hooked

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Night, 43 Ashan, Arc 719

Continued from here.

Evening had come and went, and once the sunlight had disappeared, darkness quickly consumed the small island of Koros. With it, Marcovera fell into shadow. After a tense, but positive reunion with the former slave, Zarik had taken Kaelrik – not to the mayoral estate where he stayed with Alistair when in their township – but to a small cottage in a quaint residential district.

He’d set Kaelrik on a soft, plush bed to rest from the lengthy walk between the home and the clinic where they’d come from. Zarik attended to the injured Lotharro and gathered various pillows from around the home. He offered them all so that Kaelrik could prop himself up however he preferred. After he retrieved fresh water from a nearby well, he settled a pitcher and cup on a table dragged over to sit beside the bed.

Zarik informed the other man that he needed to seek out potential transport for their return to Quacia, and that he would also retrieve some supper as well – the home didn’t have any food in it, the stores cleaned out after the Saltfetcher assault. He made one last survey to make sure that Kaelrik wouldn’t have to leave the bed: pillows, water, blankets, bucket, a short sword – just in case – and he set a ball of yarn next to the pitcher. It was the closest thing he could find that might be entertaining… perhaps Kaelrik would like to practice tying knots or something, the Biqaj figured. He left him alone.


Gone for around two breaks, Zarik returned with an accidental slam of the door behind him. He winced from the sound, then locked the door even though the town was far safer than Quacia. He went to the small kitchen first, to set down the items he’d retrieved while out. Zarik hadn’t prepared a meal in a long time, actively avoiding such a thing during his time with Alistair, but for the moment… he allowed himself the old habit.

Whether Kaelrik heard him in the kitchen or not, he focused on the meal. Finally, after many bits, he had prepared a plate and brought it to the bedroom, along with a corked bottle and a couple goblets, in assumption that the Lotharro would have remained in bed. He started speaking as soon as he’d left the kitchen, in a call that echoed through the modest cottage house, “I didn’t know what kind of fish you like, or if you like any at all, so I got a few different varieties.”

Zarik smiled slightly when he saw the Lotharro in the bed still. He was glad he hadn’t wandered away or left the house. The biqaj set the plate on the table. “So there’s… uhm, rice from the market, steamed potatoes and carrots, and then, uh, clams along with the fish. I left the scales on those because you can eat it like that, but you can also scrap it off with the knife. And I have more stuff in the kitchen if you wanted something like sweets or… porridge? Or tell me if you prefer something else.”

“Now, I also picked up this wine from the nurse at the clinic. She said you’ve been drinking it to ease your pain?” He uncorked the bottle, sniffed at the contents, then poured it into a goblet. He handed it over for Kaelrik to take. “I’m assuming it must be strong, huh?”

He poured the same wine into a second goblet, then placed the bottle on the table. Zarik retrieved an ottoman, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down on the plush cushion. He took off his boots, his crystalline legs shimmered underneath his tights, and he gathered them in a crisscross position as he sat on the hassock.

“Did you need anything else, Kaelrik?” asked Zarik. The irises of his eyes were a strange mix of colorless gray and amber rings. He waited for a trill or two, then took the smallest sip of the drugged wine intended for the man with the broken ribs.

[Kaelrik]

The walk from the clinic to the cottage had been an exhausting one. By the time the two of them entered the cottage, Kaelrik had practically collapsed onto the bed. His chest ached and he was finding it more and more difficult to keep himself upright. He gave his thanks to Zarik as the man curiously worked to make him comfortable. It was such a contrast to what he’d been accustomed to when faced with treatment from the biqaj that Kaelrik was deeply suspicious of the behavior. But he was finding it even more difficult to refuse any assistance that the man offered. He couldn’t protest against the help, it would have been the height of rudeness, especially in his condition. Still, Kaelrik was a little uneasy. Who else or what else did he have? Alistair had left him with nothing. No mooring. No future with him. Absolutely nothing except frustration, confusion and regret.

“Thank you, Zarik.” Kaelrik settled into the bed. He let himself sink into the mattress. It was decidedly more comfortable than the cot that had been provided in the clinic. As much discomfot as he was in, it was difficult not to be lulled into a restful state when he was practically swallowed by the softness of the mattress. Before Kaelrik realized it, he had drifted off to sleep and was only awoken when he heard the slam of the door. He startled awake and shook the grogginess from his head. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes giving a wide yawn managing to draw in a deeper breath than he had for a while. The nap had done some good but he still found himself very tired.

As Zarik brought in the plate of food, he smelled some very well cooked food. It made his stomach rumble audibly. He ducked his head and blushed in embarrassment. Reaching out he accepted the plate with a grateful nod.

“Thank you.” Kaelrik eyed the food in front of him. There was fish. Potatoes. Rice. Not a single piece of fungus in sight. For that reason alone the meal was the best one he’d had in a very long time. Not to mention, finally, blessedly, not a single slice of pork. He wouldn’t be sorry if he never ate pork again. The Lotharro dug into the plate with a voracious appetite. He practically moaned into the forkful of rice and fish that went into his mouth. Zarik could have been the worst chef on all Idalos and it wouldn’t have mattered. The fact that it was something completely different than what he’d been eating for season after season was a godsend. After he’d had a few mouthfuls, Kaelrik accepted the goblet of wine. He paused just before taking a drink as Zarik revealed where it came from.

“They put herbs in it to dull the pain and to also help me sleep.” Kaelrik set the goblet to the side. He wouldn’t drink from it quite yet. He took another bite of the fish and sighed happily. After another bite of potatoes he stared down at the plate and found himself getting emotional. Memories drifted back to him. Memories not of Quacia or Ne’haer or any cursed place he’d been since losing his brother, but of Gauthrel. He remembered his family’s home. He remembered sitting down at his mother’s table and she served a meal not too dissimilar from the one in front of him. He glanced at Zarik, noticing the almost gleaming quality to his legs beneath his tights. He didn’t make any comments. Kaelrik was not one to judge when it came to strange mutations. His right arm spouted fire when his emotions raged out of control.

“No. You’ve been very…kind.” It was odd, really. As Kaelrik reflected on the time that he’d spent in Quacia it had been filled with nothing but blood and hardship. He’d either served a purpose or he’d simply been a figure in the background…waiting to be noticed by a man who couldn’t even look him in the eyes and tell him he needed space.

“For all the time Alistair and I spent together, for as much as he said I meant to him, he never did anything like this for me.” Kaelrik turned his indigo eyes to Zarik. “Why are you?”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

When Kaelrik

accepted the plate of food, after a slight rumble of the stomach that Zarik didn’t think about – not in amusement or otherwise – the Lotharro barely took a breath before voraciously eating. Zarik had filled the plate to the brim, with the thought that Kaelrik would pick and choose… not… eat everything at once. He mentioned with a small laugh while he poured the wine, “Don’t accidentally choke, please. If you eat too fast, you might vomit so... be careful.”

Zarik settled on the hassock, legs drawn in crisscross, and a goblet of the drugged wine held between both his gloved hands. His ice-blond hair was amess, ruffled from constantly running his fingers through the bangs over the trial. Since Kaelrik had seen the Theocratic Mark of Faith earlier, he finally slicked back his hair, so it was away from his face. He sighed when he heard the mention that herbs were in the wine. Zarik glanced to the side, noting that the former slave hadn’t taken a sip yet.

A slight silence lingered between them. He asked if Kaelrik needed anything else. When the Lotharro told him no, he took a sip of the wine from his own goblet. His gaze rested to stare at the dark liquid inside and he could vaguely see his own reflection, though not well. He listened to Kaelrik’s confession about Alistair and the phrase "...for as much as he said I meant to him..." stuck out to the biqaj.

The irises of his eyes droned into ocean blue hues. He sipped from the wine again, then lowered it. Zarik licked his lips and looked at Kaelrik when the Lothar expressed confusion for Zarik's apparent kindness. The hint and flash of a smile showed before it disappeared in the next trill. He answered, “Because you are hurt and need help.”

It seemed that was his whole answer. Zarik’s gaze drifted away to look at the ceiling. He felt warm and a gentle silvery-blue blush showed on his cheeks. All trial he’d been wrapped in layers of clothing and his wounds underneath terribly itched. He considered whether to leave Kaelrik then, instead of lingering in the other man’s company.

Zarik finally gave in. He set his goblet at the edge of the nearby table. With a huff, he pulled off his black leather gloves. They fell to the floor, discarded. On one of his hands, a thick wrapping of bandage showed, the palm splotched with dried silver blood. The biqaj undid the bandages, pulled them off, and let them fall to the ground. He scratched at the gashed wound that ran horizontal across his palm and sighed with relief as the itchiness was momentarily satiated.

It was only then that he looked at Kaelrik again and said in a low voice, “I’ve been waiting all trial to do that.”

He picked up the goblet with his uninjured hand and drank the wine without concern that it had sleeping herbs in it. Zarik rolled up the frilly pale green sleeve next, then took to scratching at the bandage wrapped around his forearm. He nodded in satisfaction, then asked, “Did you want another plate of food? Or maybe some sweets?”

The blond stood then, lightly holding onto the goblet, and started toward the door. He decided for Kaelrik anyway, “I’ll get you some sweets.”

He returned in a few bits with a bowl of various candies and an empty goblet - and if requested by Kaelrik, another plate of food. Zarik offered a small smile. His face was vividly silver-blue with blush now. Instead of sitting on the hassock, he took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Kaelrik’s legs. The blond set the bowl of candies on the bed so that the other man could pick through them if he wished. He glanced at the Lotharro’s goblet, to check if he were drinking the wine or not. Zarik requested in a clear voice that bordered on a demand though he tried to keep it gentle, “Tell me more about you and Alistair.”

[Kaelrik]

Kaelrik was taken aback by Zarik’s answer. He supposed he shouldn’t judge the man so harshly. He had only their interactions as a slave to go by. During that time, Zarik hadn’t acted unkindly per se. He’d simply acted as a master would toward a slave, a piece of property. He was to be useful and nothing else. He watched carefully as the man undid his gloves and paused in his eating to see the vicious wound that marred Zarik’s otherwise pristine skin. Again, his eyes drifted to the mark that scarred the man’s forehead. It was yet another reminded why he despised Quacia. Their fanatical devotion to an insidious dead deity that brought them nothing but suffering was baffling to him. The city seemed content in its misery. He was content to let it crumble beneath the weight of it.

“No, I am…this is enough. Thank you.” He eyed the terrible wounds that Zarik scratched eye. A frown of concern crossed his features and Kaelrik nearly insisted that the man be seated only for his ribs to twinge. He sighed and let Zarik leave. He finished the food on his plate, feeling quite full from the generous meal. Setting the plate aside, he picked up the wine and stared at it for a few moments. His thoughts drifted to his brother. If Korik was alive…what would he look like? How would their time apart have changed him? Would they recognize each other? Kaelrik was not the same man that had ran, terrified, from the forests of Ne’Haer. His time away and enslaved had changed him. Even his short time with Alistair had changed him irrevocably and not just physically either.

When Zarik returned, Kaelrik was pulled from his thoughts. He took a shallow breath then drank from his goblet. He held it in his hands before regarding the biqaj now seated on the bed. When Zarik posed his request, Kaelrik blinked at him. He considered whether he should answer. Then again, did he not owe Zarik at least conversation for his hospitality? Speaking on Alistair brought several emotions swimming to the surface of his mind. He did his best not to show those feeling but it was difficult given how wounded he felt both from how badly he’d been lead on and how baffled he was in the aftermath of it.

To Alistair, it seemed, Kaelrik was worth only a glancing piece of paper. Even the way the man had ended the letter had held a note of cold formality to it. It stung and Kaelrik was angry with himself for having allowed the man to break past all of his walls to the point where it could sting.

“We met in Ne’haer. Years ago. Back when I believe Alistair was a member of the Covenant or was it the Seekers?” Kaelrik chuckled. “Alistair has gotten himself mixed up in so many factions it’s hard to keep track of them all.”

Taking another sip of the wine he mused on those early days of his interactions with Alistair. It brought a smile to his face.

“He tried to kill me when we first met. Tackled me to the ground and threatened to take my head off with a portal. All because I helped build a fire pit using my Defiance.” He laughed and groaned as his ribs throbbed in protest. “He was very paranoid about being hunted then. By who and what? He never did say. But Alistair keeps many secrets. Especially from those he says he loves.”

Kaelrik’s eyes went distant as he remembered those days. The world felt so much simpler then. It had been filled with a newness, a vibrance and wonder that he no longer possessed. He could still remember the warm season and how he’d first garnered friendship with the man. Their interaction had been comparatively brief but it had left an impression on both of them. He glanced at the sweets on the bed but left them for Zarik to enjoy. He had never been one for very sugary things. He preferred the natural tart and sweetness of fruits over candies.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Zarik

listened, patiently, when Kaelrik started to speak about where and when the Lothar had met Alistair. He leaned forward, elbows rested on his knees, and he lightly scratched at his wounded palm. It felt so damn itchy, but the stinging pain had receded with the help of the wine. He smiled slightly at the thought of Ne’haer: the place where he’d found his sisters. He thought of the home that Alistair had there and wondered if Kaelrik had lived there, as well.

He nodded, then picked up the wine and partially refilled his own goblet. It was unnecessary, but he did so regardless. Zarik agilely crawled backward over Kaelrik’s legs, careful to not accidentally hurt or overly jostle the other man, before he rested his behind on the other side of them. With the new position, he was able to press his back against the wall that the bed lined up with. Zarik leaned against it. His crystalline legs, still covered in tights, kept bent in a bridge over Kaelrik’s legs so as to not place any undue pressure on the Lothar's body.

The blond looked at him, with a drowsy gaze, and softly smiled at the idea of Alistair trying to kill the man upon their first introduction to each other. Out of paranoia, possibly paranoia that was well-founded though. Zarik felt fondly toward his husband as he imagined it, then nodded in agreement to the statement about Alistair's predilection to keep secrets.

“Yes,” he vocalized his agreement over the rim of the goblet. He took a small drink, then rested it in his lap with a light grip. “Don’t we all though? Keep secrets from those we love, that is. Even if only in remaining silent about what we believe… it is impossible, and… I suppose I don’t understand when people act as if secrets are anything but unspoken moments not yet shared. It doesn’t make affection or… attachment, any less of what it is.”

Zarik frowned in a sense of dazed confusion, unsure why he’d said that much about it. He cleared his throat. The blond glanced at the bowl of untouched candies and asked, “Don’t you want some of them? The chocolate buttons are good, and I hear they help with digestion so…”

“I don’t mean to interrupt you though,” he added. “Please, continue. Ne’haer, arcs ago, while Alistair was still in hiding and… how did such a hostile meeting result in you becoming his slave though? Did he conquer you then or...?”

[Kaelrik]

Kaelrik’s eyes followed Zarik as the biqaj made himself more comfortable. He quirked a brow but made no comment as the man positioned himself against the wall. He took note of the fact that Zarik seemed intent on not jostling him, for which he was grateful. Already he could feel the weight of emotional and physical strain beginning to tug him toward sleep. He took another drink of the wine and brought it back to rest in his lap. He held it in both of his hands, cupping the goblet as one might a fragile thing. Kaelrik’s brows furrowed as he considered what Zarik had to say. Kaelrik’s immediate response was going to be in contention of Zarik’s statement. But he stopped himself. He was in Zarik’s cottage, drinking drugged wine, eating dinner and was silently making plans to leave Quacia to get as far away as possible. Whether his brother proved to be alive or not.

And he was intentionally not telling Alistair. Why? Because he knew the man would do everything in his power to stop him and Kaelrik couldn’t take it. For all of his strength as a man and a warrior, his heart, much like the goblet that he clutched so tenderly, was a fragile thing. Easily bruised and broken…oh how it was broken, but Kaelrik was trying to keep himself together. In that moment, he supposed he understood how Fridgar felt to some degree. Kaelrik did not feel trapped but he understood the hurt that his fellow Lotharro must have been feeling.

“I suppose.” He brought the goblet to his lips and took a longer, deeper drink of the wine. When Zarik glanced to the candy, Kaelrik shook his head and pat his stomach.

“No, thank you.” He laughed at the mention of conquering. “Alistair is man who seeks to conquer many things, but he was not the one who enslaved me. No.”

Kaelrik fell silent. He remembered the day he found out that Alistair had left Ne’haer. He hadn’t been certain where the man had gone. Whether to Etzos or Gauthrel, he wasn’t knowledgeable on the details.

“We parted ways but a few seasons after meeting. My brother and I joined a mercenary company after that. Spent a good deal of time working and training with them. Eventually the group accepted the task of purging a Lurker beast from the woods.” Kaelrik held his goblet a bit tighter as he recalled those days. The preparation. The intense training. They had thought they would be ready. They hadn’t been ready for anything, least of all what a Lurker would throw at them.

“We were slaughtered.” He took another drink from the goblet. Kaelrik's voice was flat as he spoke. “I was struck by one of the beasts, there were two, and sent flying through the air. The last I ever heard of my brother was him screaming my name before…silence. I ran. Ran and ran and ran until my legs gave out beneath me and darkness took me. When I awoke, I had a collar around my neck and chains binding every limb.”

The journey from Ne’haer was still a hazy one for Kaelrik. He’d fought violently when he’d come to. Not that it had done any good. He’d certainly not been as powerful of a Defier back then, otherwise every last one of his slavers would have been incinerated. He’d let his use of the magic fall by the wayside. He’d never do so again. It was a part of him and meant to be used to its fullest extent.

“I don’t remember much in the early days. I spent most of it in darkness getting the living shit beat out of me.” He smiled ruefully. “And when I wasn’t being beaten or used for labor or blood sports, I was used for…other things.”

He’d been extremely willful. Utterly defiant and had raged every chance he’d gotten. But that had dwindled over time. It had been whittled away bit by bit until the only fight Kaelrik had left in him was the fight he found in the arena.

“It was only when I was sold to a nobleman here in Quacia as part of a drug trade, I believe, that Alistair and I found one another again. Or should I say, he found me. He witnessed me in what was to have been my final match.”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

While Zarik

waited for Kaelrik’s answer, he allowed silence to simmer between them. He reached over, picked up the bowl of candies, and then leaned over the foot of the bed to set it on the ground. It seemed neither man would be tasting anything sweet tonight, except for the herbal wine that eased their respective pains.

Finally, the story came. Zarik observed the Lotharro, with eyes of pure amber hue, through a haze of poppy-induced drowsiness. He tried to imagine it: the twin brothers as mercenaries in the northern lands, their acceptance of a commission to purge a Lurker. A quiet gasp escaped him when the tale turned for the worse – slaughter of Kaelrik’s companions – and Zarik drank from his goblet when he saw Kaelrik do so, as if in mimic of the action.

The blond placed a hand over his own neck, only healed a few trials ago from the raw burn left behind by a kidnapper’s collar in Lair. His skin felt perfectly smooth, as if it’d never been touched at all: such was the power of Alistair’s Purifier aura. Zarik knew once he entered the magister’s presence again, his Theocratic carvings would heal as well – as if they’d never happened. He nodded, remained quiet, and drank from his goblet as he continued to listen without comment…

…for Kaelrik continued the story past the point of waking in chains, despite the apparent lack of his memory. Zarik wondered if it was true, if the Lothar truly didn’t remember those first days of enslavement. He felt a twist in his chest. The former slave’s confession was vague, but obvious: labor, blood sports, and other things.

Zarik shook his head, then finished the remainder of the wine in his goblet with a swift tilt-back of his head. The young mage swayed to the side, lowered the empty goblet, and a quiet hiccup escaped him. His eyes flickered with various colors. He looked at Kaelrik, then nearly set his wounded hand on the other man’s shoulder. He paused. His scabbed palm hovered, almost touching but not quite. He drew the near-touch away, with the slightest graze of his fingertips along Kaelrik’s bicep.

“Cruel, so cruel,” he mused, a gentle expression on his youthful features. Tears lined his eyes, dewy against his lashes. He moved onto his knees so that he knelt between the Lothar and the wall. “The fates scorned you.”

A couple tear droplets broke free and rolled down his blushing cheeks. Lavender and maroon colors dominated the irises of his eyes. The blond delicately straddled Kaelrik’s knees so he was able to toss the empty goblet away from the bed. It clattered on the floor. He glanced over Kaelrik’s body, before he searched to make eye contact again.

“Whatever did you do to deserve such a life?” He moved closer so that he straddled the former slave’s lap, and as he did, he assured the brunet, “Ah, careful of your ribs. Don’t move. I won’t hurt you.”

His silver surcoat glistened in the waning candlelight, the skirt gathered around his hips. His slender legs radiated an iridescent glow beyond the tights he wore. A few strands of his ice-blond hair had fallen out of place and framed the slashed crimson carving on the center of his forehead. “Was it good fortune you met Alistair again? Where shall you run now? Away from here, with the brother you thought dead, who you left behind in your cowardice… to home, perhaps. Oh, what awaits you, dear Kaelrik, you poor pitiful Lothar?”

Zarik traced his fingertips over Kaelrik’s chest and followed the shape of the firm muscles beneath. They were caresses of curiosity. The biqaj’s eye contact remained unwavering. His next words were said in a naturally deepened voice; the tenor of his voice changed in his inebriated state. Instead of his modulated silvery tone during banal conversations, Zarik whispered in warm, smoky inflection: “He’ll find you. You know that, right? You can’t hide from him. He’ll see where you are, and once he does…”

“You’re crazy if you believe you can simply leave,” added Zarik in his hushed voice. He set the pads of his index finger and middle finger just underneath Kaelrik’s eyes. He slowly dragged the two fingers down along the Lothar's cheeks. “Maybe he won’t care. Perhaps he’ll let a mage like you, one with potential, his handsomely bonded Havendal, one who belonged to his house- or a free man, yes. That’s what you are now, according to law, but more importantly according to the word of Lord Alistair Venora. Yet is that what you are according to…”

He pressed his wounded palm against the other man’s chest, above the heart, uncaring for the momentary pain it might cause. The irises of his eyes smoldered in maroon plum-colored pigmentation that perpetually unfurled over each other in vibrant hues.

[Kaelrik]

Zarik drew his attention, pulling him from his reverie with his movements. He eyed the biqaj curiously as the man reached out to touch him. There was the slightest stiffening of his posture when that hand drew nearer. His brows raised as the tips of the nobleman’s fingers brushed over his bicep. He followed that hand with his eyes for a moment before he looked to Zarik’s face. What he saw there surprised and confused him. Zarik had tears in his eyes. Tears that were being shed for him. Whether from the shock of learning what Kaelrik had been through or for other reasons, Kaelrik did not know but the sight of them left him unmoored.

“Fate?” He echoed Zarik. The question floated in the air, a word grasping for the very threads of destiny that so eluded the Lotharro. “Perhaps it is fate to be so scorned.”

He looked away after briefly meeting the biqaj’s eyes. When Zarik moved to straddle his hips, Kaelrik’s full attention snapped to the man. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. He sat up straighter. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself left silent in the wake of what Zarik had to say. Had it been good fortune that he’d met Alistair again? Where would he go? If this wasn’t some great ruse, would Korik want to go with him? It still made his heart clench and his breathing catch to even contemplate the possibility of his brother being alive. It made him restless and it made him afraid. Of all the questions that spun in his head there was one that weighed more heavily than the rest.

Would Korik forgive him?

The feeling of Zarik’s fingertips tracing over the firm muscles of his chest would have made Kaelrik pull back if what the man had to say didn’t disturb him so much. Zarik was right, in some regards. Alistair would be able to find him no matter where he went. With but a breath, the godly sorcerer could but extend his senses and peer through Kaelrik’s eyes to observe where he was and what he was doing. Such was the bond that the two of them shared through their Rupturing. Kaelrik though, wasn’t altogether convinced that his Kindal could be bothered. He winced and reached up to grasp Zarik’s hand as the biqaj pressed his hand to the Lotharro’s chest. His indigo eyes met the plum colored eyes of the man straddling him.

“Alistair doesn’t know what he wants. But he does want you. Maybe that will be enough.” Kaelrik kept a hold of Zarik’s hand. The warmth that suffused his body due to his kinship with fire passed into Zarik. His spark whispered to him a need to bring warmth and comfort to many of those around him. In that moment he might have been able to see something of what Alistair saw in the man. Zarik was attractive in a cold way. The silvery blush upon his face, the crystalline purity of his features when unmarred by the rigors of a life in Quacia, his pale hair and those ever-shifting eyes, were nothing short of beautiful. Kaelrik would have been truly blind to not notice a man such as Zarik. But the Lotharro remained unmoved by his wounded beauty. For though Zarik was many things, he did not for a moment believe that the biqaj was anything but dangerous. No matter how vulnerable he might have seemed in that particular instance. Coupled with the fact that he had felt uncomfortable in intimate settings with even Alistair, his Kindal, and he was beginning to feel trapped. So Kaelrik, very gently, moved Zarik off of his body. He could not and would not use any amount of real force in the action. He could feel the drugged wine beginning to dull his senses.

“You should rest, Zarik.” Kaelrik gently brushed his thumb over the wound on Zarik’s hand. “We’ve both been through much as of late, it would seem.”

The Lotharro unwound himself from Zarik and moved to get out of the bed. He would leave the bed to the biqaj and would sleep in a chair if he had to.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Zarik

tested the boundaries with the former slave. He moved closer, so close that he could feel the warmth of the defier gradually enter him when Kaelrik took hold of his hand. The wound on his palm hardly stung for the wine had filled him with a numb sense of bliss. It wasn’t the words Kaelrik answered with - about Alistair wanting Zarik despite not knowing what else he wanted - but that Zarik enjoyed the momentary connection with the Lotharro who also served as Alistair’s Havendal. After the confessions of the slave’s life, Zarik sought to further his understanding of Kaelirk. The young mage had few ways in which he understood how to accomplish such an interest.

He thought of the first time he’d seen Kaelrik, in the tunnel leading to Plenty: the towering muscular laborer – fighter - mage, coated in sweat and smudged with dirt. An impossible darkness lurked in the indigo-eyed man, scarred far beyond his tan skin, and Zarik felt impulsively drawn to bring it to the surface. If only he could… but Kaelrik proved patient instead. Affected by the biqaj’s words, perhaps, but he displayed restraint regardless.

Zarik whispered, “That’s not an answer, Kaelrik.”

When the Lotharro moved him, Zarik drowsily whined. He slid off the other man’s lap, onto the bed regardless. His eyes narrowed. The purple irises warmed with flecks of orange before they washed out in ocean blue hues. He stared at Kaelrik as he felt the other man’s thumb brush over the wound on his palm. He couldn’t feel any stings of pain, not even an itch.

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll rest if I want to,” muttered Zarik, and some of his words slurred. Though he said it, he lowered onto the comfortable sheets. Intoxicated, he nestled his cheek against one of the pillows that had gotten pressed against the wall. He gathered it in his arms, then inched his way to kneel on the bed. Zarik yawned and looked to see that Kaelrik had left the bed.

“Wa-wait,” he called, almost frantic in his realization. Zarik crawled across the empty space of the bed, and promptly slid right off the edge to the floor. He landed gracefully onto his hands, then his knees in a sliding arc of his spine as he sunk downward. The blond reached to grab onto Kaelrik’s pants, to hold him still for a moment, and he said, “Where are you going? I’m sorry if... please, we’ll leave for Quacia in the morning. Stay here with me until then?”

[Kaelrik]

“It is the answer that I have.” Kaelrik gave an almost weary sigh as he moved away from the biqaj. They’d had this manner of conversation before. When they’d had their first real interaction. A battle of what was asked and what was given. Kaelrik didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t know if Alistair would come storming after him or if he would simply let him leave. While his mother might have been able to tell the future with her fortunetelling, Kaelrik was not so gifted. He was about to find a comfortable place to settle down when he heard Zarik’s exclamation. As soon as he felt the tug on his pants leg, Kaelrik turned. He regarded Zarik curiously and then sighed.

Kaelrik rubbed his eyes as the drowsiness had begun to sink deeper into his bones. He could feel the peaceful oblivion of drugged slumber calling to him. Kneeling next to Zarik, he gently helped Alistair’s husband back to his feet. Kaelrik let out a long breath then plopped back down onto the mattress. He could breathe easier as the medicine in the wine had completely dulled his ability to feel more than pressure in his chest. The bindings would have to be changed soon but he would worry about that when the time came. The Lotharro propped himself up on the pillows so that he was comfortable. He rolled onto his unaffected side the result of which had his back propped against the wall. Meeting Zarik’s eyes for a moment, Kaelrik quirked a brow.

“Thank you, Zarik.” The Lotharro’s features softened for just a moment. “If you really are leading me back to my brother, if he really is alive, then I owe you a debt.”

Kaelrik closed his eyes. He left unsaid what would happen if Zarik was lying. There was no need for him to make such open threats. He would simply act if he was betrayed. Until then, Kaelrik let himself fade into the dark oblivion brought on by drugged wine. As he drifted off his thoughts turned to the day ahead. What would it bring? Truth? Or the revelation of an elaborate lie?

If Kaelrik was being honest, he didn’t much care which of the outcomes proved to be the reality in the morning. Either way, he would be leaving in some form. Whether as a free man or as a fool, only the dawn would tell. Still, something about the way Zarik had spoken to him, the way that he’d acted and been perhaps the most open and honest with him since they’d met, made Kaelrik believe him. He didn’t trust the biqaj but he did believe him.

That small belief gave Kaelrik hope.

For the first time in arcs, Kaelrik went to sleep believing that for once…something good was on the horizon.