Verin Theylss stands before the Bright Queen and the assembled court to deliver his report. He has not had a moment to change or wash any of the dried and caked blood from his hands, his hair, his armor. Some of his own wounds are still sluggishly bleeding, some visible and others not.
Upon enter the city, all he wanted to do was shed the weight of everything he just experienced, but they had been met by the Aurora Watch and taken directly to the Lucid Bastion, beacon and all. Verin himself carried it, and it was taken from him not that long ago. Flanking him stand two others from Bazzoxan, looking no better than he does; one looks much worse but is still standing straight.
Verin's account is detailed. They managed to seal a breach, but at great cost. His voice is steely as he recounts the orders handed down from this chamber to seal it even if there were still living Aurora Watch inside. Orders to take the beacon from the city despite the many still dying.
He is not sparse in describing the reality of what his comrades - and anyone left in Bazzoxan - may face to the clean, lofted people around him in the gleaming center of the Lucid Bastion.
"I request that you allow me to take a force back," he says at the end of his grim report. Verin's eyes burn with determination and a simmering anger. "There may be--"
"They are lost." The Bright Queen's response is sharp and unyielding. Verin closes his eyes, jaw tight, and he tries to hold back the temper he learned to manage as a younger man. "In every way. There is nothing to recover."
That's when Verin loses his temper. Though he does not move a step toward her, his voice raises with the anger of a man long-burdened. Not enough resources. Not enough attention. Determination to hold a place that cannot be held. The cruelty of removing the beacon and condemning consecuted souls to be lost.
It isn't death that upsets him. It's that those who were consecueted and who died trusted they would have another life. They trusted they would return to their people, somehow. Now that will not be possible for so many. Whatever he thinks, they are lost now. The word madness might slip out in his barely-restrained fury. Perhaps he should have known better. Perhaps he should have known that the Bright Queen would not sit and allow him to speak thus. A warning shoots up his spine when she stands from he throne, but Verin cannot make himself stop.
He is already facing disciplinary action for failing to immediately follow the order to retreat; he is willing to risk more. The only thing that stops him digging this hole deeper is a hand touching his - one of the few parts of him that is bare. Verin's voice cuts short with a sharper breath. He does not need to look to know who has come to save him. He would know Essek anywhere; he can smell his brother's intoxicating cologne. He feels weak beneath the simple gesture, and yet it has its intended effect. He shuts up.
Verin's expression is unwavering as further discipline is passed down, the severity only mitigated by Essek's words on his behalf.
All those close to her see it. The Dusk Captain, the Umavi of the great dens, her advisors. It is impossible not to. Yet none do more than whisper in hushed tones behind closed doors, and even there they barely dare to acknowledge what it is. Typhros. If the soul-sickness can infect Leylas Kryn herself, their Light-blessed empress, what does that mean for the rest of them? For the very nation they call the Kryn Dynasty because no other has ever led it?
Essek thinks it is time they found out.
This is far from the first instance of madness Essek has witnessed from her since he became her Shadowhand, but it is one of the few her Captain and council have not been able to dissuade her from. The consequences are devastating, and reach far beyond Bazzoxan. There will be dens whose children will never return to them because of this, souls who will never reach the Luxon's embrace, consumed instead by cold, dark death. They will want answers. But how far will they get? How can anyone question a woman nearly as holy as the Luxon itself?
These are questions Essek intends to answer in the coming months. For now, he must ensure his little brother does not lose his head for speaking the truth that others wouldn't.
As Shadowhand to the Bright Queen now for many years, he knows what to say to appease her, the platitudes to which she reacts best, the appeals to emotion and quotes from holy verse. Today, he includes reminders of Den Thelyss' station and loyalty to the Dynasty and to the Light. Nonetheless, he is deeply relieved when Quana, too, chimes in.
"The Taskhand has suffered great losses today, Leylas, in following your commands. Will you not allow him to rest and heal before wringing him for details?" While the queen had been listening to Essek's words, her face changes entirely when her soul-partner speaks. It is as if she loses all the strength that sustained her viciousness, and suddenly she looks very tired. She sinks back down into the seat of her throne, and seems to look at Verin and Essek without really seeing them. She nods, almost imperceptibly, just once. Quana steps up beside the throne and speaks. "Thank you, Taskhand, Shadowhand. You may go." She is the Dusk Captain, commander of the Aurora Watch and Verin's direct superior. If she says he may leave, then he may. Essek still touches Verin's hand. "I will coordinate with you personally regarding next steps. Will you be found at Den Thelyss's main house?"
"I will be hosting my brother at my home, Dusk Captain," Essek answers before Verin can, though he has not yet asked. No matter. He wants to look after Verin personally, and he will not refuse to stay with him. "As ever, please call at your convenience." After bowing deeply, he leads his brother from the throne room before the queen can change her mind. Verin has been through enough this day, and will have to suffer the indignity of official reprimand on top of it. Essek would not see him earn any additional punishment.
The cavernous halls of the Lucid Bastion echo with the sound of voices and rushing steps today. Essek has not seen such a commotion since he spirited the beacons away.
"I am sorry, Verin," he whispers earnestly, as soon as he can pull his brother aside into a somewhat secluded antechamber, currently unused. He hovers far enough from the polished stone floor to look at him eye to eye. Gloved hands cradle his brother's face between them; he brushes blood from his cheek with the dark silk covering his thumb. "She could not be reasoned with. She would hear no counsel that opposed this--" He shakes his head, searching for any remotely appropriate words. "--sheer folly. I worried that you would--"
That he would be killed in the fighting. That he would choose to remain behind. That he would resist her orders and be killed for it. There are so many ways his brother could have paid the price for Leylas' madness and the court's inability to do anything about it. Essek's fear for him had been very real.
They might have taken away the one person in this world he loves. He will take far more from them than a few beacons.
He breathes in deeply, collects himself. Verin is alive, and here with him now. The rest of this...the rest of this can be useful to him. His eyes soften, almost imperceptibly.
Verin bows in rote response to the Dusk Captain's dismissal and he allows Essek to lead him away. He keeps his head high, ignoring the looks from their own Den as they leave. He had not yet thought to ask Essek to stay with him, though the insistence now comes as a relief. Verin does not want to have to manage the Umvai or anyone else in Den Thelyss upon his return there. At least with Essek he will have privacy.
He blinks slowly once they were in an antechamber, the thousand-yard stare slowly dissipating so that he can focus on his brother. For a moment all he can do is look at Essek, drinking in the sight of him and the comfort he offers. He is the first since Verin entered the city to say anything like that to him. The first to acknowledge how cruel this had been, how short-sighted, how--wrong. It does not make him feel better to hear that Leylas could not be reasoned with and only deepens his growing bitterness to realize not even the Dusk Captain swayed her - nor did she stop the order. She allowed this as much as the rest of them.
Verin's jaw gets tight and he swallows thickly.
"Not here," he whispers. "I cannot speak here, Essek."
Not in the Lucid Bastion. He cannot and will not let his guard down until they are beyond its walls.
In Verin's face, he sees anguish, grief, anger--but more than anything, uncertainty. So much that he was sure of, that he built his life around, has been torn from him today. Essek would never have wanted this pain and loss for his brother. He is furious that it is something he must endure. But he is not surprised. Not with what he has observed in the court of the Bright Queen. It is the Dynasty's religious fervor that prevents them from seeing what is right in front of them. Tragedies like this are on the heads of all those refuse the idea of change.
He can help Verin. He can show him how to prevent this from happening again. He can give him a new purpose.
"Then we will go home, where you may speak freely."
He does this with only a word, still holding Verin's face in his hands. Space and time warp around them, and in seconds they are standing together in the private sitting room of his towers. This room is quiet and intimate, a direct contrast to where they have just come from, loud vaulted rooms and halls. After interceding on his brother's behalf before the queen, he will not be looked for again in the Bastion today. Should he be needed, someone can Send.
"You are safe here, Verin," he promises. "I am listening."
It has been nearly a century since he has had to assure his brother in this way. The last time was likely during the uncertainty of his anamnesis years.
Verin closes his eyes and bows his head as Essek spirits them back to his tower. As soon as the world is still again, Verin wraps his arms around his brother and drags him close. He knows that he's still a mess, that he needs to get out of his armor and wash, but he needs this just as much. His nose brushes Essek's hair.
He stays that way longer than he should, taking comfort in his brother's presence. When he feels able to let go, Verin stands straight with a quiet apology.
"This is madness, Essek," he says quietly, as if still concerned they may be overheard. "What I witnessed there, the orders we were given--There are so many that will never see light again."
Verin knows death. He sees it, both for the consecuted and unconsecuted, but at least for the former there is the chance their souls will be recovered. But if the beacon was too far at the time of death, there is nothing for it. And Verin feels tired, and heavy, because he has the weight of all of them on his shoulders.
"Forgive me," he murmurs, taking another step back. Hopefully he hasn't gotten blood on Essek's clothes; hopefully the sharper parts of his armor have not caught or torn anything.
His clothing is the very last thing Essek is concerned with at the moment. Verin withdraws, but Essek quickly follows him, placing his gloved hands lightly on his armored forearms. He is wearing his mantle; though there is blood staining it already, the fabric is dark, and Essek has others.
"You have done nothing wrong," he says firmly, holding Verin's gaze. "Is my brother not more important than my wardrobe? Embrace me for the rest of the day, if you wish."
Certainly an offer he would not make to anyone else, regardless of the circumstances. But it was nice to feel Verin's arms around him, to be held against him, even against his armor, and feel his warm breath in his hair. To rub his hand along the back of his neck and stroke his mess of a braid, to be a source of comfort. Whenever they are reunited, Essek is forced to remember how much he enjoys being touched.
"Have all of your injuries been treated?" he asks, because that must be handled first. "I keep a stock of potions. If you will not take one and I discover later that you are still in pain, I will not be pleased."
Despite everything, a faint smile appears as Essek gives him that warning. Verin slides his hands to cradle his brother's face and gives him a full kiss on the mouth, lingering in a different sort of embrace.
"I am in one piece," he says softly. "But I will let you make the final determination as to whether or not I need a potion."
Verin suspects that Essek will insist in principle. He is not of a mind to put up much of a fight, far more interested in getting out of his armor and perhaps into a bath. More than anything, he wants to remain close to Essek. He knows the towers well enough that he can find his way to his brother's suite.
"I need a bath," he says quietly. "I will do anything else you like, but I need a bath, Essek."
He needs the dust and the blood off him. He needs the lingering perfume of the Lucid Bastion washed away.
The kiss Verin presses to his lips isn't fleeting, yet somehow still too short. Essek's instinct is to press for another, starved for touch and affection, but quickly chastises himself; he should be ensuring that Verin has what he needs, not the other way around. He reaches up to cup his brother's face in return, a satisfying compromise.
"Then I will be cautious, and determine that you do."
Though potions are more difficult to come by in the midst of a war, Essek has no trouble acquiring them. Trained in alchemy as he is, he can make more himself if necessary. As he slips away from Verin to retrieve a bottle filled with shimmering red liquid from a nearby bookshelf--he tends to keep at least one in every room, in case of emergency--he casts a small half smile over his shoulder.
"Agreed. You do need a bath."
Essek puts the healing potion decisively into his brother's hand before drifting toward the door, beckoning with a crooked finger. "Come, then. You'll use my tub."
Verin is reluctant to take the potions for half a dozen reasons, but he knows none of them will sway Essek to agree. So, he uncorks the bottle and drinks it, trying to take comfort in the warmth that spreads through him. He sets the empty bottle aside before following after his brother. He knows the towers well enough that he could find his own way, but it seems that Essek is not eager to be separated. Verin realizes he feels the same.
He stops in the well-appointed bathroom so he can divest himself of his armor and... everything else. Despite the potion's work, Verin still moves stiffly, made so by exhaustion and burnt out anger as much as from the fight.
There are new scars since Essek saw him last; his most recent injuries are closing with the help of the potion, at least.
As Verin doffs his armor, Essek prepares the bath. Knowing how humid this room is about to become, he's removed his gloves and mantle, at least. Sitting on the tub's edge, he holds his long sleeve back and swirls his fingers through the water filling the tub. The enchantment for heating is working as it should, and he has added a generous amount of fragrant dried lavender, the soothing scent beginning to rise from the water already.
This is not enough to divert his attention from Verin entirely, especially as he gets down to bare skin, displaying both injuries incurred today and a few scars Essek has never seen before. It is one thing to know that the constant incursions at Bazzoxan put his brother on the front lines of an unwinnable battle day in and day out, and it is another to see the evidence writ permanently into his skin, more each time they meet.
Essek flicks water from his fingers and rises back into his float. Brow gently furrowed, his fingertips trace lightly along a healed-over gouge carved between arm and shoulder, just where Verin's armor would have been weakest. Whatever struck him must have pierced muscle as well as flesh, but he moves as if he was healed quickly enough to prevent permanent damage to the structure of his body. In comparison, cosmetic imperfections are a trifle. Still, it marks how close his brother had come to perhaps mortal injury, and it discomforts Essek deeply.
They had fought, decades ago now, about Verin accepting the post at Bazzoxan. Essek knows better than to dredge up that old argument, one of the only lingering undercurrents of bitterness between them. They had never settled it. But Essek respects that Verin has chosen his path, and accomplished much in doing so, displaying his competence and skill as a commander and an echo knight. It simply...unsettles him. He can never quite excise from his mind the image of their father, blind with rage at his heretic son's rejection of consecution, marching past the Umbra Gates never to emerge.
Hovering nearer to Verin's height, Essek must lean down to kiss the mark with his painted lips. Verin has heard all his fears and worries expressed before. Why should he reiterate when it only hurts them both? Without you, who would I love? The question has long gone without answer, because it doesn't need one. He could only become the heartless creature so many assume him to be in truth. Anything else is too terrifying to consider.
"Allow me to undo your braids," he murmurs, and reaches for one of them draped over Verin's shoulder. He recognizes a few of the beads woven into it as his own from more than half a century ago, and his thin smile reaches his eyes. Graceful arcanist's fingers separate the braid's weave and graviturgy catches the beads, suspending them together in midair as he works. It has been many decades since Essek cut his own hair, and still the motions are remembered by his hands, which slow to comb long manicured nails carefully through the sections caked with mud or drying blood.
Verin remains still as Essek's damp fingers brush over the healing wound on his shoulder, a remnant of something that could have been far, far worse. The gentle touch calls back the echo of the searing pain and the flash of fear. How close did he come to never returning? Even consecuted, there would have been no coming back with the beacon so far away. He lets go of a heavier sigh and he turns his head toward Essek's as his brother's lips brush the wound.
He lifts a hand, tentatively cradling his brother's head for just a moment before letting his touch slide down along Essek's back. Their argument is old; he remembers the look on Essek's face when he left for Bazzoxan. Verin worried at the time that Essek would not forgive him for going, and he is grateful, always, that his brother did not sever ties over his choice.
There are other companions in his life, but no one who Verin loves the way he loves Essek. He cannot imagine that changing, especially now.
"Of course," he says quietly. Verin remains still as Essek deftly works the braids loose in long-practiced gestures. This is one of his oldest memories: his brother's care and gentleness. The tightness in his chest returns and Verin tries to breathe through it as Essek's fingers comb through his hair. In the decades since Essek cut his own short, Verin has made off with most of his hair jewelry. Another shivering breath nearly catches in his throat.
"We had to leave behind so much," he says quietly. "I'm afraid there are some things you will not get back, brother."
Essek hears the unsteady shudder of Verin's breath, the sorrow in his voice. He has seen him distraught, aching with sadness and frustration over those lost on his watch, even at his command. But this--this has shattered him. Essek feels his own chest tighten with sympathy, then with cold anger at those who put Verin in this impossible position, who have pierced his heart so deeply by forcing him to obey orders that went against everything he believed.
After all Verin has bled and sacrificed and believed, he deserves better. There is no soul more perfect, in Essek's eyes, than his little brother's.
"I am not worried about my things, dear one," he says, making his voice gentle for Verin's sake. He leaves his hair for the moment to tenderly hold his face between both hands, thumbs sweeping over his cheeks. His violet eyes are bright with emotion, here where no one else can see. "I have what is most precious to me. Many were not so fortunate."
Verin would know even better than he would how many were lost today. But it was not his fault. No part of Essek lays that blame at his feet.
"You were right. What you were asked to do was madness."
His arms are slim and possessed of little strength to speak of, but when he uses them to hold his brother in his grief, they feel powerful, as though he is imbued with some abjurative spell of protection. A hand slips into his hair to cradle the back of his head, guiding him down to rest against Essek's thin shoulder. The other loops around his neck, rubbing the back of his shoulders in wide circles.
It has been decades since Verin has needed his comfort this way, but Essek remembers how, like stretching a rarely-needed muscle. The ache reminds him that perhaps it has gone unused for too long.
As soon as Essek's arms slip around him, Verin does the same. His body is far stronger, trained for decades to perform feats of strength and dexterity and whatever else might be demanded of him. He holds Essek tightly, as if he, too, could be pulled away with a single mad command.
"I love you," he whispers fiercely, voice low to keep it from breaking. Verin buries his face and loses himself in the familiar scent of Essek's perfume and his clothes, his soap and--him. It has been a long time since he sought such comfort from anyone, even Essek, but he welcomes it now. Verin feels years of wear all at once. Once he'd been bolstered by the knowledge - the certainty - this his duty was sacred and important, and that what he did was necessary. That foundation has been ripped away, leaving him grasping for meaning, for reason, where there is none.
Everything Verin has dedicated himself to feels pointless.
Verin turned 50 today. Technically he turned 50 nearly two weeks ago, but such a short span of time is utterly insignificant in the eyes of Kryn society. A significant milestone, that first half-century, especially when it also marks the completion of formal training: in Verin's case, as an echo knight within the Aurora Watch. The Umavi and Den Thelyss itself spared no expense in celebration of its youngest soul. All the proper rituals and rites were observed, of course: a visit to the Bastion for the blessing of Her Radiance (though Leylas would also be attending the party as a guest in a more informal capacity later), prayers with the Umavi and close denmates, a formal acknowledgement from Dusk Captain Quana Kryn herself, with a generous offer to station Verin in the Lucid Bastion directly under her command for the next several years: a prestigious position and close to home. Then there was the party, to which Den Thelyss welcomed practically everyone of consequence among the Dens of Rosohna.
Apart from the particulars (completion of training with the Watch versus early graduation from the Marble Tomes Conservatory's advanced dunamantic studies program), this celebration was not so very different from Essek's a decade earlier. Though Essek enjoyed this one much more, insofar as he ever really enjoys events like this. Tonight at least he was not the center of attention: Verin was, and as their mother would say, he was cast in a brilliant light. Though he remained impassively cordial as ever, inwardly Essek can't help feeling rather proud. Tonight Verin was lauded for his accomplishments, for his strengths and skills and the strides he has made in his life thus far. He deserves these accolades and more, for the struggle of a new soul to advance in this world is like fighting against a current, even (perhaps especially) for the children of an Umavi. Essek knows this well.
Even their father was in a good mood tonight, though probably at least in part because he and Essek gave one another a wide berth whenever possible. Verin has openly been his favored son for many years now. Their father enjoys, to Essek's constant annoyance, bragging about Verin's accomplishments as though they were his own, seemingly just because they have followed similar paths. As though sitting on the laurels of his own past lives wasn't enough, the man has to ride in his son's coattails, too. Verin doesn't see it that way, and Essek can't blame him for wanting to keep their father's pride and respect now that he finally has it, but Essek finds the behavior disdainfully indolent. He is more than content to be mostly ignored by the man. Deirta's attention is already more than he can bear at times.
As a member of the Umavi's blood-family in her current life, Essek is unfortunately required to remain until the celebration ends in the early hours of the morning, which is exhausting for him even if the party had been comparably more bearable than most. No one is surprised when he excuses himself to rest at the first acceptable opportunity.
In the privacy of his chambers, he methodically removes and hangs his formal attire until he is down to the most basic shift layer over his smalls, and then with even more care picks apart the complex updo he's styled his hair into. He puts away the onyx comb and all the adornments but the unobtrusive silver and pearl beads threaded into his three main braids, which remain intact, then swept up again into a much looser and more comfortable style for trancing, each wound like a crown around his head and tucked together at the nape of his neck. It's been decades since Essek has worn his hair down in public, just as it's been decades since he's worn anything but robes that modestly cover every inch of him from the neck down. After, he removes his jewelry and replaces most of his earrings with simple studs or small rings. In readying himself to trance, he cleans his mouth of the lingering taste of wine--he'd had enough tonight that he's still feeling pleasantly lightheaded--and washes his face.
Incongruously with his other preparations, however, after he removes and hangs his shift, he reapplies just a touch of makeup: a simple silver line swiping sharply across each eyelid, and his subtlest and softest lip paint, which darkens his already wine-stained lips just enough to be noticeable, yet not unnatural with his complexion. Though there have been no formal arrangements--there rarely are--he is anticipating company before the night is over, and this is a special occasion. His choice of smallclothes, the only thing he wears beneath the luxuriously soft but simple black peignoir he typically trances in when he turns out the lamps and slips between the silken sheets of his bed, are not any different from what he usually wears day to day. But he'd still selected them with the knowledge that today he likely wouldn't be the only one to see them.
He falls into a trance tonight laying on his side with his back to the bedroom door. He has not even been trancing for an hour yet when he becomes aware via his Alarm spell that someone has crossed the threshold of the door to the outer chamber of his rooms--and then hardly a breath later, with no more sound than a soft footstep and a barely-audible whisper, the open door into his bedroom itself. He is not concerned. He can feel that his wards have not been unraveled or tampered with, and only one other person is kept apprised of the ever-changing passphrase to bypass his Arcane Locks. His visitor is exactly who he expected.
Still, Essek opts not to visibly stir. His breaths are meditative, even, and he does not turn nor move at all, affecting continued trance. His visitor will make himself known soon enough--will make his needs known, with a lack of subtlety or tact Essek would only find endearing in one man--as he always does.
Being the youngest souls in Den Thelyss meant Verin and Essek had to try harder to make themselves stand apart. Neither of them have lifetimes of experience to call on: all of their achievements are their own. It is, at times, a source of chafing and at others a source of pride. Essek flew through his training at the Marble Tomes, more clever and sharper than his cohort and wizards more experienced. He's brilliant, which Verin has always known, but the day Essek stepped out from under his tutors and teachers was one of brilliant pride. Perhaps he alone knew how hard Essek worked, the hours he spent in study and practice, because Verin was often the only one to see his brother in those moments. Essek hid his failures and his stumbles, only ever showing a perfected final result.
Verin's trials were different, but no less intense. Essek had proven himself a prodigy, so what could Verin do but excel? Even at such a young age, he's mastered several styles of fighting and he is an (almost) peerless Echo Knight. Rising among his cohort - many of them carrying the memories of those who spent centuries fighting - had taken a dedication that few of his peers showed. Verin, like Essek, could take nothing for granted. So when Quana Kryn herself offers him a place in the Lucid Bastion, Verin can say that he's earned it. Even with the benefit of being an Umavi's son, such positions at merely granted as symbols of status. Such an offer means he has proven both his faith and his martial capabilities; beyond that, it is proof that his mind is just as sharp, even if he as not applied it in the same way as his brother. Beyond all of that, he is simply excited to continue his training under such an accomplished figure. She has taken an interest, and Verin cannot rest on this celebration of advancement if he means to be--worthy. Worthy of the care and attention of his trainers and tutors, worthy of what his den has invested in his education, worthy of being Deirta's son.
Though their father is happy to praise Verin's accomplishments, the man really had relatively little to do with either his son's advancement or his training in general. And even from across a crowded room, Verin can see the disdain on Essek's face whenever he does. He can always find Essek in a crowd, and he has spent all night looking toward his brother, the only person in the room who understands.
Verin is everything he should be at the celebration: he's gracious and exuberant, respectful and proud. He socializes throughout the night, moving from one circle to another, often on the arm of their mother. Essek had not allowed this kind of social steering, but Verin has always been the more outwardly complacent. He is able to get away from her long enough to celebrate with new comrades and members of his cohort, and long enough to have one dance with the modest, the reserved, the exacting Essek Thelyss. Verin is not beyond noticing it is the only time Essek dances the entire night, and while it shouldn't, that knowledge leaves something warm deep in his chest.
It's early morning when the festivities finally end and Verin is able to escape. He knows Essek left at least half an hour ago, able to politely leave at the earliest convenience while Verin is somewhat trapped until the last guests leave. He disappears to his small suite of rooms to decompress. Verin takes the time to clean himself, rinsing away the sweat of the evening in a simple but thorough sponge bath with the basin of water in his bedroom rather than a full bath. It takes longer to get the ornaments out of his hair, but thankfully he's never been as decorated as Essek.
Essek. Verin's thoughts drift to his brother, who remains the center of gravity in his life. He was beautiful tonight, and Verin could see the quiet pride in his eyes. That meant more than most of the praise he's heard since the day began, and he remembers the scent of Essek's perfume as they danced, and how it felt to hold his brother in his arms. Light, he has missed him.
Verin knows that any attempt to trance will be wasted, and so he dresses in his sleep clothes - soft linen pants tied at his hips - with a light silk robe thrown on and loosely belted. During their dance, Essek had whispered the password to get past the arcane locks on his doors, and so they are easy enough to bypass. Soft steps carry him through the familiar rooms to his brother's bedroom, which Verin does not hesitate to enter. Essek looks like he's trancing, but Verin is almost certain the arcane locks are not the only wards between the entryway and here.
So, with that confidence, he sinks down onto Essek's bed and turns toward his beautiful brother. It's effortless to pull his willowy body close against his chest, head tipped down to kiss the bare tip of Essek's ear.
"I doubt you are still trancing," he murmurs, a smile in his voice. "If you were at all."
The bed dips, and for a moment gravity naturally draws Essek toward the familiar presence at his back. He lets it, until Verin's strong arms encircle him and pull him in the rest of the way himself. He's held against a solid body, a broad chest; he feels the tickle of long, loose hair brush his neck before a warm mouth catches the bare tip of his ear and his favorite voice murmurs into it. A shiver courses down Essek's spine from the brush of Verin's lips against such sensitive, rarely revealed skin.
Almost immediately, Essek flushes with quiet pleasure. Tonight Verin was everything a dutiful and driven young member of the one of the three great dens should be; the sort of man who his peers envy as much as admire, who those in power take notice of, who is on a path to achieving great things through his own application of relentless effort and determination. Essek knows better than any the struggles Verin has overcome, and so admires him most of all. Beyond that, he has a warm, magnetic way about him that people respond to and genuinely like, an easy, affable brightness that Essek has never shared, and so cultivated his shadowy mask of distant politeness instead. Completing the ideal image, Verin was handsome, wearing robes that echoed Essek's but cut to emphasize his warrior's figure, with the addition of pieces of ceremonial armor and one of Den Thelyss' own ancient blades at his side, a relic brought up from Deirta's vaults that has belonged to their den since before the Calamity. Essek only wished that he could have done Verin's hair himself, a layer left loose and brushed to a glossy finish over his shoulders and then braided into four, then three over it. But as per tradition, that honorable act of service was the Umavi's to perform on this occasion.
Yet as Essek twists in his brother's arms to look at him over his shoulder, he finds he likes the informal, half pulled back remnant of that style just as much. He looks forward to sinking his fingers into it and undoing it further. Making it his.
"I was," he asserts stubbornly, but the corners of his lips are upturned and his violet eyes flash with fond amusement. "What else would I be doing at this hour? I am no Verin Thelyss, steeling through the halls half clothed and sneaking into the bed of an Umavi's son, a respected young man whose chasteness is well known."
Very chastely, his ass had nestled back against Verin's groin when his back arched as he turned to look over his shoulder. But that was unintentional, surely. His soft, lilting voice carries the same undertone of affectionate playfulness as his eyes, his near-smile. Essek lays a slender, manicured hand over Verin's broader, rougher one where it grips him around his middle. His thumb smooths over his knuckles, tracing one or two scars there that he knows well.
"Or are you still, now halfway through your first century, having such a difficult time trancing that you need to be comforted by your dalni?" he teases silkily, raising an elegant brow as his plush mouth finally shows a hint of the smirk that's been lingering just beneath the surface.
Verin's smile grows, brightens, as Essek turns toward him. His hand smooths over his brother's soft stomach and slips beneath his peignoir and he breathes a heavier sigh when he feels bare skin and lace.
"Mm, so I hear," he murmurs. He's already half-hard against Essek's ass and quickly getting the rest of the way there now that he's quite certain that not only is Essek awake, but that he was well and truly expecting him. "Your reputation has been a source of headaches for me... should I tell you how many knights have asked the secret to getting close to you?"
He kisses Essek's ear again and feels a flutter of warmth in his chest when a delicate, manicured hand rests over his own. Light, he has missed these embraces. The scent of Essek's perfume and soap is everything, as is the feeling of warm silk against his skin. He could never betray Essek's trust by speaking about him to other people. And, jealously, Verin does not want anyone to cheat their way into wooing his brother.
"You know me," he says, softer since he is so close. "I have always been a restless sleeper without your help, dalni." Verin uses the affectionate title he's used with Essek for at least forty five years.
His brother's touch against his bare skin has Essek's breath catching. Verin's hand slides beneath his peignoir boldly--presumptuously, Essek thinks, and is thrilled by it, by being so fully understood that Verin simply touches him without hesitation the way anyone else would never dare, would never be permitted in the first place. But Verin knows that the most he is risking by doing so is a playful admonishment.
This time Essek doesn't give one. He luxuriates in the heat sinking into his body from Verin's, allows it to relax and mollify him and simultaneously set his heart to beating faster, his cock to filling out beneath the delicate lace of his smalls. Verin makes his body crave touch the way his mind craves knowledge. The stories of one consecuted soul longing for the same beloved mate across lifetimes speak of how the physical form awakens to a previously unknown yearning when they are together, how their intertwined souls need one another so powerfully their new bodies feel that connection, too. In moments like this Essek thinks he understands those stories. But since he also knows with absolute certainty that he and Verin cannot be soul-bound lovers, as neither of them have previous lives, he also thinks those stories must be utter bullshit.
"Mm, sleeper is apt. If anyone but me knew how long it took you to start trancing consistently..." He sighs, doing a very good impression of being terribly put-upon, yet benevolent. "I always take care of you, don't I, when you come to me in this state?" he coos, keeping a strict handle on his composure. "Perhaps I've spoiled you."
Very deliberately this time, a tilt of his hips presses the curve of his ass tighter against his brother's hips. Essek teeth sink briefly into his lower lip against a spike of pure desire that feeling Verin's half-hard cock growing harder against him drives through him.
"I think you should tell me," he says. "How many knights have been giving you headaches thinking you will tell them how to bed me?" His fingers weave between Verin's, giving a gentle squeeze. "They have no idea they are asking the only man who would know."
Verin's hand presses more against Essek's stomach as his brother presses back against him, moving his hips in a deliberate tease. The next time he teases the delicate line of Essek's ear, he uses his teeth. Verin's heart is beating hard, every part of him excited by the man in his arms.
"My training is very physical," he murmurs, his smile lingering. "Exhausting. Surely no one could blame me for seeking comfort and sleep. But I am very grateful for your patience and care, dalni."
Those incidents were more difficult when Verin lived in the barracks, but whenever he was home he couldn't stay away from Essek. He doesn't think Essek would want him to. His calloused palm strokes down Essek's body until he can feel firm line of his cock beneath the lace. He sighs and puts more pressure there as he rubs over the length. Perhaps retaliation for the way Essek is moving against him.
Verin shifts, getting his elbow beneath him so that he can lean over Essek more without changing their position.
"The only man who would know, and the only one who will never tell them." He gives Essek's beautiful cock a gentle squeeze as he rolls his hips; the soft linen he wears does nothing to hide how hard he is thanks to Essek's influence. "Far too many were curious about my aloof brother... I don't think Filraen ever realized that the beatings he took from me in training were directly related to his persistence in asking intrusive questions."
"Of course you are," Essek whispers, breathy. He'd only just managed not to gasp at the sensation of his brother's teeth scraping lightly along his ear, and now he is struggling not to make an even more undignified noise as Verin's hand covers his cock, rubbing at him through the lace in a way that won't take long to get him hard.
Maybe he should have scolded him for touching without asking a moment ago. He's set a dangerous precedent.
As Verin shifts up onto his arm, Essek turns away again. There's no need to look over his shoulder when Verin is looming over him now, and this way he can turn his face into his pillow when Verin squeezes his firming cock and at least partially muffle the whimper that finally manages to escape his throat. His hips buck forward into his brother's palm then cant back to meet the roll of Verin's, and he takes a sharper breath through his nose. Verin's cock feels bigger than he's used to like this, the shape blunt and heavy with the fabric between them. Light, he wants it.
"So you have been punishing your fellow trainees for asking about me?" Essek sounds amused and curious, but most of all smug. "Is it really my honor you are protecting, dalnar?" he teases. As he grinds back against him, Essek leads his brother's hand to the sash at his waist so that he can open his peignoir properly. He is the one in control here, he reminds himself, no matter how good Verin's hands on him feel. "Or are you worried you'll slip in here one night and find me giving some other weary knight my patience and care? Because you don't want to share?"
Hearing the sound that Essek muffles with his pillow sends a jolt of excitement straight through him. He lets Essek guide his hand to the sash and with a deft tug Verin loosens it. That done, he pushes silk out of his way until he can feel lace again. Light, just dreaming of this body, of Essek, has gotten him off more nights than not while he's alone in the barracks.
"Yes," he murmurs, voice pitching lower as Verin kisses his brother's neck. Whether it's for Essek's honor or not, that is exactly what he's been doing. But Verin also really does oppose the way some of his peers talk about his brother and bruises make a lesson stick. He feels a hot spike of jealousy when Essek suggests Verin is worried about finding some unnamed knight here in his bed. He has no right to feel that way, and yet he cannot stop it. Verin gives a harder thrust against his brother and holds him tighter.
"Yes," he repeats, his voice tighter as he confesses. He cannot and will not keep Essek from seeking out someone should he want them, but he doesn't have to enjoy the thought. They have always belonged to each other, bound by something so few share. Verin can't even blame Essek for teasing him: he started it.
Whether from that simple but telling confirmation or Verin's mouth on his neck or the way Verin holds him possessively close while he ruts against him, a delighted shiver sweeps through Essek's body like lightning along his nerves, settling hot low in his belly and between his legs.
He likes that Verin wants to keep him for himself. He likes that Verin is willing to deter others, even his own cohort, his friends and fellow soldiers, with force if necessary. He loves this reminder of his importance and prevalence in his brother's life; there is no one else who could be what they are to each other. The idea that Essek could so easily welcome any other man into his confidence this way--that he would even want to--is laughable.
"Verin," he murmurs, adoring and pleased and a little--perhaps a little cruelly, given the seeming sincerity of his confession--amused. "Verin--let me go. Look at me." Essek clearly expects these commands to be followed quickly, and they are. He loves being held against Verin this way, but he would also like to make a point--and hopefully regain his composure in the process.
Essek slips out of his brother's arms and sits up, flicking the sheets aside as he does so. His peignoir hangs open at the front, revealing dark skin and darker lace. For all his strength, it takes little more than a hand on his shoulder to coax Verin onto his back. Now Essek leans over him, cradling the handsome face he loves more than any other in a graceful hand, palm cupping his jaw and fingers curled beneath it. As it so often is with Verin, his touch is affectionate but firm.
"Does that really worry you, dear one?" As he speaks, his other hand strokes its way tenderly--and appreciatively--down the center of Verin's chest, following the opening of his robe until he meets the tie holding it closed. Slim, dexterous fingers loosen the knot, then unravel it with two sharp, decisive tugs. Essek's eyes don't leave Verin's for a moment. "You know me better than that. I like to tease you..."
With the robe open, Essek's hand effortlessly sweeps down further, where this time he can be the one to squeeze the hard shape of Verin's cock.
"...but I have no inclination to indulge any other man's desire for me as I do yours. I take care of you this way because I love you." Sweetly slow, his cupped hand strokes Verin's erection through the soft linen of his pants. Essek is hard himself, though more confined by the lace of his smalls. "Because you are my sweet younger brother, and it pleases me to give you everything you want. Which includes me, doesn't it?"
It always has. If Essek has his way, it always will.
Essek speaks his name, gives his soft but utterly unyielding commands, and Verin can do nothing but do as he's told. He pushes himself up more so that Essek has room to move; when his brother presses a hand to his shoulder it's as effective as changing gravity. Verin lays back, utterly captivated by Essek as he leans over him and holds his jaw. Essek's hands are beautiful, elegant, and he is capable of a firm grip that makes Verin's cock throb. He feels utterly powerless in the face of Essek's will, and he's relieved as his brother offers that reassurance, the twist of anxiety and tension fading.
For a moment it's difficult to think, let alone answer, especially when Essek's hand squeezes and strokes his cock through the thin fabric of his sleep pants. Verin tries to hold back a sound, more practiced now in being quiet. He wants to trust up into his brother's touch, but he's held in place by the way Essek looks at him and holds his gaze.
It's only when Essek stops talking that Verin dares to reach for him. The hand closest to Essek slides over the impossibly soft skin of his thigh, pushing the peignoir's silk out of the way. If he gets chided, then it will be worth it.
"I love you," he answers, heavy and soft because it's true, and it has always been true. No one in this den has cared for him the way Essek has, no one has calmed his fears and anxieties or celebrated his victories in the same way. Essek has never been disappointed that he's simply Verin. Maybe his jealousy is unfounded, but the thought of it touches an anxiety he didn't really know he had.
Essek's gaze sharpens at that choked-back sound. Oh, he can do better than that. As he has so many times, Verin is going to need his help to stay quiet tonight.
"I know, my love," he soothes. Even the cutting edge of his resolve to strip Verin of whatever self-control he's learned in their time apart doesn't conflict with the genuine affection he shows to his brother, and his brother alone. "We belong only to each other."
At last Essek bends down to kiss him, using his hold on Verin's jaw to tilt his chin up. It feels like he has been waiting to do this all night. The kiss is gentle, but it feels no less like staking a claim. Though Verin has been his for a long time, Essek never tires of being reminded.
"You were impressive tonight," he murmurs, pulling back just far enough from Verin's lips. "You must know how proud of you I am."
Another kiss, and then Essek straightens, shrugs the peignoir from his shoulders. He knows how he looks; that is something for Verin (and only Verin) to enjoy, too. He undoes the ties on each hip keeping his brother's pants in place, and expertly eases them down and off once they are loose. As he suspected, Verin is wearing nothing beneath. The sight of his thick, strong thighs and his cock jutting up dark and hard between makes saliva pool in his mouth.
"Relax now, dearest. You have earned it," he promises, openly doting and subtly commanding. His hand moves to Verin's cock again, perfectly hot and steel-stiff and velvety against his palm. "Let me take care of you."
From his place kneeling by Verin's hip, Essek bends over his lap, briefly readjusts to scoot back an inch or two further, and then touches his painted lips to the tip of his cock. With his hand supporting the base and pointing the head up toward his mouth, his tongue swirls around the crown before his lips roll down over the head with a delicate suck. There is a flush high in Essek's cheeks; his eyes flutter closed and open again. His other hand rests on Verin's toned stomach, partly to discourage any sudden movement, but more to feel the satisfying flex of his abdominals when Verin tries not to move.
Verin tips his head up for the kiss, welcoming it as the first and the only one he's wanted all night. All day. He can't resist the urge to reach up, to gently touch Essek's cheek as they part again. He knows Essek is proud and that means more to him that so much of the other praise he's received today.
Essek slips out of his peignoir, allowing Verin to fully see what he's worn beneath all his layers. Verin knows that his brother dresses for himself, but he likes to believe that his brother chose these lacy underthings with the thought that Verin might see them. He wonders if Essek has worn them all day or if he changed upon returning to his rooms, anticipating an early-morning visitor. He tries to relax when Essek tells him to, but it's difficult when his brother's elegant hand finally curls around his bare cock. Light, he has missed that touch, perfect and soft and deft.
Verin is aching hard, and it's not the first time he's found himself in this state in his brother's bed; it wouldn't have been the first time that he arrived in this state, wanting badly to seek satisfaction and pleasure with Essek. It was never a matter of Essek having more experience, but that Verin adores him and trusts him. Perhaps also that Essek could explore with his own assured control - his little brother would never hurt him or disobey. Not much has changed.
Unthinking, he lifts a hand to his mouth, covering it to hold back a heavy moan as the wet heat of Essek's mouth takes the leaking head of his cock. His stomach and thighs tense to resist the sharp urge to thrust up. Verin remembers nights spent learning to hold back, to ensure Essek could move at his own pace as they explored each other.
A higher sound escapes him, a whine in the very back of his throat when Essek sucks just the head, his other hand resting over taut muscles, a reminder of his older brother's control. All it takes is a touch, a word. Still, Verin feels his cock throb with the building excitement, with the pleasure of finally feeling Essek's mouth. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, and he doesn't miss the blush coloring Essek's face. It is some relief to know that his brother is just as affected.
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the breaking
Upon enter the city, all he wanted to do was shed the weight of everything he just experienced, but they had been met by the Aurora Watch and taken directly to the Lucid Bastion, beacon and all. Verin himself carried it, and it was taken from him not that long ago. Flanking him stand two others from Bazzoxan, looking no better than he does; one looks much worse but is still standing straight.
Verin's account is detailed. They managed to seal a breach, but at great cost. His voice is steely as he recounts the orders handed down from this chamber to seal it even if there were still living Aurora Watch inside. Orders to take the beacon from the city despite the many still dying.
He is not sparse in describing the reality of what his comrades - and anyone left in Bazzoxan - may face to the clean, lofted people around him in the gleaming center of the Lucid Bastion.
"I request that you allow me to take a force back," he says at the end of his grim report. Verin's eyes burn with determination and a simmering anger. "There may be--"
"They are lost." The Bright Queen's response is sharp and unyielding. Verin closes his eyes, jaw tight, and he tries to hold back the temper he learned to manage as a younger man. "In every way. There is nothing to recover."
That's when Verin loses his temper. Though he does not move a step toward her, his voice raises with the anger of a man long-burdened. Not enough resources. Not enough attention. Determination to hold a place that cannot be held. The cruelty of removing the beacon and condemning consecuted souls to be lost.
It isn't death that upsets him. It's that those who were consecueted and who died trusted they would have another life. They trusted they would return to their people, somehow. Now that will not be possible for so many. Whatever he thinks, they are lost now. The word madness might slip out in his barely-restrained fury. Perhaps he should have known better. Perhaps he should have known that the Bright Queen would not sit and allow him to speak thus. A warning shoots up his spine when she stands from he throne, but Verin cannot make himself stop.
He is already facing disciplinary action for failing to immediately follow the order to retreat; he is willing to risk more. The only thing that stops him digging this hole deeper is a hand touching his - one of the few parts of him that is bare. Verin's voice cuts short with a sharper breath. He does not need to look to know who has come to save him. He would know Essek anywhere; he can smell his brother's intoxicating cologne. He feels weak beneath the simple gesture, and yet it has its intended effect. He shuts up.
Verin's expression is unwavering as further discipline is passed down, the severity only mitigated by Essek's words on his behalf.
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Essek thinks it is time they found out.
This is far from the first instance of madness Essek has witnessed from her since he became her Shadowhand, but it is one of the few her Captain and council have not been able to dissuade her from. The consequences are devastating, and reach far beyond Bazzoxan. There will be dens whose children will never return to them because of this, souls who will never reach the Luxon's embrace, consumed instead by cold, dark death. They will want answers. But how far will they get? How can anyone question a woman nearly as holy as the Luxon itself?
These are questions Essek intends to answer in the coming months. For now, he must ensure his little brother does not lose his head for speaking the truth that others wouldn't.
As Shadowhand to the Bright Queen now for many years, he knows what to say to appease her, the platitudes to which she reacts best, the appeals to emotion and quotes from holy verse. Today, he includes reminders of Den Thelyss' station and loyalty to the Dynasty and to the Light. Nonetheless, he is deeply relieved when Quana, too, chimes in.
"The Taskhand has suffered great losses today, Leylas, in following your commands. Will you not allow him to rest and heal before wringing him for details?" While the queen had been listening to Essek's words, her face changes entirely when her soul-partner speaks. It is as if she loses all the strength that sustained her viciousness, and suddenly she looks very tired. She sinks back down into the seat of her throne, and seems to look at Verin and Essek without really seeing them. She nods, almost imperceptibly, just once. Quana steps up beside the throne and speaks. "Thank you, Taskhand, Shadowhand. You may go." She is the Dusk Captain, commander of the Aurora Watch and Verin's direct superior. If she says he may leave, then he may. Essek still touches Verin's hand. "I will coordinate with you personally regarding next steps. Will you be found at Den Thelyss's main house?"
"I will be hosting my brother at my home, Dusk Captain," Essek answers before Verin can, though he has not yet asked. No matter. He wants to look after Verin personally, and he will not refuse to stay with him. "As ever, please call at your convenience." After bowing deeply, he leads his brother from the throne room before the queen can change her mind. Verin has been through enough this day, and will have to suffer the indignity of official reprimand on top of it. Essek would not see him earn any additional punishment.
The cavernous halls of the Lucid Bastion echo with the sound of voices and rushing steps today. Essek has not seen such a commotion since he spirited the beacons away.
"I am sorry, Verin," he whispers earnestly, as soon as he can pull his brother aside into a somewhat secluded antechamber, currently unused. He hovers far enough from the polished stone floor to look at him eye to eye. Gloved hands cradle his brother's face between them; he brushes blood from his cheek with the dark silk covering his thumb. "She could not be reasoned with. She would hear no counsel that opposed this--" He shakes his head, searching for any remotely appropriate words. "--sheer folly. I worried that you would--"
That he would be killed in the fighting. That he would choose to remain behind. That he would resist her orders and be killed for it. There are so many ways his brother could have paid the price for Leylas' madness and the court's inability to do anything about it. Essek's fear for him had been very real.
They might have taken away the one person in this world he loves. He will take far more from them than a few beacons.
He breathes in deeply, collects himself. Verin is alive, and here with him now. The rest of this...the rest of this can be useful to him. His eyes soften, almost imperceptibly.
"I am relieved to see your face, little brother."
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He blinks slowly once they were in an antechamber, the thousand-yard stare slowly dissipating so that he can focus on his brother. For a moment all he can do is look at Essek, drinking in the sight of him and the comfort he offers. He is the first since Verin entered the city to say anything like that to him. The first to acknowledge how cruel this had been, how short-sighted, how--wrong. It does not make him feel better to hear that Leylas could not be reasoned with and only deepens his growing bitterness to realize not even the Dusk Captain swayed her - nor did she stop the order. She allowed this as much as the rest of them.
Verin's jaw gets tight and he swallows thickly.
"Not here," he whispers. "I cannot speak here, Essek."
Not in the Lucid Bastion. He cannot and will not let his guard down until they are beyond its walls.
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He can help Verin. He can show him how to prevent this from happening again. He can give him a new purpose.
"Then we will go home, where you may speak freely."
He does this with only a word, still holding Verin's face in his hands. Space and time warp around them, and in seconds they are standing together in the private sitting room of his towers. This room is quiet and intimate, a direct contrast to where they have just come from, loud vaulted rooms and halls. After interceding on his brother's behalf before the queen, he will not be looked for again in the Bastion today. Should he be needed, someone can Send.
"You are safe here, Verin," he promises. "I am listening."
It has been nearly a century since he has had to assure his brother in this way. The last time was likely during the uncertainty of his anamnesis years.
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He stays that way longer than he should, taking comfort in his brother's presence. When he feels able to let go, Verin stands straight with a quiet apology.
"This is madness, Essek," he says quietly, as if still concerned they may be overheard. "What I witnessed there, the orders we were given--There are so many that will never see light again."
Verin knows death. He sees it, both for the consecuted and unconsecuted, but at least for the former there is the chance their souls will be recovered. But if the beacon was too far at the time of death, there is nothing for it. And Verin feels tired, and heavy, because he has the weight of all of them on his shoulders.
"Forgive me," he murmurs, taking another step back. Hopefully he hasn't gotten blood on Essek's clothes; hopefully the sharper parts of his armor have not caught or torn anything.
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"You have done nothing wrong," he says firmly, holding Verin's gaze. "Is my brother not more important than my wardrobe? Embrace me for the rest of the day, if you wish."
Certainly an offer he would not make to anyone else, regardless of the circumstances. But it was nice to feel Verin's arms around him, to be held against him, even against his armor, and feel his warm breath in his hair. To rub his hand along the back of his neck and stroke his mess of a braid, to be a source of comfort. Whenever they are reunited, Essek is forced to remember how much he enjoys being touched.
"Have all of your injuries been treated?" he asks, because that must be handled first. "I keep a stock of potions. If you will not take one and I discover later that you are still in pain, I will not be pleased."
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"I am in one piece," he says softly. "But I will let you make the final determination as to whether or not I need a potion."
Verin suspects that Essek will insist in principle. He is not of a mind to put up much of a fight, far more interested in getting out of his armor and perhaps into a bath. More than anything, he wants to remain close to Essek. He knows the towers well enough that he can find his way to his brother's suite.
"I need a bath," he says quietly. "I will do anything else you like, but I need a bath, Essek."
He needs the dust and the blood off him. He needs the lingering perfume of the Lucid Bastion washed away.
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"Then I will be cautious, and determine that you do."
Though potions are more difficult to come by in the midst of a war, Essek has no trouble acquiring them. Trained in alchemy as he is, he can make more himself if necessary. As he slips away from Verin to retrieve a bottle filled with shimmering red liquid from a nearby bookshelf--he tends to keep at least one in every room, in case of emergency--he casts a small half smile over his shoulder.
"Agreed. You do need a bath."
Essek puts the healing potion decisively into his brother's hand before drifting toward the door, beckoning with a crooked finger. "Come, then. You'll use my tub."
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He stops in the well-appointed bathroom so he can divest himself of his armor and... everything else. Despite the potion's work, Verin still moves stiffly, made so by exhaustion and burnt out anger as much as from the fight.
There are new scars since Essek saw him last; his most recent injuries are closing with the help of the potion, at least.
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This is not enough to divert his attention from Verin entirely, especially as he gets down to bare skin, displaying both injuries incurred today and a few scars Essek has never seen before. It is one thing to know that the constant incursions at Bazzoxan put his brother on the front lines of an unwinnable battle day in and day out, and it is another to see the evidence writ permanently into his skin, more each time they meet.
Essek flicks water from his fingers and rises back into his float. Brow gently furrowed, his fingertips trace lightly along a healed-over gouge carved between arm and shoulder, just where Verin's armor would have been weakest. Whatever struck him must have pierced muscle as well as flesh, but he moves as if he was healed quickly enough to prevent permanent damage to the structure of his body. In comparison, cosmetic imperfections are a trifle. Still, it marks how close his brother had come to perhaps mortal injury, and it discomforts Essek deeply.
They had fought, decades ago now, about Verin accepting the post at Bazzoxan. Essek knows better than to dredge up that old argument, one of the only lingering undercurrents of bitterness between them. They had never settled it. But Essek respects that Verin has chosen his path, and accomplished much in doing so, displaying his competence and skill as a commander and an echo knight. It simply...unsettles him. He can never quite excise from his mind the image of their father, blind with rage at his heretic son's rejection of consecution, marching past the Umbra Gates never to emerge.
Hovering nearer to Verin's height, Essek must lean down to kiss the mark with his painted lips. Verin has heard all his fears and worries expressed before. Why should he reiterate when it only hurts them both? Without you, who would I love? The question has long gone without answer, because it doesn't need one. He could only become the heartless creature so many assume him to be in truth. Anything else is too terrifying to consider.
"Allow me to undo your braids," he murmurs, and reaches for one of them draped over Verin's shoulder. He recognizes a few of the beads woven into it as his own from more than half a century ago, and his thin smile reaches his eyes. Graceful arcanist's fingers separate the braid's weave and graviturgy catches the beads, suspending them together in midair as he works. It has been many decades since Essek cut his own hair, and still the motions are remembered by his hands, which slow to comb long manicured nails carefully through the sections caked with mud or drying blood.
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He lifts a hand, tentatively cradling his brother's head for just a moment before letting his touch slide down along Essek's back. Their argument is old; he remembers the look on Essek's face when he left for Bazzoxan. Verin worried at the time that Essek would not forgive him for going, and he is grateful, always, that his brother did not sever ties over his choice.
There are other companions in his life, but no one who Verin loves the way he loves Essek. He cannot imagine that changing, especially now.
"Of course," he says quietly. Verin remains still as Essek deftly works the braids loose in long-practiced gestures. This is one of his oldest memories: his brother's care and gentleness. The tightness in his chest returns and Verin tries to breathe through it as Essek's fingers comb through his hair. In the decades since Essek cut his own short, Verin has made off with most of his hair jewelry. Another shivering breath nearly catches in his throat.
"We had to leave behind so much," he says quietly. "I'm afraid there are some things you will not get back, brother."
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After all Verin has bled and sacrificed and believed, he deserves better. There is no soul more perfect, in Essek's eyes, than his little brother's.
"I am not worried about my things, dear one," he says, making his voice gentle for Verin's sake. He leaves his hair for the moment to tenderly hold his face between both hands, thumbs sweeping over his cheeks. His violet eyes are bright with emotion, here where no one else can see. "I have what is most precious to me. Many were not so fortunate."
Verin would know even better than he would how many were lost today. But it was not his fault. No part of Essek lays that blame at his feet.
"You were right. What you were asked to do was madness."
His arms are slim and possessed of little strength to speak of, but when he uses them to hold his brother in his grief, they feel powerful, as though he is imbued with some abjurative spell of protection. A hand slips into his hair to cradle the back of his head, guiding him down to rest against Essek's thin shoulder. The other loops around his neck, rubbing the back of his shoulders in wide circles.
It has been decades since Verin has needed his comfort this way, but Essek remembers how, like stretching a rarely-needed muscle. The ache reminds him that perhaps it has gone unused for too long.
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"I love you," he whispers fiercely, voice low to keep it from breaking. Verin buries his face and loses himself in the familiar scent of Essek's perfume and his clothes, his soap and--him. It has been a long time since he sought such comfort from anyone, even Essek, but he welcomes it now. Verin feels years of wear all at once. Once he'd been bolstered by the knowledge - the certainty - this his duty was sacred and important, and that what he did was necessary. That foundation has been ripped away, leaving him grasping for meaning, for reason, where there is none.
Everything Verin has dedicated himself to feels pointless.
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completion
Apart from the particulars (completion of training with the Watch versus early graduation from the Marble Tomes Conservatory's advanced dunamantic studies program), this celebration was not so very different from Essek's a decade earlier. Though Essek enjoyed this one much more, insofar as he ever really enjoys events like this. Tonight at least he was not the center of attention: Verin was, and as their mother would say, he was cast in a brilliant light. Though he remained impassively cordial as ever, inwardly Essek can't help feeling rather proud. Tonight Verin was lauded for his accomplishments, for his strengths and skills and the strides he has made in his life thus far. He deserves these accolades and more, for the struggle of a new soul to advance in this world is like fighting against a current, even (perhaps especially) for the children of an Umavi. Essek knows this well.
Even their father was in a good mood tonight, though probably at least in part because he and Essek gave one another a wide berth whenever possible. Verin has openly been his favored son for many years now. Their father enjoys, to Essek's constant annoyance, bragging about Verin's accomplishments as though they were his own, seemingly just because they have followed similar paths. As though sitting on the laurels of his own past lives wasn't enough, the man has to ride in his son's coattails, too. Verin doesn't see it that way, and Essek can't blame him for wanting to keep their father's pride and respect now that he finally has it, but Essek finds the behavior disdainfully indolent. He is more than content to be mostly ignored by the man. Deirta's attention is already more than he can bear at times.
As a member of the Umavi's blood-family in her current life, Essek is unfortunately required to remain until the celebration ends in the early hours of the morning, which is exhausting for him even if the party had been comparably more bearable than most. No one is surprised when he excuses himself to rest at the first acceptable opportunity.
In the privacy of his chambers, he methodically removes and hangs his formal attire until he is down to the most basic shift layer over his smalls, and then with even more care picks apart the complex updo he's styled his hair into. He puts away the onyx comb and all the adornments but the unobtrusive silver and pearl beads threaded into his three main braids, which remain intact, then swept up again into a much looser and more comfortable style for trancing, each wound like a crown around his head and tucked together at the nape of his neck. It's been decades since Essek has worn his hair down in public, just as it's been decades since he's worn anything but robes that modestly cover every inch of him from the neck down. After, he removes his jewelry and replaces most of his earrings with simple studs or small rings. In readying himself to trance, he cleans his mouth of the lingering taste of wine--he'd had enough tonight that he's still feeling pleasantly lightheaded--and washes his face.
Incongruously with his other preparations, however, after he removes and hangs his shift, he reapplies just a touch of makeup: a simple silver line swiping sharply across each eyelid, and his subtlest and softest lip paint, which darkens his already wine-stained lips just enough to be noticeable, yet not unnatural with his complexion. Though there have been no formal arrangements--there rarely are--he is anticipating company before the night is over, and this is a special occasion. His choice of smallclothes, the only thing he wears beneath the luxuriously soft but simple black peignoir he typically trances in when he turns out the lamps and slips between the silken sheets of his bed, are not any different from what he usually wears day to day. But he'd still selected them with the knowledge that today he likely wouldn't be the only one to see them.
He falls into a trance tonight laying on his side with his back to the bedroom door. He has not even been trancing for an hour yet when he becomes aware via his Alarm spell that someone has crossed the threshold of the door to the outer chamber of his rooms--and then hardly a breath later, with no more sound than a soft footstep and a barely-audible whisper, the open door into his bedroom itself. He is not concerned. He can feel that his wards have not been unraveled or tampered with, and only one other person is kept apprised of the ever-changing passphrase to bypass his Arcane Locks. His visitor is exactly who he expected.
Still, Essek opts not to visibly stir. His breaths are meditative, even, and he does not turn nor move at all, affecting continued trance. His visitor will make himself known soon enough--will make his needs known, with a lack of subtlety or tact Essek would only find endearing in one man--as he always does.
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Verin's trials were different, but no less intense. Essek had proven himself a prodigy, so what could Verin do but excel? Even at such a young age, he's mastered several styles of fighting and he is an (almost) peerless Echo Knight. Rising among his cohort - many of them carrying the memories of those who spent centuries fighting - had taken a dedication that few of his peers showed. Verin, like Essek, could take nothing for granted. So when Quana Kryn herself offers him a place in the Lucid Bastion, Verin can say that he's earned it. Even with the benefit of being an Umavi's son, such positions at merely granted as symbols of status. Such an offer means he has proven both his faith and his martial capabilities; beyond that, it is proof that his mind is just as sharp, even if he as not applied it in the same way as his brother. Beyond all of that, he is simply excited to continue his training under such an accomplished figure. She has taken an interest, and Verin cannot rest on this celebration of advancement if he means to be--worthy. Worthy of the care and attention of his trainers and tutors, worthy of what his den has invested in his education, worthy of being Deirta's son.
Though their father is happy to praise Verin's accomplishments, the man really had relatively little to do with either his son's advancement or his training in general. And even from across a crowded room, Verin can see the disdain on Essek's face whenever he does. He can always find Essek in a crowd, and he has spent all night looking toward his brother, the only person in the room who understands.
Verin is everything he should be at the celebration: he's gracious and exuberant, respectful and proud. He socializes throughout the night, moving from one circle to another, often on the arm of their mother. Essek had not allowed this kind of social steering, but Verin has always been the more outwardly complacent. He is able to get away from her long enough to celebrate with new comrades and members of his cohort, and long enough to have one dance with the modest, the reserved, the exacting Essek Thelyss. Verin is not beyond noticing it is the only time Essek dances the entire night, and while it shouldn't, that knowledge leaves something warm deep in his chest.
It's early morning when the festivities finally end and Verin is able to escape. He knows Essek left at least half an hour ago, able to politely leave at the earliest convenience while Verin is somewhat trapped until the last guests leave. He disappears to his small suite of rooms to decompress. Verin takes the time to clean himself, rinsing away the sweat of the evening in a simple but thorough sponge bath with the basin of water in his bedroom rather than a full bath. It takes longer to get the ornaments out of his hair, but thankfully he's never been as decorated as Essek.
Essek. Verin's thoughts drift to his brother, who remains the center of gravity in his life. He was beautiful tonight, and Verin could see the quiet pride in his eyes. That meant more than most of the praise he's heard since the day began, and he remembers the scent of Essek's perfume as they danced, and how it felt to hold his brother in his arms. Light, he has missed him.
Verin knows that any attempt to trance will be wasted, and so he dresses in his sleep clothes - soft linen pants tied at his hips - with a light silk robe thrown on and loosely belted. During their dance, Essek had whispered the password to get past the arcane locks on his doors, and so they are easy enough to bypass. Soft steps carry him through the familiar rooms to his brother's bedroom, which Verin does not hesitate to enter. Essek looks like he's trancing, but Verin is almost certain the arcane locks are not the only wards between the entryway and here.
So, with that confidence, he sinks down onto Essek's bed and turns toward his beautiful brother. It's effortless to pull his willowy body close against his chest, head tipped down to kiss the bare tip of Essek's ear.
"I doubt you are still trancing," he murmurs, a smile in his voice. "If you were at all."
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Almost immediately, Essek flushes with quiet pleasure. Tonight Verin was everything a dutiful and driven young member of the one of the three great dens should be; the sort of man who his peers envy as much as admire, who those in power take notice of, who is on a path to achieving great things through his own application of relentless effort and determination. Essek knows better than any the struggles Verin has overcome, and so admires him most of all. Beyond that, he has a warm, magnetic way about him that people respond to and genuinely like, an easy, affable brightness that Essek has never shared, and so cultivated his shadowy mask of distant politeness instead. Completing the ideal image, Verin was handsome, wearing robes that echoed Essek's but cut to emphasize his warrior's figure, with the addition of pieces of ceremonial armor and one of Den Thelyss' own ancient blades at his side, a relic brought up from Deirta's vaults that has belonged to their den since before the Calamity. Essek only wished that he could have done Verin's hair himself, a layer left loose and brushed to a glossy finish over his shoulders and then braided into four, then three over it. But as per tradition, that honorable act of service was the Umavi's to perform on this occasion.
Yet as Essek twists in his brother's arms to look at him over his shoulder, he finds he likes the informal, half pulled back remnant of that style just as much. He looks forward to sinking his fingers into it and undoing it further. Making it his.
"I was," he asserts stubbornly, but the corners of his lips are upturned and his violet eyes flash with fond amusement. "What else would I be doing at this hour? I am no Verin Thelyss, steeling through the halls half clothed and sneaking into the bed of an Umavi's son, a respected young man whose chasteness is well known."
Very chastely, his ass had nestled back against Verin's groin when his back arched as he turned to look over his shoulder. But that was unintentional, surely. His soft, lilting voice carries the same undertone of affectionate playfulness as his eyes, his near-smile. Essek lays a slender, manicured hand over Verin's broader, rougher one where it grips him around his middle. His thumb smooths over his knuckles, tracing one or two scars there that he knows well.
"Or are you still, now halfway through your first century, having such a difficult time trancing that you need to be comforted by your dalni?" he teases silkily, raising an elegant brow as his plush mouth finally shows a hint of the smirk that's been lingering just beneath the surface.
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"Mm, so I hear," he murmurs. He's already half-hard against Essek's ass and quickly getting the rest of the way there now that he's quite certain that not only is Essek awake, but that he was well and truly expecting him. "Your reputation has been a source of headaches for me... should I tell you how many knights have asked the secret to getting close to you?"
He kisses Essek's ear again and feels a flutter of warmth in his chest when a delicate, manicured hand rests over his own. Light, he has missed these embraces. The scent of Essek's perfume and soap is everything, as is the feeling of warm silk against his skin. He could never betray Essek's trust by speaking about him to other people. And, jealously, Verin does not want anyone to cheat their way into wooing his brother.
"You know me," he says, softer since he is so close. "I have always been a restless sleeper without your help, dalni." Verin uses the affectionate title he's used with Essek for at least forty five years.
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This time Essek doesn't give one. He luxuriates in the heat sinking into his body from Verin's, allows it to relax and mollify him and simultaneously set his heart to beating faster, his cock to filling out beneath the delicate lace of his smalls. Verin makes his body crave touch the way his mind craves knowledge. The stories of one consecuted soul longing for the same beloved mate across lifetimes speak of how the physical form awakens to a previously unknown yearning when they are together, how their intertwined souls need one another so powerfully their new bodies feel that connection, too. In moments like this Essek thinks he understands those stories. But since he also knows with absolute certainty that he and Verin cannot be soul-bound lovers, as neither of them have previous lives, he also thinks those stories must be utter bullshit.
"Mm, sleeper is apt. If anyone but me knew how long it took you to start trancing consistently..." He sighs, doing a very good impression of being terribly put-upon, yet benevolent. "I always take care of you, don't I, when you come to me in this state?" he coos, keeping a strict handle on his composure. "Perhaps I've spoiled you."
Very deliberately this time, a tilt of his hips presses the curve of his ass tighter against his brother's hips. Essek teeth sink briefly into his lower lip against a spike of pure desire that feeling Verin's half-hard cock growing harder against him drives through him.
"I think you should tell me," he says. "How many knights have been giving you headaches thinking you will tell them how to bed me?" His fingers weave between Verin's, giving a gentle squeeze. "They have no idea they are asking the only man who would know."
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"My training is very physical," he murmurs, his smile lingering. "Exhausting. Surely no one could blame me for seeking comfort and sleep. But I am very grateful for your patience and care, dalni."
Those incidents were more difficult when Verin lived in the barracks, but whenever he was home he couldn't stay away from Essek. He doesn't think Essek would want him to. His calloused palm strokes down Essek's body until he can feel firm line of his cock beneath the lace. He sighs and puts more pressure there as he rubs over the length. Perhaps retaliation for the way Essek is moving against him.
Verin shifts, getting his elbow beneath him so that he can lean over Essek more without changing their position.
"The only man who would know, and the only one who will never tell them." He gives Essek's beautiful cock a gentle squeeze as he rolls his hips; the soft linen he wears does nothing to hide how hard he is thanks to Essek's influence. "Far too many were curious about my aloof brother... I don't think Filraen ever realized that the beatings he took from me in training were directly related to his persistence in asking intrusive questions."
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Maybe he should have scolded him for touching without asking a moment ago. He's set a dangerous precedent.
As Verin shifts up onto his arm, Essek turns away again. There's no need to look over his shoulder when Verin is looming over him now, and this way he can turn his face into his pillow when Verin squeezes his firming cock and at least partially muffle the whimper that finally manages to escape his throat. His hips buck forward into his brother's palm then cant back to meet the roll of Verin's, and he takes a sharper breath through his nose. Verin's cock feels bigger than he's used to like this, the shape blunt and heavy with the fabric between them. Light, he wants it.
"So you have been punishing your fellow trainees for asking about me?" Essek sounds amused and curious, but most of all smug. "Is it really my honor you are protecting, dalnar?" he teases. As he grinds back against him, Essek leads his brother's hand to the sash at his waist so that he can open his peignoir properly. He is the one in control here, he reminds himself, no matter how good Verin's hands on him feel. "Or are you worried you'll slip in here one night and find me giving some other weary knight my patience and care? Because you don't want to share?"
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"Yes," he murmurs, voice pitching lower as Verin kisses his brother's neck. Whether it's for Essek's honor or not, that is exactly what he's been doing. But Verin also really does oppose the way some of his peers talk about his brother and bruises make a lesson stick. He feels a hot spike of jealousy when Essek suggests Verin is worried about finding some unnamed knight here in his bed. He has no right to feel that way, and yet he cannot stop it. Verin gives a harder thrust against his brother and holds him tighter.
"Yes," he repeats, his voice tighter as he confesses. He cannot and will not keep Essek from seeking out someone should he want them, but he doesn't have to enjoy the thought. They have always belonged to each other, bound by something so few share. Verin can't even blame Essek for teasing him: he started it.
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He likes that Verin wants to keep him for himself. He likes that Verin is willing to deter others, even his own cohort, his friends and fellow soldiers, with force if necessary. He loves this reminder of his importance and prevalence in his brother's life; there is no one else who could be what they are to each other. The idea that Essek could so easily welcome any other man into his confidence this way--that he would even want to--is laughable.
"Verin," he murmurs, adoring and pleased and a little--perhaps a little cruelly, given the seeming sincerity of his confession--amused. "Verin--let me go. Look at me." Essek clearly expects these commands to be followed quickly, and they are. He loves being held against Verin this way, but he would also like to make a point--and hopefully regain his composure in the process.
Essek slips out of his brother's arms and sits up, flicking the sheets aside as he does so. His peignoir hangs open at the front, revealing dark skin and darker lace. For all his strength, it takes little more than a hand on his shoulder to coax Verin onto his back. Now Essek leans over him, cradling the handsome face he loves more than any other in a graceful hand, palm cupping his jaw and fingers curled beneath it. As it so often is with Verin, his touch is affectionate but firm.
"Does that really worry you, dear one?" As he speaks, his other hand strokes its way tenderly--and appreciatively--down the center of Verin's chest, following the opening of his robe until he meets the tie holding it closed. Slim, dexterous fingers loosen the knot, then unravel it with two sharp, decisive tugs. Essek's eyes don't leave Verin's for a moment. "You know me better than that. I like to tease you..."
With the robe open, Essek's hand effortlessly sweeps down further, where this time he can be the one to squeeze the hard shape of Verin's cock.
"...but I have no inclination to indulge any other man's desire for me as I do yours. I take care of you this way because I love you." Sweetly slow, his cupped hand strokes Verin's erection through the soft linen of his pants. Essek is hard himself, though more confined by the lace of his smalls. "Because you are my sweet younger brother, and it pleases me to give you everything you want. Which includes me, doesn't it?"
It always has. If Essek has his way, it always will.
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For a moment it's difficult to think, let alone answer, especially when Essek's hand squeezes and strokes his cock through the thin fabric of his sleep pants. Verin tries to hold back a sound, more practiced now in being quiet. He wants to trust up into his brother's touch, but he's held in place by the way Essek looks at him and holds his gaze.
It's only when Essek stops talking that Verin dares to reach for him. The hand closest to Essek slides over the impossibly soft skin of his thigh, pushing the peignoir's silk out of the way. If he gets chided, then it will be worth it.
"I love you," he answers, heavy and soft because it's true, and it has always been true. No one in this den has cared for him the way Essek has, no one has calmed his fears and anxieties or celebrated his victories in the same way. Essek has never been disappointed that he's simply Verin. Maybe his jealousy is unfounded, but the thought of it touches an anxiety he didn't really know he had.
"No one could ever be what you are to me, Essek."
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"I know, my love," he soothes. Even the cutting edge of his resolve to strip Verin of whatever self-control he's learned in their time apart doesn't conflict with the genuine affection he shows to his brother, and his brother alone. "We belong only to each other."
At last Essek bends down to kiss him, using his hold on Verin's jaw to tilt his chin up. It feels like he has been waiting to do this all night. The kiss is gentle, but it feels no less like staking a claim. Though Verin has been his for a long time, Essek never tires of being reminded.
"You were impressive tonight," he murmurs, pulling back just far enough from Verin's lips. "You must know how proud of you I am."
Another kiss, and then Essek straightens, shrugs the peignoir from his shoulders. He knows how he looks; that is something for Verin (and only Verin) to enjoy, too. He undoes the ties on each hip keeping his brother's pants in place, and expertly eases them down and off once they are loose. As he suspected, Verin is wearing nothing beneath. The sight of his thick, strong thighs and his cock jutting up dark and hard between makes saliva pool in his mouth.
"Relax now, dearest. You have earned it," he promises, openly doting and subtly commanding. His hand moves to Verin's cock again, perfectly hot and steel-stiff and velvety against his palm. "Let me take care of you."
From his place kneeling by Verin's hip, Essek bends over his lap, briefly readjusts to scoot back an inch or two further, and then touches his painted lips to the tip of his cock. With his hand supporting the base and pointing the head up toward his mouth, his tongue swirls around the crown before his lips roll down over the head with a delicate suck. There is a flush high in Essek's cheeks; his eyes flutter closed and open again. His other hand rests on Verin's toned stomach, partly to discourage any sudden movement, but more to feel the satisfying flex of his abdominals when Verin tries not to move.
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Essek slips out of his peignoir, allowing Verin to fully see what he's worn beneath all his layers. Verin knows that his brother dresses for himself, but he likes to believe that his brother chose these lacy underthings with the thought that Verin might see them. He wonders if Essek has worn them all day or if he changed upon returning to his rooms, anticipating an early-morning visitor. He tries to relax when Essek tells him to, but it's difficult when his brother's elegant hand finally curls around his bare cock. Light, he has missed that touch, perfect and soft and deft.
Verin is aching hard, and it's not the first time he's found himself in this state in his brother's bed; it wouldn't have been the first time that he arrived in this state, wanting badly to seek satisfaction and pleasure with Essek. It was never a matter of Essek having more experience, but that Verin adores him and trusts him. Perhaps also that Essek could explore with his own assured control - his little brother would never hurt him or disobey. Not much has changed.
Unthinking, he lifts a hand to his mouth, covering it to hold back a heavy moan as the wet heat of Essek's mouth takes the leaking head of his cock. His stomach and thighs tense to resist the sharp urge to thrust up. Verin remembers nights spent learning to hold back, to ensure Essek could move at his own pace as they explored each other.
A higher sound escapes him, a whine in the very back of his throat when Essek sucks just the head, his other hand resting over taut muscles, a reminder of his older brother's control. All it takes is a touch, a word. Still, Verin feels his cock throb with the building excitement, with the pleasure of finally feeling Essek's mouth. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, and he doesn't miss the blush coloring Essek's face. It is some relief to know that his brother is just as affected.