened for him, wrapping her arms around his body and pulling him into position.  He hesitated for just a moment before using his hand to guide himself to her.

At the first nudge of him at her entrance, all thoughts and fear and residual shame fled.  Slowly, carefully, he eased into her and then stilled, waiting for her to adjust.  

She would never be able to adjust to this; he stretched her, filled her nearly to the point of pain, yet she had almost climaxed just from that.  It was too much.  It was not enough.  Cautiously, she slid her hand down to his ass, and he began to move.  Just a slow drag out, a gentle thrust in, each movement sending new sparks through her.  Without thinking she opened her knees wider, tilting her pelvis, taking him a little deeper.

“Oh, God, Nesta,” he murmured in her ear, his breath tickling her.  “You’re so beautiful.”  With each stroke he increased his depth, his pace, until she was so caught up in him, so full of him, that she had forgotten about every hollow corner of herself.  She was close to her release, but it remained elusive, and every muscle strained as she sought it.  He pushed himself up on his hands and she opened her eyes to watch him driving into her.  There were flashes of light echoing off the walls, and at first she thought she was hallucinating, that it was some sort of fever dream.  Then she saw it was simply reflections off his dog tags as he moved.  Somehow, that was enough to push her over the edge, and she cried out as her body shattered into fragments like the light.

When he felt her contracting around him, he moved deeper, faster, until he joined her with his own low cry.  He remained hovering over her, panting, as he brushed her hair back and brushed her forehead with his lips.  Carefully extracting himself, he stretched out along next to her, resting his hand on her abdomen and just…watching.  She didn’t know what she looked like.  All she could imagine was that her hair was wild, her face blotchy.  She knew she was disgustingly sweat-soaked; of course so was he, but that was okay for a man.  

“I could look at you all night,” he said, almost as if he knew what she was thinking.  “I’m glad you came over.  I hope…” He trailed off with a subtle tightening of his face.

“What?” she asked.

“I hope that you got what you were looking for.”  Though he smiled, there was a hidden bleakness in those green-flecked eyes, and it was then that Nesta saw it.  Saw a chasm yawning, as deep and wide as her own.  Mor had said that he didn’t do relationships, and after the train wreck that had been her marriage she of all people understood the appeal of never binding yourself to another.  She wished she had not opened herself up to being consumed by the parasite that Tomas had been.  Yet…Cassian had not bound himself, and was being eaten alive by emptiness just the same.  Images of the tattoo down his spine flashed in her mind, and she wondered just exactly who he had lost.

She didn’t know how to answer him.  What had she gotten, in the end?  Pleasure, certainly; and technically he was a stranger.  But she couldn’t call it meaningless.  Not when he had treated her like she mattered.  Not when he looked at her like she was beautiful, special.  Worthy of being pleased.

Nesta reached over to touch his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her palm.  She brushed her thumb over his lips, then sat up enough to follow with her mouth.  “I did,” she whispered, and kissed him again before dragging herself out of the bed and wandering off in search of the bathroom.  When she reached the doorway on her return, he was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, an unfathomable sadness in his eyes.  The expression was gone in a flash as soon as she entered, and she wondered if she had imagined it.

“Should I go home?” she asked, feeling like an idiot.

“If you want to,” he said, “but you’re welcome to stay.  I make great pancakes.”   His grin was cocky enough that she half wanted to smack him, half wanted to hug him.  She looked down at her dress where it lay abandoned on the floor and it struck her oddly how much smaller the empty pool of fabric was than the dress seemed to be when it was on her.  When she looked back at Cassian, he was just waiting, patient, no expectations.  No hope, one way or another.

Lifting the corner of the duvet, she slid underneath.  He reached behind him to turn off the light then wrapped his arm around her and tucked her into his body.  Strange.  She had never been held after sex, never thought men wanted that.  Never thought she wanted that, but there was something so comforting about his warm bulk that she found herself relaxing.  

“Nesta?” he asked, the rumble of his voice vibrating through where she was pressed against his chest.

“Hmm?”

“What was it you were looking for?”

She thought of the flashes of bleakness she had seen, the gaping loneliness.  The beautiful, empty apartment.  The picture of him and Rhys and the unknown third boy, his dog tags and his tattoo.  “Just once, I wanted to feel something.  Just once, I wanted to be more than a sex toy.”

His arm tightened around her and he kissed her hair.  “Just once?” he whispered.

“Maybe twice.”  Maybe more, she added silently.  She felt his lips against her hair again and closed her eyes, letting sleep wash over her to the rhythm of his breathing.

The Forging of the Wolf, Chapter 11

NSFW.  Read the rest of Aedion’s backstory:  Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4.  Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  

The long summer evening was finally deepening into dusk when Aedion found Mikkal at his usual table in the officer’s lounge, an empty tankard of ale next to him and his papers spread out.  He wasn’t alone, much to Aedion’s disappointment.  They hadn’t had time alone since the night they had returned a week ago, and now as usual the lounge was half-full of his fellow infant lieutenants.  The new camp assignments were due within the next couple of weeks, and the other men hovered around the captain as if he had some control over the orders from the King.  He bit back a snarl when Amond brought over a fresh drink; somehow he didn’t think Mikkal would appreciate the display.  

Flopping down in a chair next to Litton with his own tankard, he ignored Harcourt’s glare and propped his feet up on a spare seat.  The other men were in the midst of planning their trip into town the next day, which explained the venom in Harcourt’s eyes; he had been forbidden to set foot in the town after his appalling behavior.  

“You going to come see the singer?” Litton asked, and Aedion tilted his head at him in a silent question.  “At the meeting hall.”  Aedion continued to look at him blankly, and Litton laughed.  “You really are just a big brute, aren’t you.  There’s a concert tomorrow, the notices were up all over town last week.  I know it’ll delay your weekly fuck for a couple hours, but she’s supposed to be brilliant.”

“Is she supposed to be pretty, too?” Aedion asked, furrowing his brow, and Litton shoved at his shoulder.  Aedion grinned.  “I’ll see if I can manage it.”   He drained his glass and stood.  

“Leaving so soon?  Well, that’s just pathetic,” Ilbert teased.  “I didn’t realize you were such a lightweight.”  Aedion paused for a heartbeat, then swept Ilbert up over his shoulder in a movement so swift nobody tracked it.  The other lieutenants roared with laughter as Ilbert tried uselessly to free himself.  

“Not sure I’m the one who counts as a lightweight, there, my friend,” Aedion said as he set a red-faced Ilbert back on his feet.  “Nah, I just wanted to check on Raedan.  It’s his first night doing solo watch in the tower, and I’m betting I can catch him falling asleep.”

“Raedan Lamar?” Geary piped up.  “You’ll never catch that one sleeping.  I’m not even sure why we’re wasting our time training him to fight.”

“What do you mean?” Litton asked, a bit concerned, and Aedion was grateful to him for the question.

“He’s part of my crew,” Geary said.  “That boy…I swear he knows more about this camp than people who grew up here, and he only got transferred over what, two months ago?  I mean, he’s a decent fighter, but if Ivry doesn’t pick him for the scout training, he’s a fool.”

Interesting.  Not surprising, given Delaney’s talents, but interesting that Geary had picked up on it too.  Aedion made a mental note to pay more attention to Geary in meetings.  With a few more jokes, he made his escape and headed to the kitchens.  Ducking through the low door, he saw Pipa just beginning to set her bread for the morning.  

“You’re early,” she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek.  As soon as the kitchen staff had realized that he needed to eat more - and he wasn’t sure if Mikkal had said something or if it was simply because he began showing up several times during the day - they had begun setting aside extra food for him after each meal.  He sat on his usual chair and pulled the covered plate towards him, tucking into the pile of roast chicken and accompanying vegetables.

“My friend is on tower duty for the first time,” he said with a grin.  “I thought I’d keep him company for a bit.”

“Ah, aren’t you sweet,” she said, beaming at him.  “You’ll want to bring him some coffee and a rusk, then.”  Bustling off before he could respond, she returned moments later with a flask of coffee and a small wax-paper package. He finished his meal and she shooed him off, turning back to her bread and barking orders at her young helper.

He climbed the stairs up the tower Raedan had been assigned to, throwing open the door dramatically and bouncing into the room.  Raedan was as startled as he’d hoped for, leaping up and reaching for his fighting knives before the identity of his visitor registered.  

“For Hellas’s sake, Aedion,” he snapped, then started to laugh.  

“Evening, my brother,” Aedion replied.  “How’s your first night going?”

“Well, the first half-hour went fine,” Raedan said, grinning, “but then a giant burst in and now I’m fearing for my life.”

“As well you should,” Aedion admonished.  “I’ve come to kill you with coffee and bread, courtesy of Pipa in the kitchen.”  He handed over the flask and the wrapped parcel.  

“Excellent.”  Raedan tucked both under his bench and turned his eyes back out his window with an apologetic shrug.  They chatted for a while, Raedan filling him in on his training and the general camp gossip.  Evidently there were quite a few romances going on between soldiers and the younger set of women employed at camp.  And Geary was apparently wooing a young lady in town, much to Raedan’s - and Aedion’s - mocking delight.  

Aedion sat on the floor of the tower, enjoying the ebb and flow of the conversation.  Though they still ate together regularly, there were always enough people around that their natural banter was subdued.  It made him miss Raedan’s sisters, all three of them.  He wondered again if Delaney had ever made it to Terrasen, had ever found Darrow.  He cringed a little internally when he thought of how little information he’d left her with, though if anyone could turn a few fragments of information and a map into gold it would be her.  Avis and Maida, though…they were still so young.  He hadn’t dared write to them, not wanting anyone at Perrington’s camp to realize how much he cared about them.  He knew Raedan would have told him if he’d heard anything, and the lack of news worried him.  

An abrupt silence made him look up, thinking Raedan had spotted something out the tower window.  Instead he found those gray-green eyes on him and wondered what part of the conversation he’d missed.  He rubbed his hand through his hair.  “Sorry, I’m just missing your sisters.”

Raedan blinked, surprised enough that it was obvious his thoughts were trending in a different direction.  “Me too,” he said quietly, turning his attention back outside.  “I miss all of us being together.”  

They sat in silence for a bit, each in their own thoughts, before Aedion remembered to ask, “What were you saying before?”

Every one of Raedan’s muscles went tight, though he didn’t look at him, and Aedion steeled himself.  “I was just wondering if you and Captain Paget were…together.”

Aedion waited a beat too long before answering, the hesitation an answer in itself.  “Is that what camp gossip is saying?” he asked, striving for lightness.

“Not that I’ve heard,” was the quiet reply.  “I just noticed that you seem to spend a lot of time together even when you don’t have to.  And then I remembered when he was watching you, back at the inn, and what you said, and I just kind of realized.”

Well, shit.  Though the general evidently knew, he didn’t think Mikkal wanted it public.  Honestly, he didn’t know if he wanted it public, though the reason behind that eluded him.  But this was Raedan.  He took a deep breath.  “We’ve been…getting closer, I guess you could say.”  

“So that’s why you two went away together.”

“No,” he said carefully, trying to figure out the undercurrent of resentment he could sense.  “We went away together to plan for the scout training.   You know that.”

“Right.  Planning, fucking, it’s all a good time.  Well I guess that explains it,” Raedan said flatly.

“Explains what?”

“Why you never fell in love with Delaney.”

Aedion’s temper began to flare, and he took some deep breaths to try to bank it.  “Your sister was less interested in me than I was in her, actually.”  

Raedan snorted contemptuously.  “Sure.”  Aedion ground his teeth.  He was not going to rip Raedan’s head off.  He wouldn’t.    

“I’m not sure what your problem is, exactly.”

Raedan shrugged, still keeping his eyes trained out the window.  Aedion could feel the muscle in his jaw start to spasm and before he could say something he’d regret he stood up.

“Have a pleasant watch, Raedan,” he said, and turned to leave.

The door was closing behind him when he heard him say, anger and something else coloring his voice, “I just don’t understand how you can stand it.”

He shouldered back through to see Raedan on his feet, facing him.  “Stand what?”

“Letting him fuck you, after what they did.”  He shook his head.  “I saw what they did to you, Aedion, and it broke you.  And now, another officer is treating you like a whore –“

“You don’t get to do this, Raedan,” Aedion snarled, taking a couple steps towards him.  He was both pleased and disgusted by the whiff of fear that came off of his friend.  “You don’t get to judge me.  They tried to break me, yes-“

“Tried to?” Raedan nearly yelled, face mottled purple, fists clenched.  His breath hitched, and he lowered his voice.  “No, they broke you, Aedion.  I was there afterwards, in case you forgot.“

“They. Did. Not. Break. Me.”  The growl lacing his voice was enough of a threat that Raedan took an involuntary step back before setting his feet again.

“Does he know?” Raedan was still seething.  Still scornful.  “Does Captain Paget know what they did to you?”  

Aedion straightened up.  The memory of Mikkal holding him, listening to his story with no judgment, no intolerable pity, flashed through him.  “Yes, he does.  I told him everything.”

Raedan paused, taken aback, but only for a second.  “Then if he can picture you covered in blood and rope burns and gods knows what else, and he can still -”

“Do not finish that sentence.”  Aedion ordered coldly.  “You have no right to dictate who I fall in love with -”

“You think you’re in love with him?”  Raedan interrupted, voice soaring.  “Are you mad?”

Aedion’s breath caught painfully as he looked at his friend, his brother in all but blood, fuming before him.  He could see that same face laughing with him over meals; tight with concern as he vomited after dropping Balam; full of joy and proud duty when they left Perrington’s camp together.  His eyes started to burn, and he turned towards the stairs.  Looking over his shoulder, he murmured, “You should get back to your watch,” before walking out, letting the door click shut behind him.

*****

The lounge had emptied before Mikkal finished his weekly reports and cleaned up his mess.  He was still inclined to laugh at how easily Aedion had confirmed his status at the top of the lieutenant class, while seeming to just be joking around.  It was impossible to tell if it was deliberate or just instinctive.  

Either way, Mikkal wanted to find him and feel that strength for himself.  It had been too long already.

He checked the kitchens, but they were dark and empty.  The stables, too, were quiet except for the steady grind of horses chewing.  Aedion had said he was going to visit his friend in one of the watch towers, but he didn’t want to go look for him for fear of eliciting too many questions.  With a frustrated sigh, he started back towards his rooms when he saw a familiar figure materialize out of the shadows near the dining hall, heading towards the stables Mikkal had just left.  Turning on his heel, Mikkal headed towards him.

Aedion must have seen or heard him, because he paused.  “I just wanted to find out if you’re planning on going into town tomorrow,” Mikkal said by way of greeting.  

“Is that a joke?” Aedion snapped.  “Sometimes you can be a real prick, Mikkal.”

Utterly taken aback, Mikkal really looked at him, noticing the clenched fists, the tightness of those broad shoulders, the way he wouldn’t meet his eye.  “You’re in a fine mood tonight,” he observed drily, wondering what had happened.  

“Do you really think I want to go fuck some woman?”

Fighting back an unholy desire to laugh, he replied, “Well, if you wanted to I wouldn’t try to stop you.”  Aedion took a step towards him with a snarl, but Mikkal held his ground.  Blazing turquoise eyes met cool amber ones, and Mikkal arched a brow.  “I take it that’s a no, then?”  When there was no answer, he went on.  “Gods, Aedion, maybe I’m an arrogant bastard, but that honestly never even crossed my mind.  I was thinking about the concert, that if you wanted to go I’d love to go with you.”  All the fight dropped out of  that big frame, though the tension remained, and Mikkal moved in closer, so they were nearly touching.  “And maybe spend the night, if you like, or we could come back here.”

Aedion turned and started to walk towards the stable, muttering, “I’ll think about it.”

“Ashryver.”  The name was a command, and Aedion stopped.  “Come with me.”  Mikkal headed back to the vacant lounge, ignoring the huff of aggravation behind him since it was accompanied by footsteps.  Once inside, he shut the door, tossed his papers on his usual table, and lit a lamp before facing Aedion.  He was standing by the door staring across the room, arms crossed, lips pressed tight.  Mikkal leaned back against the table and waited.

After several long minutes, Aedion finally looked him in the face.  “What.”

“I just wanted to find out what happened after you left here earlier.”  

Aedion blew out a humorless laugh and began pacing.  His feet eventually carried him to Mikkal’s table, and he stopped in front of him, though he looked at the floor rather than his face.  “Why do you want to be with me?”

“What do you mean?” Mikkal asked, baffled.

Gesturing vaguely towards the door, Aedion went on hoarsely.  “After everything you know about me, why do you still want me?”  He didn’t allow Mikkal to formulate a reply.  “Why do you want someone so…broken?”

Mikkal felt like that Fenharrow dagger had slipped through his ribs again.  “You are not broken, Aedion,” he said in little more than a whisper, unable to find more volume.  Aedion just shook his head.  Mikkal cleared his throat and tried again.  “You’re not.  You’re a little…damaged, maybe, but so am I.”  Aedion still said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.  Mikkal reached up and cupped his jaw, forcing him to look at him.  “Tell me what happened tonight.”

Pulling out of his grasp, Aedion prowled over to the bar and grabbed a bottle at random, popping off the cap and swigging straight from it.  Grimacing and coughing, he glared at the label and set it back on the counter, keeping his back to Mikkal.  “Raedan knows about us.”  Mikkal made an indistinct noise of acknowledgement.  “He was less than supportive.”  

That explains it, Mikkal thought.  He didn’t know the young recruit well, but Aedion’s friendship with him was obviously strong.  A suspicion as to the nature of Lamar’s objection stole through him.  “What exactly troubled him?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

“Raedan was the one who took care of me.  After.”  

Oh.  Not quite what Mikkal was expecting him to say, though it explained their closeness.  When nothing else was forthcoming, he spoke.  “And he doesn’t think you would be with me by choice.”  The silence was eloquent.  “Damn.”

“It doesn’t help that he still doesn’t understand why Delaney and I didn’t end up together.”

Mikkal’s head was starting to swim.  “Who’s Delaney?”

“Raedan’s sister.”  Double damn.  “She’s probably the best friend I’ve made in Adarlan.”  Another verbal knife stabbed into Mikkal’s chest and twisted.  “I sent her away, though.”

“Why?”  And why haven’t you told me about her before? he added silently.

“Because those bastards knew about her.”  That was reason enough.  Mikkal was too well aware of the tactics employed by some of his fellow officers to question Aedion’s judgment on that matter.  He pushed off the table and moved to stand next to Aedion, resting his back against the bar.

“Look, Aedion…”  He touched the hand pressing into the bar top next to him lightly with one finger.  “If you set aside all the rest of the bullshit, what do you want?  Do you want to be with me?  Because that’s my only question right now.”  When minutes ticked by without an answer, he left.  Out in the courtyard, he looked back to see the light in the lounge go out, but the door did not open and Aedion did not come after him.

*****

Aedion paced the lounge in the dark, until the walls were closing in on him so much he fled into the open air.  Out in the camp, he just kept walking, not really paying attention to where he was going.  All he could see was the hatred in Raedan’s face when he asked how Aedion could stand it, all he could hear was the disdain in his voice echoing over and over.  “They broke you.”  Broke you.  Broke you.  He wanted to scream.

Abruptly he changed direction and headed for the pitch.  Setting himself up opposite one of the targets, he pulled his knives out of the strap across his chest and threw them, one, two, three, clustering them in the center of the target.  Pulling them free, he paced back an additional ten steps and threw them again.  And again.  And again.  Feeling the cool metal in his hand, the balance of the swing of his arm, hearing the thud as the blade sank in.  Even in the dark, he didn’t falter, didn’t miss.  Didn’t stop, until the target was starting to fray and the knives would’t stick anymore.  By then, Mikkal’s voice was starting to counter Raedan’s.  “You’re not broken.”  “They broke you.”  “You’re not broken.”  He didn’t know who to believe.  

As dawn was approaching, he finally dropped into bed to catch a couple of hours of restless sleep.  Each time he woke, he thought of Mikkal singing to him, feeling the reverberation of the song echoing in his own chest as they pressed against each other.  And he wondered what damage Mikkal was alluding to when he talked about himself.

Raedan was in the officer’s dining room, looking a bit wan, when he entered for breakfast, making his report to Geary as were the other night watchmen.  Aedion ignored him as he heaped eggs, steak, sausage, and mushrooms onto his plate and went to sit down.  Major Gall looked him up and down as he pulled out his chair.

“Gods, Ashryver, you look like you got dragged through Hellas’s realm backwards.”  

He felt Raedan’s eyes flick to him.  Grinning at Gall, he drawled, “Why, Major, you’re making me blush.”  Gall chuckled and then grew serious.

“You should take the whole day off, Lieutenant.  You’ve been pushing yourself awfully damn hard, between your training and working on the scout project.”

“Thank you for the offer, Major, but I want to see how my men are doing with the crossbows.  Last week wasn’t so good.”  Mikkal walked in then, just as Raedan was leaving.  They both stopped, glaring at each other, then Raedan gave a small bow and slipped through the door.

“Hmph.  You should at least take the afternoon off, go into town with the others.”

“Yes, sir,” Aedion replied, not looking at Mikkal but speaking loudly enough to ensure he heard.  “It’s my understanding there’s a concert tonight that I should like to attend.”  Major Gall encouraged that plan, and Aedion finished his breakfast as quickly as he could.

It was with some trepidation that he entered the stable to saddle Avenar that evening.  Litton was in there readying his stallion, and a number of the other officers’ horses were being prepped by stable boys.  He was pleased to see Chetak among them.  Sure enough, Mikkal appeared just as he was leading Avenar out, and they rode into town side by side, uncharacteristically quiet among the chattering men.  

They stabled their horses at the inn, then headed into the town square where the concert was being held.  There was a temporary stage at one end graced with only a chair and a large harp, and as they sat down next to each other the singer walked onto stage.  She was perhaps forty, still beautiful, with thick red hair nearly to her waist.  Seating herself by the harp, her fingers began playing over the strings.  The melody alone was entrancing.  And then she opened her mouth and began to sing.    

It was like nothing Aedion had ever heard before, yet it was also achingly familiar.  It took nearly until the end of the song that he realized it was one of the poems he had grown up with set to music.  Her rich, expressive voice and the background of harp brought new meaning to the long-remembered words about a brave warrior lost at sea, and he found himself blinking back tears.  Mikkal’s fingers brushed lightly against the back of his hand, and he trapped them with his own.  The first song came to a close, flowing directly into the second, and he was startled to hear the melody of the traditional song of mourning.  The lyrics were different, a sweet, simple tale of a maiden that he stopped following after a just a verse.  Instead, he allowed the music he had last heard in the days after he had lost everything to flow over him, through him, lancing his festering wounds.  Glancing at Mikkal, he saw tears running unashamedly down his cheeks, and he wondered again what - or who - haunted him.

When the musician finally played her last poignant note two hours later, the applause was long and loud.  She bowed gracefully before sweeping off the stage.  Aedion rose slowly, almost reluctantly, wishing that the spell the singer had woven had not been broken.  He followed Mikkal out of the square.  

“Do you want to go home?” Mikkal murmured once they were clear of the bulk of the crowd.  Aedion almost answered yes before he realized Mikkal was not talking about Terrasen.  

“I don’t care where we go,” he said, “as long as we can be alone.”  

A slow smile spread across Mikkal’s face as he turned and headed into the inn.  Aedion secured a room while Mikkal waited in the stairwell.  They had barely gotten into the room when Mikkal turned and practically slammed Aedion against the door with a kiss like a brand.  Aedion had forgotten this side of him, after the gentle patience he had shown the week before.  He submitted for a few glorious moments before his own need surged and he pushed back off the door, spinning Mikkal around until he was pressed against the wall.  He needed skin under his hands and he started to pull at Mikkal’s shirt, nearly tearing it before Mikkal shoved him off, ripped off his jacket and yanked the shirt over his head.  Aedion followed suit, and then he had that long, muscular body in his arms, that tongue in his mouth, and he started to lose all reason.

Pulling away from Mikkal’s mouth, he ran his tongue up the column of his throat, nipping when he reached his jaw, grinning at the sudden intake of breath he elicited.  Mikkal’s hands tugged at his waistband, dipping beneath before they moved to unbutton his pants and slide in.  Aedion’s breath caught as a hand wrapped around him, and he mirrored the action.  It wasn’t enough.  

Mikkal must have been thinking along similar lines.  Aedion allowed himself to be pushed back across the floor until his legs hit the bed and his body toppled backwards, dragging Mikkal with him.  Mikkal gave a low laugh and crawled up his body to meet his lips again.  They grappled with the rest of each other’s clothing, unwilling to break apart long enough to facilitate its removal, until finally Mikkal gave up and pulled away just long enough to roughly strip them both.  Aedion sat up and grabbed Mikkal, yanking him back down to the bed and rolling half on top of him, joining their mouths again.  He wanted to be everywhere at once, thought he was going to go mad from Mikkal’s fingers digging into his back and thigh, from the feel of his cock pressing against that sweat-slick body.  His hips surged of their own accord, and though he moaned into Mikkal’s mouth at the friction it still wasn’t enough.

When they finally paused, panting, Mikkal whispered against his neck, “Gods, Aedion, I want you inside me.”  Aedion froze, unable to even take a breath. “Shit, I’m…” Mikkal stammered, detaching his hand from Aedion’s leg to cup his jaw.  “I don’t…you don’t…you don’t need to do anything you’re not -”  The rest of his sentence was lost against Aedion’s mouth.

*****

Mikkal lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Aedion breathing evenly next to him.  He wasn’t sure he could have moved even if he wanted to. Every muscle was as limp as a wrung-out dishrag.  With a supreme effort, he turned his head to look at Aedion, at the big frame just beginning to fill out to its potential.  He needed to eat, they both did, but Mikkal was gods-damned if he was going to disturb him now.

His hand strayed up to his shoulder, touching the bruise Aedion’s teeth had left. It was fitting that he had been visibly marked.  Aedion may not have been experienced, but holy gods. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t stop replaying it in his mind.   The feel of Aedion driving deep within him, the hitches of breath, that arm around his chest hauling him upright, teeth burying in his shoulder as the broad hand palmed him, the twin roars of their releases…Then the gentle kisses afterwards, brushing Aedion’s golden hair back off his forehead, the sense of peace stealing over them both.  It was the difference between fucking and making love.

And he was going to have to leave.

The order had not come down yet, but he knew it would.  Word had arrived earlier that day that fighting was resuming in Fenharrow, a small but well-organized group resurgent against the might of Adarlan.  Part of him wasn’t even sure what side he wanted to fight on, or if he still wanted to fight at all.  

Aedion didn’t know that he sometimes wished that dagger had sunk a little deeper or the healer had been a little slower.  Nobody did.  He was too good at pretending that he didn’t still see their faces, the light going out of eyes just like his mother’s, like his own, thanks to his blade.  Too good at acting like he didn’t wake up nearly every night with the stench of shit and blood and terror in his nose, the sound of whips cracking into innocent flesh ringing in his ears.

He rolled onto his side to face Aedion, still sound asleep.  “I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered.  “I want to take you away from all this bloodshed.  I want to find a place where we can just live in peace.”  I love you, he thought, but he couldn’t say it aloud, even in a whisper.

*****

Aedion sat up in the tree, breathing in the familiar scents of Oakwald in late summer.  On the ground below, the first group of soldiers were creeping through the woods, trying to track him and Osment.  That soldier had been chosen for the task because he had grown up in the area and knew this part of the forest like the back of his hand.  Even Aedion wasn’t totally sure where Osment had hidden at the moment, though he knew roughly where he had been sent.  Of course, if he could keep his mind on his task and stop thinking about waking up tangled with Mikkal it might help.  They had spent nearly every night for the past month together, and he still couldn’t get enough.  If anything, his need had grown rather than been sated.

He was the only lieutenant who had remained in Paget’s camp.  Everyone else had been scattered throughout the realm.  Litton had been sent to Breiner, and had departed with a note from Aedion to the warlord just a few days ago.  Harcourt was going to Noll, about as far away as possible, which also pleased him.  And though he knew he only stayed because they were going to use him to push into Terrasen, still he was grateful.

A bird called, well to the north, drawing his attention back to the situation at hand.  A bird that didn’t belong in these woods, that lived only in northeastern Terrasen.   Aedion began moving, drawn to the sound.  The trees grew close enough that he was able to travel from branch to branch for quite some time, though Mikkal would’ve had an apoplectic fit if he had seen him test the limits of weight the branches could support.  Eventually he reached a point where he would have to drop to the ground, and he paused, waiting for the call to sound again.  Hearing nothing, he pursed his lips and made a call of his own, dredging up the memory of the small Wendlyn finch whose song was his identification in Terrasen.  Nothing but local birds responded.  He called again.

When there was still no response, he turned to head back to where he was supposed to be.  He had just made the first leap when the call came again, very close.  A faint rustling sounded, and he dropped to the ground and pulled two knives.  As silently as he could, he stalked through the trees, taking a circuitous route to where he had pinpointed the noise.  He could smell a man in a cluster of bushes; a man who smelled like home.  Edging forward cautiously, he finally spotted the other person, crouched in the bushes, looking in the direction from which Aedion had called.  The man whistled again.

Aedion lunged into the bushes and emerged with the man clasped against his chest, his knife against the stranger’s throat.  “Put your hands where I can see them,” he breathed.  With a frustrated growl, the man did as he was told, dropping the stiletto he carried to the ground.  Aedion eased up on his hold, allowing the stranger to turn to face him.

“Ashryver!” the man exclaimed, then clapped his hand over his own mouth.  He did look slightly familiar.  “I can’t believe it!” he went on in a whisper.  “They said you were alive, but…” he shook his head.

“Are you one of Darrow’s men?” Aedion asked, trying to place him.

He shook his head again.  “Clery’s.  I’m Flinn.”  He held out his hand.

Aedion blinked at the extended hand but didn’t take it.  “Lord Clery’s still alive?”  

Flinn nodded, dropping his hand. “Alive, but not a lord anymore.  Surrendered his title and his lands in exchange for his life.”  A grin spread across his face.  “Boy, Miss Delaney’s going to be happy I saw you.”

Aedion’s knees nearly gave out.  “Delaney…She made it then?  She’s alive?”

“Alive, well, living in Clery’s house now.”

Holy gods, it was the best news he’d had in months.  “Look, I don’t have much time,” he said, “but if you’ve made camp near here, or anyone has, move it quick.  Adarlan’s running a training exercise and this is right next to the border of it.”

“We know,” Flinn replied, “that’s why I’m here.”  

Aedion didn’t want to know how they knew.  “Just be careful.  Don’t get caught.  I can’t protect you if you do.”  

Flinn nodded, his homely face serious.  “What’s your plan, Prince?”

Glancing behind him, Aedion ignored the question.  “I’ve got to go back.  Tell any others to be safe, don’t engage.”  Looking back at Flinn, he extended his hand, and when Flinn took it pulled him in close for a clap on the back.  “Tell Delaney…just tell her I’ll see her.”  

Before Flinn could respond, he headed back into the trees.

*****

The next few days passed uneventfully.  There was no further sign of Flinn, or any others.  So far Osment had been caught a handful of times, but nobody had thought to look for Aedion in the trees.  They had generally tracked him as far as he’d remained on the ground, but though he’d deliberately left signs of his climb they had gone unnoticed.  Mikkal agreed that they should keep his method secret until the end of training.  Part of the point was to get the men to think differently than they did on the plains.

Raedan’s group arrived on the evening of the fourth day.  They hadn’t spoken since the night in the watch tower other than what was necessary between a soldier and an officer, and though they were near each other at the evening meal he didn’t attempt to close the gap.  There was the faintest twinge of guilt when he realized that Raedan didn’t know his sister was safe, but then anger surged anew as he remembered those bitter words and he kept his silence.

Still, it was not a shock when Aedion realized Raedan was well on his trail the next day.  He had gone out far to the west, to the three mile limit of the exercise, crossing a couple small streams and climbing in and out of the trees.  He could hear him, puzzling out where Aedion had walked up stream for a hundred yards before coming out on the same bank and returning to the trees.  Raedan had taken the bait, and was on the far side, searching for clues, when suddenly Aedion realized that they weren’t alone.  There were other footsteps, more subtle hidden ones, creeping through the undergrowth, an unfamiliar scent that hit him faintly as the wind blew in his direction.

His mouth went dry, his palms sweaty.  The stranger might be no threat, but then why hide his approach?  He dropped to the ground and moved as quickly and quietly as he could.  When he heard Raedan’s startled cry, he gave up all pretense of stealth and flat out sprinted, pulling out his knives as he ran.  

Reaching the stream, he thought he was going to vomit as he smelled fresh blood.  Raedan was down on the ground, a man in dark green standing over him holding a knife.  As the stranger bent over the prone form, Aedion gave a shout and the man looked up.  Aedion’s aim was true.  His knife sank into the man’s right eye, dropping him where he stood.  Leaping the stream, he was on Raedan before the stranger stopped twitching.  

His brother’s breathing was labored, and there was blood spreading through his tunic.  Gray-green eyes, dulled with pain, met his.  “I…”  

“Don’t talk,” Aedion ordered, ripping open the shirt.  Deep wound on the left side, bleeding heavily but not likely fatal.  But the sucking sound the wound made with each breath would be if he couldn’t stop it.  He tore a strip from the shirt and wrapped it tight around Raedan’s chest, but air still sucked in through the weave of the fabric.  Raedan started to flail, desperate for air.  

“Raedan,” Aedion said sternly, putting all the command he possessed in his voice.  “Stop moving.  I need to seal this.”  Raedan quieted, though his dilated eyes still stared frantically at every move Aedion made.  Stripping off his boot and his belt, he wadded up his sock and packed it over the wound, then strapped his belt over it.  This stopped the horrible sucking sound, and Raedan began breathing a little more easily.  Aedion looked at the plants around them; lucky they were so close to water.  “Do not move.  I will be right back.”

There was club moss and goldenseal nearby.  He used a knife to cut off a wad of the club moss, then yanked the goldenseal out of the ground.  After rinsing the roots off in the stream, he stuffed them in his mouth and chewed as he returned to the small clearing.  

Raedan’s eyes were closed, and his lips were pale and slightly purple.  Shit shit shit.  “You still with me my brother?” he asked as he undid the belt.  Raedan made an indistinct noise in response and Aedion sagged a little in relief.  The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, and the clot in the wound seemed to hold as he released the tension. Gently placing the chewed roots in the wound, he then covered it with the moss and tied it all in place with the strip of Raedan’s shirt.  Without the tight pressure from the belt, Raedan’s breathing eased slightly, and that dreadful noise did not return.  

“Aedion,” he rasped, then his eyes closed and his head lolled.  

“I’m going to get you home,” Aedion said, though he was pretty sure Raedan was unconscious. As he started to slide his arms under Raedan’s shoulders and knees, he heard footsteps.  Releasing his hold, he stood and palmed another knife, waiting.  Flinn emerged cautiously from between the trees just as Aedion threw, the knife hitting a tree right next to his head as Aedion drew another.  Flinn’s eyes were wide as he stared from the knife wobbling in the tree inches from him to the body of the stranger, to Raedan lying limp between Aedion’s feet, then back to the stranger.

Pointing the knife at Flinn, Aedion snarled, “I told you not to engage, you son of a bitch.”  

Flinn blanched at the fury rolling off of him and held up his hands.  “I didn’t.  I told everyone to stand down, I swear,” he said.  “What have you done, Ashryver?”

“What have I done?” Aedion roared.  “I put a knife through his gods-damned eye after he stabbed my brother, that’s what!”  His voice lowered.  “And I’ll do the same to you if you come after us.”  

“I won’t,” Flinn swore, and Aedion believed him.  He bent again to pick Raedan up, gently sliding his hands under him, marking the quick, shallow breaths and the thready pulse beating in his throat.  “Ashryver!”  Flinn called after him as he jumped the stream, but he didn’t turn back, didn’t pause, just set into a run he could maintain for the three miles back to the village.

*****

Mikkal was sitting up in the small bed, running his fingers through Aedion’s hair, watching the boy propped up on pillows in the other bed breathe.  He would never forget the sight of Aedion appearing at the edge of the woods, Raedon Lamar’s lifeless body in his arms, snarling at the small grouping of soldiers to get out of his way as he ran towards the healer’s cottage.  Nor would he easily forget his prowling while the healer used a small hollow tube to remove the air trapped around Lamar’s lungs, then disinfected and stitched the wound.  Luckily the healer was unfazed by it all, merely looking between them with the same cool amusement she had the first time they’d met her.  

Now it was coming dawn and they were tucked in the spare room of the healer’s cottage.  The idea of getting Aedion to go back to the inn was laughable; fortunately the healer had no other patients at the moment so hadn’t objected when Mikkal had asked if they could stay.  He had finally persuaded Aedion to lay down, and within minutes of settling his head in Mikkal’s lap Aedion had been asleep.

Raedan had woken up twice during the night for a few moments but had not seemed particularly aware before being sucked back into unconsciousness.  Mikkal had little memory of his own injury, but if he recalled correctly it had been a few days before he had been able to stay awake for any length of time.  He wondered if Aedion would insist on staying here that whole time.  He would have to send a letter to camp in the morning; there was no way they would continue training, but he didn’t know if his father would want to try to investigate further into the situation.  At least Aedion had taken care of the man himself, but the whole thing was still odd.  

He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed, wishing for a book.  Looking back at Raedan, he saw he was awake again, and this time there was alertness in his face.  “Welcome back,” he said quietly.  Raedan groaned quietly in response.  “It’s all right, don’t try to talk.  It’s going to hurt for a few days.”  Carefully, he transferred Aedion’s head to a pillow and slipped out of bed.  The healer had left a brew for him should he awaken, so he brought that over and carefully eased Raedan up into a more complete sitting position before bringing the cup to his lips.  After a few sips, he helped him settle back and gently tucked the blankets around him.  “Are you comfortable?”  Raedan nodded.  Mikkal checked his forehead; it was cool, no sign of fever.  He sat down in the chair between the beds, checking first to confirm Aedion was miraculously still asleep.

“Is he all right?” Raedan rasped.

“Yes, he’s fine.  You really should try to rest.”  

Raedan shook his head once, his face tightening.  Mikkal took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  Raedan squeezed back, hard, then slumped back in the pillows.  Mikkal’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on the back of the hand he held, and slowly Raedan’s eyes drifted shut, leaving Mikkal alone to watch the sun coming up through the windows.

*****

Aedion was struggling to control his restlessness.  After sleeping for a few hours, he’d awakened to find Raedan still sleeping, with Mikkal dozing in the chair next to him, holding his hand.  The healer had checked Raedan out and advised them that he shouldn’t be moved for at least a week.  Mikkal had kicked Aedion out to get food for them both, claiming it was so they wouldn’t trouble the healer but he suspected it was because his pacing was driving everyone crazy.

The inn dining room had been full of his fellow soldiers, and they all fell on him asking for an update on Raedan.  Evidently Mikkal had sent a couple of them back to the clearing to see what they could learn about the assailant, but it hadn’t been much.  They had stripped him of his weapons and recovered Aedion’s knife and boot but that was all.  He didn’t dare ask about his second knife; he didn’t want to explain how it ended up in the tree.

Laden with food and a satchel with a few necessities from his room, he returned to the cottage.  The healer was with another patient, so he slipped through silently and headed to the back room.  He could hear low voices, and he stopped, listening.  

Mikkal was talking.  “Is it because I’m male, or because I exist at all?”

“Neither,” came Raedan’s sandpaper whisper.  “It’s just…” He paused to draw a rattling breath.  “Delaney left because of him.  If he…loved her…”

He could hear a gasp, then movement, and Mikkal murmuring, “Here, here, it’s all right.  Squeeze my hand as hard as it hurts.”  There was a long stretch of quiet, then, “He told me about it, you know.  He sent your sister away because he loved her.  No, it’s true.”  Aedion wondered what Raedan had done to earn that sharper tone.  “You know what those bastards did to him.  That was mild compared to what they would have done to her if she had stayed, and he knew it.”

It was time for him to interrupt.  He let the bags rustle as he walked the few steps to the room, then set down one loudly to open the door.  Raedan was sitting propped up with cushions, alert though pale and drawn.  Mikkal was lounging in the chair, the picture of calm.  Aedion unloaded the food, including a small lidded bowl of gruel that the cook had assured him Raedan would be able to get down easily.  

Mikkal left after the meal to check in with the other soldiers, planning on sending them all back to camp unless word otherwise had been received from the general.  Raedan had managed several mouthfuls of the gruel before falling back against his pillows and almost instantaneously nodding off.  Aedion stretched out on the bed with the book he’d brought from the inn, soon losing himself in the epic tale of battle in the Red Desert until Raedan’s groan had him flashing to his side.

“What can I get you?  Water?  Food?  Do you need the healer?”

Raedan’s exasperated expression was so familiar he wanted to laugh.  “I have to pee,” Raedan said, blushing faintly, once Aedion allowed a word in.  A quick consultation with the healer, and Aedion carefully helped him into the bathing room, then back to bed where he proceeded to fluff pillows unnecessarily until Raedan glared him into the chair.  They stared at each other for a while.    

“I understand,” Raedan finally said.  

“What do you understand?” Aedion asked, tapping his fingers against his knee.

“Why you’re in love with him.”  Raedan gaze dropped down to his hands, then back up to meet Aedion’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, about before.  I was…horrible.”

Aedion nodded slowly.  He didn’t know what to say.  He still felt raw at times from the wounds those words had inflicted, but he had known the second he’d heard the footsteps stalking through the woods that in the long run it didn’t matter.  Raedan was the closest thing he still had to family.  He held out his hand.  “It’s all right, brother.”  Raedan clasped his hand and sighed, as if some weight had been lifted.  His eyes closed, and he drifted back to sleep, hand still engulfed in Aedion’s own.

Aedion himself was starting to doze when the door was flung open and Mikkal was there, looking like a man who had been dealt a mortal blow.  Aedion could smell the anguish rolling off of him, and stood so quickly the chair crashed over, startling Raedan awake.  There were no injuries Aedion could sense.  “Mikkal!  What -”

“My orders came,” Mikkal replied in a voice so hollow as to be unrecognizable.  “My father sent them back with the messenger.  I’m going back to Fenharrow.”

The world stopped.  Aedion had known it was likely that Mikkal would have to leave, had known it with his mind, but that didn’t stop the words from stabbing him in the heart.  “When?” he whispered.

“Two weeks.  I have to leave in two weeks.”

Aedion gathered Mikkal into his arms, pressing his face into his neck, breathing in that familiar musky scent.  He didn’t care that Raedan was watching, or that the door was open and the healer was down the hall.  All he cared about was that Mikkal was clinging to him as hard as he could, was shaking in his arms, and that he couldn’t fix it.  There was nothing he could do or say to stop this pain, for either of them.  So he squeezed his eyes shut and held on, as that was all he knew how to do.  

*****

Delaney sighed as she picked the scissors up to cut the pattern for yet another dress.  She really, really hated sewing.  Always had, actually; repairs had been her least favorite part of being a laundress, and right now she wanted nothing more than to ram these scissors into the critical eye of the woman who stood in front of her.  She missed Ea’s bakery, the warm sweet smells and the feel of dough and even Ea’s grunts.

Mabina had no trouble talking.  In fact, she rarely seemed to stop.  Delaney had been there for a week now and was pretty certain there had only been about five minutes of quiet the whole time.  She wouldn’t have minded so much if the woman’s bird-like chirping hadn’t shifted into hateful scorn every time she addressed Delaney.

Not that she could totally blame her.  Mabina’s husband had been slaughtered in the initial invasion for possessing magic, and Delaney was pretty certain her presence was lemon juice on that still-fresh wound.  She didn’t understand why Mabina had volunteered to take her on as an apprentice, and sometimes wondered exactly how much money had changed hands to make it happen.  

Despite all that, Mabina did know her craft and was a good, if impatient, teacher.  Making clothing from scratch was a different creature than mending, and Mabina’s attention to detail was profound.  Unfortunately for them both, Delaney, though proficient with a needle, lacked the natural eye to gauge fit and drape, so the entire process was akin to teaching a lapdog to hunt.  It wasn’t impossible, but it sure wasn’t easy.

At least her other lessons were progressing well.  Kerrin had taken over self-defense when Fulke had left and she now had drilled enough that her initial reactions were automatic.  It was Clery, though, who had insisted she learn how to handle a knife and who had gifted her with a stiletto of her own.  Clery also worked with her on writing in code.  He had begun to prepare her to go to Rifthold.  One of his spies there had been coming under a little too much suspicion, and he had pulled him out just the week before.  Delaney was to take his place.    Clery’s concession to her challenges with sewing was to assign one of his remaining spies to find her a job in a bakery.  She had suggested more than once trying to get into a private home, where it might be easier to get information, but Clery had negated that.  

“Unless you want to be under your master half the time, you’re better off working for a public business,” had been his final word on the subject.

So Delaney cut and stitched and sewed buttons, somehow never managing to make the finished product come out quite right.  Until now, when the simple shift actually hung right on the dress form and for once Mabina didn’t look like she was going to cry at the waste of fabric.  It was with a rare sense of triumph that Delaney packed up her space for the day and headed home through the streets.  

That evening, she was sitting in Clery’s study puzzling through a new way of coding letters.  “How do you know what code I’m using?” she asked.  Each version strived to make the writing seem innocuous, so all the codes used many of the same words.

“I told you,” he said with some asperity, “for this one, you begin with ‘Greetings.’  For the last one, it’s ‘Dearest Uncle.’  Then the first one you learned is ‘Salutations.’  Are you sure you’re going to be able to manage this?”

“I remember all the different codes,” she snapped, “it’s just the beginnings I keep forgetting.”

“Well it won’t do me a damn bit of good if you don’t remember that part, so I suggest you try a little harder,” he grumbled in response.  

They were still sniping at each other when the door burst open and a filthy man Delaney vaguely recognized flew into the room.  “Flinn!” Clery exclaimed.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sir, I know I was to send a messenger but I thought I best come myself.”  His face was grim.  Delaney rose to leave, generally not welcome at these types of meetings.  “Miss, I think perhaps you should stay,” Flinn said with a slight bow to her.  She looked at Clery, who nodded, and returned to her seat.

“Paget’s soldiers were in Oakwald, just as you had said they would be.  I saw him, sir,” Flinn began.

“Ashryver?” Clery asked sharply.  Delaney’s hand rose to her mouth.

Flinn nodded.  “Yes, saw him and spoke with him, twice.”

“You weren’t supposed to approach,” Clery said, lips pressed in a thin line.

“I didn’t, sir.  He answered one of my calls.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, sir, he came and found me.”  He turned to Delaney.  “He was right pleased to hear you were all right, miss.”  She smiled, picturing his bright-eyed grin.  

Clery leaned in.  “Did he say anything of use?”

Flinn shook his head.  “Not much, no, sir.  Just warned us to stay back, that he wouldn’t be able to protect us if we were caught.”  Clery nodded, but before he could speak, Flinn went on.  “I think we may have lost him, though, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Delaney said sharply, ignoring Clery’s glare.

“Well, miss, it’s that one of our men didn’t follow orders.”  He looked to Clery anxiously.  “Aisnir, sir.  I told him to stay back, sir.  I told him…”

“What happened,” Clery ordered, and there was dread in his voice.

“Aisnir killed one of Ashryver’s men, sir.  Ashryver…didn’t take it well.”

No, he wouldn’t have, Delaney thought.  Aedion was protective of anyone he felt responsible for.  

Clery swore.  “Where is Aisnir now?”

“I left him where I found him, sir,” Flinn said grimly, and Clery cursed again.

Delaney almost asked what that meant, and then realized - Aedion must have killed him.  She swallowed hard.  It was so hard to picture him doing that, to imagine those hands that had carried and soothed her sisters taking a life, even though she knew it was what he was trained for.

Clery was shaking his head.  “Damn it.  Darrow warned me Aisnir couldn’t be trusted, I should have listened.”  He sighed.  “Do you really think that would keep Ashryver from helping us, though?  After everyone Adarlan took from him?”

“I don’t know,” Flinn said slowly.  “I had heard him shout, and went to see what had happened.  He was so furious, I thought he was going to kill me too.  I’m frankly a little surprised he didn’t.”  He paused for a moment.  “He…he doesn’t have any family left, does he?”

“Not on this continent,” Clery answered, brow furrowed.  “He has some relatives in Wendlyn, but they never sent for him and he never asked to go back, even after the assassinations.  Why?”

Flinn seemed a little confused.  “That’s what I had thought.  It’s just that he told me the fallen man was his brother.”

“What?” Delaney whispered, certain she had heard wrong.  Desperate to know she had. Because there was only one person she could think of whom Aedion would call brother.

“When I found them, I asked him what had happened, and he told me Aisnir had stabbed his brother.  I didn’t know…” he trailed off, looking at Delaney in concern.  “Miss?  Delaney?  Are you all right?”

“What did he look like?”  The voice she heard was not her own, though she was certain she had spoken.

“Ashryver?”

“No,” she said, her chest squeezing so tight she could barely draw breath. “The man who was…”

“I didn’t really see him very well.”

“Please,” she said, tears beginning to fall.  Clery came around and squeezed her shoulder.  “Please, tell me what you know.”

Flinn glanced at Clery, who nodded, not taking his concerned eyes off Delaney.  “He was about my size.  Maybe a little taller.  Light brown hair.  Young, around Ashryver’s age?”  

Delaney broke down completely.  Raedan.  It had to be Raedan.  How had he even been out there?  Oh, gods, her brother, her little brother…She could picture him toddling around camp after her, lisping her name.  Picking up Maida, so proud of his baby sister.  The last time she’d seen him, when he’d hugged her and promised to look after Aedion.  What had she done?  What had she put into motion by asking him for that?  All this time, she’d been so scared for Aedion, it had never occurred to her Raedan was at risk.

She vaguely became aware of Clery kneeling in front of her, talking to her.  “Delaney, you’re going to make yourself sick.  Tell me what’s wrong.”

“My brother,” she choked out, and then she did start retching.  Someone shoved a wastebasket in front of her and she emptied her stomach into it before relapsing into sobs.  She heard voices speaking, but couldn’t track what was being said; the door opened and closed repeatedly, warm arms were wrapped around her, and then she was lifted and carried into her room and settled gently onto her bed.

She didn’t know how long it was before she had cried herself out.  Slowly, she became aware again of her surroundings, of the softness of her bed, of gentle hands stroking her hair.  Clery was sitting next to her, face drawn and gray.  

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he said hoarsely.  “I didn’t know…you had said you’d had a brother, but I didn’t even think…”

“It’s not your fault.”  Her voice sounded dead to her own ears.  “I didn’t know he’d left Perrington’s.”  Not that it would’ve changed anything if she had.  

“I sent one of my best riders to the town near Paget’s camp.  Flinn’s not certain he’s…Flinn’s not certain what happened.  We should know in about ten days.” There was a long silence broken only by Delaney’s occasional hiccoughs. “What’s your brother’s name?”

“Raedan.  His name was Raedan.”  She closed her eyes against the dim light of the room as pain washed over her again and the tears began anew.