Emel dropped down from the inner curtain, rolling as he landed. He waited until the guards of the inner and outer curtain were well past and unlikely to see him then bolted across the wide expanse of the outer ward. Reaching the outer curtain, he quickly climbed it, heaved himself up over it, and dropped to the ground below. He just barely avoided tumbling into the moat, grimacing at himself for his sloppiness.
The moat was always the tricky part, but long practice had developed sound method: climbing down the steep side of the moat, he slipped into the water and swam carefully across, then used the handholds he'd worked hard to put in place to climb back out again. Goddess strike him down if some demon ever used his own method to bring ruin down upon the castle. Guilt gnawed at him, but the desire—the need—to see Brekk overrode everything else. With fresh hope burning in him, fanned back to life by the Lost Paladin's sword, he could not resist going to see Brekk.
He walked for a half mark until he reached the old cabin tucked away in a grotto, the watermill beside it little more than a derelict reminder of the purpose the little house had once served. The horse he kept there nickered in greeting as Emel reached it, and he handed over an apple before saddling the horse up. Mounting up, he rode off, wending through the woods with the ease of familiarity, able to leave most of the work to the horse so that he could focus his attention on his tumultuous thoughts.
His fingers went briefly to the sword at his hip, emotions cutting through him, echoing every last one of his own: fear, pain, and a bone-deep longing to fix something that he was certain would never—could never—be fixed.
As ever, the ride to the oak tree seemed to take forever. His breaths misted in the night air, but the ride and his own fear kept him plenty warm in the cold. Slices of moonlight cut through the dense canopy, just enough for Emel to see the barest outline of the figure waiting for him.
Reaching the oak, Emel dismounted. "Brekk."
Brekk held out one scarred, claw-tipped hand, tugging Emel close when he took it. "Good evening," he said in a rough, broken voice. "Long time no see, beauty."
Emel laughed at the endearment, for he was no such thing, and cupped Brekk's face, tugging him down for a kiss. Brekk's lips were rough and dry, but warm and familiar. The scars that covered his face and the top of his head were achingly familiar beneath Emel's fingers.
Claws ran lightly over the heavy layers of his clothes and lightweight leather armor. "I've missed you."
"I wish I could see you more," Emel said softly. "I keep hoping …"
Brekk kissed him again, soft and lingering. "Treasure the moments, beauty. Don't waste them dreaming for eternities."
Swallowing, Emel took another kiss, this one hard and desperate, containing every ragged emotion knotting him up or tearing him apart. Brekk held him tightly, fed back every bit of longing and fear. They trembled in one another's arms, beating back despair with desire. The air was cold as it struck his skin when Brekk began to strip their clothes away, but the heat of Brekk's body soon banished all hints of cold.
Emel hissed as those fine, razor-sharp claws scored his skin and sharp teeth sank into his shoulder. There would be a livid bruise there, he knew that well from experience, but did not mind. Hidden by layers of cloths and armor, it would also be all he had to remember Brekk until they were able to meet again.
He moaned when the teasing finally ended and Brekk slid inside him, hard and hot and exactly what Emel needed after three long months of not seeing his lover. He wrapped his arms around Brekk, dug his nails into Brekk's back right above the wing joints, and held tightly as Brekk began to fuck him hard.
It did not last nearly long enough, and Emel muffled his cry in Brekk's mouth, tasting blood as the force of the kiss split his lip. As they finally calmed, Brekk drew back and lapped the bloody away, his eyes glowing a soft yellow.
The first time they'd met there in the wood, Brekk's eyes had been dark red and glowing. Emel should have finished what the wound in Brekk's side had started, put an end to the damnable demon's life … but life was exactly what he had seen in Brekk's eyes. Not a demon, not a mindless monster, but someone who felt pain and did not want to die.
Emel had saved him instead and fled back to the castle before the reality of what he had done caught up to him. When he had eventually returned a few days later, he'd expected the demon to be long gone.
Instead, he'd been waiting. Emel's entire world had changed that day—and changed all over again when a cautious friendship turned into a love affair.
They slowly dressed again, then sat pressed together at the base of the oak. "The High Necromancer found a sword today," Emel said and dragged his sword belt close, displaying the hilt of his new sword, the gleaming purple jewel in the hilt.
Brekk frowned at it. "It radiates a strange energy."
"Oh? I only feel the sorrow in the blade," Emel said and held it out. Brekk shook his head, withdrawing from it.
"Why does a sword radiate sorrow and give off strange energies?"
"He says it contains the soul of a paladin who cries out for a demon named Rakken. We call him the Lost Paladin. He refused to renounce his feelings for a demon and was burned at the stake."
Brekk made a low, sad noise. "I do not want you to suffer such a fate."
"Burning was made illegal centuries ago," Emel said. "I'm terrified only of losing you. If they find us, they'll kill you before any questions are asked." He did not bother to say that it was less a matter of 'if' and more a matter of 'when'. He was not fool enough to think his secret would remain one.
The sword, though … He traced his fingers over the hilt, lingering on the jewel. The sword gave him a taste of hope, sweet and bitter and impossible to resist. "Everyone is starting to accept necromancers are not one step away from demons. And now this sword … do you think someday, maybe …"
Shaking his head, Brekk said, "I do not know, and I was never very good at being optimistic. But I do like it when I and my pessimism are proven wrong." He gave one of his rare smiles, so sweet an expression on his fierce face. He reached out and cupped Emel's cheek.
Emel's eyes stung as he stared into Brekk's, remembering with an ache the way everyone had laughed and cheered that morning when Sorin had kissed Koray. Men and women who called him friend, who stood by him in battle, who would die for him … they had taken necromancers into their fold, but every last one of them would not hesitate to cut Emel down when they found him consorting with a demon. Worse, they would slaughter Brekk without thought and never know or care about what they had lost.
Would there ever come a day when he could kiss Brekk openly and have it be met with cheers?
Holding fast to the sword in his lap, Emel leaned in and kissed Brekk, casting out a silent prayer to the Goddess that eventually that day would indeed come.
Cerant could tell by the way his head throbbed, and from the foul taste in his mouth, that he had drunk too much again. Sighing at himself, already dreading the quietly disapproving look he would get from Neikirk, he crawled out of bed and got himself cleaned up.
When he looked respectable, even if he still felt like death, he slowly made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. There was still a pot of warm porridge on the stove, thankfully, and half a pitcher of ale left. Fixing himself breakfast, he took it all to the table and began to eat.
He had just finished when Neikirk slipped inside, immaculate and precise and beautiful as ever. Cerant noted mournfully that Neikirk had trimmed his hair, cutting the dark blond strands so short that all hint of curl was gone. But the severe cut drew out his brilliant eyes—one amber, one violet and swirling with silver and purples and blues. A gold-rimmed monocle was affixed to his left eye, and he stared disapprovingly through it at Cerant. "Good morning, Master."
"Good morning, my dear," Cerant said, smiling as only Neikirk could make him—especially when Neikirk was annoyed with him. "You look as though you've had a productive morning. Set some new incantations?"
"Yes, Master," Neikirk said and fetched a cup to pour himself some ale. "How are you feeling?"
Cerant snorted and replied, "Would you prefer I be miserable or feeling better?
"Miserable."
"Ah, Neikirk, what would I do without you and your honesty?"
"Drink more," Neikirk replied in that implacable, matter of fact way of his.
Cerant could not stop wondering just how magnificent Neikirk would be when he lost that cool, collected manner of his. Or would he be all precise and measuring in bed as well? Either thought was enough to make Cerant suddenly uncomfortable. "I am sorry for drinking so much."
"You are free to do as you like, Master," Neikirk replied.
Cerant made a face at that because it certainly was not true. Even as a prince he had not been free to do as he liked. Unlike his damnable brother, but if he started going down that road, he would begin drinking again, and contrary to what Neikirk probably thought, Cerant did not enjoy escaping into alcohol.
There were just days when he simply did not know how else he was going to survive the memories that occasionally drove him to his knees. No matter the years that passed, no matter how much he loved Neikirk and so many other elements of his life in Navath, it was not home.
At least he was past the anniversary of his exile for another year. Cerant scrubbed at his face, finished his breakfast, and set the dishes aside to wash later. "So what spells did you work on this morning, my dear?"
"Healing magic," Neikirk replied as he rose to put his empty cup with Cerant's dishes. "I am trying a new combination of plant energies with those new roses you had planted. They seem heartier in spirit than the other bushes."
Cerant smiled at the undercurrent of enthusiasm in Neikirk's voice; the only time he ever lost his cool, precise tone was when he spoke of his work. "I'm glad they're proving of use. I cannot wait until spring when I can plant the additional roses and that peculiar bush with the thorns."
His garden, which occupied most of the land he had purchased years ago when he had settled in the town of Mellness, was one of the few things he loved. Nowhere near as much as he loved Neikirk, but it kept him occupied and provided a challenge. "What else do you plan to do today? Still fighting with your lightning incantation? I am surprised you are not working on it right now."
"Lightning can wait," Neikirk said calmly. "I intend to learn, once and for all, why you always get so ridiculously drunk on the same day every year."
Cerant sighed. "You would have more success with the lightning."
"I am more persistent than you," Neikirk replied, even tone never changing, but an all too familiar stubborn gleam in his eyes. He was, unfortunately, correct: Cerant could not compete with Neikirk's persistence. "It is clear the matter troubles you deeply and instead of easing as the years pass, the pain just grows. You spend your life gardening, indulging me, and protecting the village, but it is clear this life does not make you happy. Yet you'll not speak of what troubles you; all I know is that whatever it is, it keeps you from going home again. This is not the life you were meant to lead, Master. Any fool can see that. You should be doing great things, not tending gardens."
"Great things?" Cerant laughed bitterly. "I am not meant for anything, not anymore. Assuming I ever was."
Neikirk frowned. "What life did you leave behind? Why do you not return to it? As long as I have lived with you, Master, I know very little about you. Not even where you are from, other than Vindeia."
"What is there to tell? That life is gone forever. I cannot go home. This is my life. I will never be sorry that it gave me the chance to meet you, Neikirk. You must know that."
"There is always a way to go home again, if that is what you really want."
Cerant's mouth twisted. "My dear, if I cross that border my life is forfeit. As I said, there is nothing to discuss."
"I would say there is a great deal to discuss, but let us switch to a different subject for a time. You are not sorry for the chance to have met me. Certainly I am grateful for that day you won my contract at auction. You spared me from men who would have used me and thrown me away before the year was out."
"My finest purchase," Cerant said with a genuine smile.
Neikirk did not return it. "Why, when it is clear all that lies between us, do you constantly refuse to act and make us lovers? Why have you turned down the attempts I have made myself to change that?"
Cerant sighed. "My, my, you are out for blood today, my dear."
"Strictly speaking, it is not blood that interests me," Neikirk replied. The unexpected jest made Cerant laugh briefly. Looking faintly pleased with himself for a moment, Neikirk pressed on. "My contract expires in three days, Master. I would like to renew it, but with that stupid clause you added removed. If you are going to remain stubborn, however, then I will not renew it."
"That would put you back in the auction pool," Cerant snapped. "No."
Neikirk stepped in close, the suddenness of the movement—the fact he could feel the heat of Neikirk's body, smell sweat and roses and the unmistakable tang of magic—stopped Cerant's breath. "Then stop making excuses, Master, and do what we both have been wanting you to do for a long time."
"You don't understand—"
"Then tell me!" Neikirk snapped, finally losing that calm of his. "I have waited and waited all these years and my patience has finally run out. I am not going to stand by and watch you drink that way, despair that way, again. Tell me what holds you back and take what has been offered to you, or cut me loose and let me move on."
"No!" Cerant snarled, blood running cold at the idea of Neikirk's leaving him. "You're not leaving. I won't permit it. You're mine."
Some of the tension in Neikirk's shoulders bled away. "Then what do you hold back that you think I could not bear to hear? Are you guilty of some terrible crime?"