Verin lifts his head and his hands move to cradle Essek's face. He kisses his brother soundly, reassuring the both of them that he is alive. For now, anyway. The Bright Queen will not be happy with his outburst. But there is no reason to think about that now when there is nothing to be done.
He lifts his head and finally stands straight, attempting to regain a shred of his composure.
"Please," he says quietly. "There's no need for you to go."
Essek is the one person Verin has wanted to see throughout all of this, and while he may not wish to see anyone else, he will take comfort in his brother's familiar presence.
As Verin kisses him for the second time today, fervently, like he has something to prove, Essek allows himself to lean into him, taking a little of his own comfort. He could so easily have lost the only person he has ever cared for this way--the only person who has ever cared for him. He clutches him a little tighter for a moment before Verin stands, pulling away.
"Then I will stay."
That is an easy promise to make.
Reluctant to release his brother entirely, especially while he is plainly struggling, Essek leans up to kiss him himself, softer, fingers curled beneath his chin.
"I presume you will not need my help to finish undressing?" he teases gently, an attempt to bring even a small smile to Verin's lips.
Verin manages a smile at his brother's teasing and he gives Essek a fond look.
"I can mange. Make sure the tub doesn't overflow." Verin takes a step back so he can finish undressing. He takes the time to try to steady himself, breathing deep in an attempt to calm the anxious pounding of his heart.
He strips off the rest of his layers: the quilted gambeson and trousers, the simple cotton shirt beneath, the heavy socks, his smalls. Eventually, Verin is bare, revealing further bruises from impacts felt through armor. The healing potion has closed open wounds, but the rest will take rest or further care from a cleric, and it is unlikely Verin will seek the latter any time soon.
When he's ready, he sinks into the hot water. Entirely unbidden, he feels a sting in his eyes. He does not want to fall apart here or anywhere, not any more than he has. But the water, the safety and luxury of Essek's tower, makes another defense shatter. Verin takes another breath and lets it go slowly.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm poor company and I've not seen you in... a while."
The tub is verging on overly full. Essek curls his fingers and the tap turns, shutting off the flow of water. Problem solved. As Verin finishes undressing, Essek selects several bottles from the wide array by the bath. In contrast, he removes none of his own clothing, even as the room grows hot and filled with steam.
Verin sinks into the tub at last, and Essek perches on the edge, opening a bottle to pour several drops of the oil within into the water. Verin's shoulders still look tight, drawn close to his body. When he speaks, Essek sets the bottle down and reaches for him, carding his fingers through his hair.
"You are not here to be good company. You are here to rest." And to be far from the Lucid Bastion, and any chance to further mouth off to Leylas Kryn--especially while she is far from stable. "But you are right. It has been too long." His fingers find another braid, one he hadn't started undoing, and begins picking it apart. "I am sorry. I--I should reach out more often. You are always welcome in my home, Verin. I have missed you."
"Bazzoxan is far, and holds little interest for arcanists," he says with a faint smile. That isn't entirely accurate, there are things there that might be of interest to wizards of a certain kind - but not Essek. Verin runs his wet hands over his face and tries to relax as Essek works another braid loose.
"And I did not take as much time away from the city as I could have." Which is to say, this isn't all on Essek. Time had a way of slipping through their fingers, even when they have plenty of it.
"Do you think... how upset was the Queen?" he asks, turning his head to look up at Essek. He remembers what he said, he even remembers the look she gave him, but it still feels like a blur, like it happened to someone else.
Essek notes the kindness Verin shows him by taking some of that responsibility on himself, but he is the one with access to the Sending spell. They could speak more often, at least. But since his...collaboration with the Assembly, he has been reluctant to contact Verin, wishing to keep him away from that business for his own safety. It has led to a long silence between them.
He runs his fingers through his brother's unbraided hair, then reaches for a comb to work out the tangles more efficiently before he washes it. He glances up, meeting his eyes as Verin turns toward him.
"She was..." He grimaces. There is no use in being anything but honest with Verin about the situation he is in. "She was very angry, brother. If your den was any but Thelyss, I worry what she might have done. But I will handle Leylas. I have dealt with her in these moods before, and she relies on me." He is the Bright Queen's Shadowhand. This makes him one of the few who truly knows what she is capable of. "Though this is the worst, perhaps, that I have seen. Usually Quana, at least, is able to dissuade her, but..."
He shakes his head, then tuts as he notices one of his long sleeves dragging in the water, putting the comb down to scoop it back out.
"In any case, you should stay out of the Queen's way as much as possible in the coming days. I have arranged for the Dusk Captain to come here if you need to be consulted." His lips purse into a thinner line before he adds, almost reluctantly, "You should also prepare yourself to see Mother. I will not be able to keep her at bay for long."
Verin nods and looks away again, staring ahead as Essek tends him. There's no way to assuage Leylas now, he knows that. He's said too much, in front of too many people, and the Bright Queen is capable of holding a grudge for a very long time. That Essek finds her reaction notable says enough.
"You could take a layer or six off, you know," he says with a light, ineffectual bat at the wet sleeve as Essek pulls it from the water.
At the mention of their mother, he groans quietly and resists the urge to sink completely beneath the hot water. The scent of lavender is soothing, at least.
"There's no convincing her I died at the Umbra Gates, is there?" Of course not. She will have known some hours ago that he was here, whether Verin reached out to her or not. He is certain Deirta will have her opinions on the matter, everything from the retreat, to the protection of the beacon, to the queen's response. Verin is not remotely interested in hearing any of her opinions.
"I will not be staying with the Den," he asserts. Verin still has a home there, in part because he didn't spend enough time in Rosohna to justify an independent house. But Light, he will not subject himself to that now.
There is a brief look of reproach at Verin's comment about his layers (six isn't actually far off), but Essek is glad that his brother is joking at all. In the interest of playing along, and not dunking his sleeves any further, he stands and begins unwinding the sash around his waist holding his outer layer of robes closed.
He shares Verin's visceral reluctance when it comes to seeing their Umavi, but it is inevitable. He is mildly surprised that neither of them has received a Sending from her yet--or her assistant, if she was feeling especially formal.
"No," Essek agrees decisively. "You are staying here. After I clarified that very publicly, she cannot insist otherwise. The very last thing we need is the Umavi watching your every move."
The sash slides free with a hiss of fabric. Essek folds it over the nearby changing screen, then lets his robe slip from his shoulders. Beneath he is wearing a long tunic, and a skirt under that, and more still under that. "And I want you with me." The robe is floated to a hook by the door, and Essek deliberates for a moment before starting on the delicate hidden hook and eye closures of his tunic. It makes his pulse flutter a bit with subtle nerves, knowing that someone is watching him undress, even if it is only Verin.
"I will go with you to see her," he says. He certainly isn't inviting her here.
It isn't fear that drives his reluctance, but the weight of the den, the weight of being the child of an umavi. Verin was born - a fully new soul - into both of those things. With a quiet sigh, he sinks back and slides deeper into the water, until he's submerged to his shoulders. He peers over at Essek as he removes a layer. His brother is beautiful, and he dresses to spectacular effect. Verin knows it is his privilege to see Essek Thelyss without his armor.
But the exchange is even: Essek is one of the very few to see Verin without his.
"I will not ask you to endure her if you'd rather not." Verin is certain he can handle their mother, even if it will be reluctantly. A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Though I would be lying if I said I would not appreciate the moral support."
Verin sighs a soft curse and finally submerges himself entirely. He takes the chance to run his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp to ensure the dust is fully dislodged. He resurfaces with a heavy exhale, then relaxes against the back of the tub again.
Essek's fingers work nimbly down the line of closures across the front of his asymmetrical tunic. As the garment comes open, it reveals the top half of sleeveless black slip layer with a high collar, and the more voluminous skirt over it. He arches a brow as he slips out of the tunic, directing it with a flick of his wrist to hang with his robes.
"Our mother is the least of what I would endure for your sake, Verin Thelyss," Essek says, couching his sincerity in a playful little smirk. "I am past due to pay tribute, anyway. It may as well be now."
A tie on each hip holds the skirt in place, and Essek makes quick work of them, allowing the whole thing to slip to the floor when it is loosened with a sound of fluttering silk. He merely lounges in the air to remove his boots and stockings, leaving both arms and legs bare. His second-to-last layer, the soft slip that sheathes his body, is nipped in at his narrow waist, but reveals his legs nearly to the hip when he moves. Which he does; this time, when he perches behind Verin upon the tub's edge, he sinks his feet into the water, slipping his knees beneath his brother's arms to let Verin lean back against him while he reaches for a bottle of shampoo. This time, he is not concerned about any fabric that may drag in the water.
"The soap is there if you want to wash," he points out idly, gesturing to several bars with varying scents and a soft bit of sea sponge beside them.
Verin is surprised when Essek continues to remove his layers until he's down to something Verin recognizes as a relatively foundational garment - he won't have much left beneath it.
"Well, then I will be your support and you can be mine," he demurs in a way that is almost convincing.
When he realizes what Essek is doing, Verin sits forward to allow his brother room to settle on the edge of the tub behind him, then sinks back to rest in the cradle of his brother's legs. At Essek's prompting, Verin chooses a soap. He knows he needs to clean himself; he knows he will feel better if he does. But something still seems wrong about washing away the dust of Bazzoxan and the Barbed Fields when so many others never will. His mind drifts, realizing that the Queen likely has no interest in recovering even the bodies of those lost. Their souls have long since flown - but shouldn't they have funeral rites?
Verin sinks into brooding silence. Essek has already taken care of so much and has warned him not to approach Leylas again. But this, along with so many other smaller injuries, gnaws at him.
"She will leave the dead where they are, won't she?" he asks quietly, even if he is already certain of the answer.
"The dens will oppose it. They will want to retrieve as many as possible." Essek says, a little hesitantly, as though that actually matters. "But if Bazzoxan is overrun..." They have much bigger problems than recovering the dead. Abyssal entities now occupying Betrayer's Rise means danger for all of the Dynasty, especially while they are still at war.
There is a way to spin this, he thinks. He just has to look for it. Verin's grief and quiet, simmering anger are well justified, and must be shared by many. Perhaps this is what it takes for the Dynasty to finally see change for the first time since the Calamity.
Essek begins washing his brother's hair, fingers scratching soothingly over his scalp. He will do everything he can, for Verin's sake. If he must endure this suffering, at least let it mean something.
"Verin," he says softly, pitching his voice lower even in his own home, where he knows his own wards and protections. Perhaps what he is about to say is not treason on par with stealing two beacons and delivering them to the enemy, but it would certainly get him thrown into the Dungeon of Penance if it were overheard, Thelyss or no. "The Queen is no longer reliable or reasonable. I believe she is experiencing typhros."
That is a condition he has only learned of since becoming Shadowhand, its existence closely guarded by the Umavi. But it explains so much--as does the conspiracy to hide it.
"It is a soul sickness," he explains quietly. "Caused by an inability to reconcile memories when one has lived many lives through consecution. Its primary symptom is decay of the mind, a worsening and irreversible madness."
Verin's eyebrows draw together as he listens in silence. He tries to remember if he's heard typhros before, but it doesn't catch on any meaning. What Essek describes, however, is horrifying. Slowly the pieces slip together in Verin's mind as he considers the behavior of the Bright Queen, the way her Dusk Captain has stepped in time and again in his memory to stay or lessen what felt like irrational commands. He shivers, feeling a deep cold despite the hot water.
He has never thought very hard about consecution, not since accepting it. It seemed like there was no other choice, especially knowing of Essek's refusal of the ritual. He had less to lose. But now hearing that the very goal of becoming an umavi puts their people in danger and no one - no one - has made any attempt to bring reason to light...
Verin covers his face for a moment, eyes closed as he reminds himself to breathe deep. He doesn't know that he can handle this information right now, the weight of it heavy on already tired shoulders. He will not be able to banish the thought now that he's been told. It is now his burden to know as much as Essek's.
"What do you want me to do with this, Essek?" he asks quietly, and he hates the hollow note in his voice. "What do you expect me to do?"
Essek's hands fall still for a moment, but then he uses his grip on his hair to pull his brother's head back into his lap with a gentle but insistent tug while he leans forward to look down at him.
"I have no expectation, Verin," Essek sighs, "least of all today. But I know you to be a man who prefers to hear the truth, even when it is hard." It is one of many traits Essek loves and respects him for, even if he remains selective about what he decides to share. "So I told you what I believe to be true. Neither of us can do anything yet."
His soft voice grows softer, and a damp hand cradles Verin's cheek in reverse. "All I want you to do is bathe and rest, for now."
He hates that echo in Verin's voice, too. It frightens him. His brother never sounded like this before he went to Bazzoxan. His shoulders were never so heavy, nor his eyes so sad. The Verin Essek has known for so much of his life has changed. He has been hardened and shattered by his position, the responsibility and expectation placed upon him, and on no day has that ever been more apparent than this one. Essek loves him. He wishes he had a better plan. But he will.
Leaning down, Essek brushes his lips to Verin's in an upside-down kiss, short and sweet. The dark fabric of his slip has grown wet and soapy, but he pays it no mind.
Verin tips his head back with Essek's guiding. He looks up at his brother, beseeching and broken. He does not know how to make this right. He doesn't know what to do with this new information in the light of everything else. But Essek is right; Verin would rather know, whatever else he might feel. Better to know than be surprised.
He closes his eyes as Essek kisses him and a wet hand reaches up to lightly touch his brother's cheek. He's forgotten Essek's gown, too, and if his brother doesn't care then neither does Verin. He tips his head back further in a brief but still futile effort to deepen the kiss. This is not the best position for that, and it is better not to try much harder.
He sighs when they part and he tips his head forward again.
Verin's fingers are wet when they brush Essek's face. Water drips down his cheek, down his chin as their lips part, almost like tears. He imagines so, at least. Essek hasn't cried in a very long time.
There is the ugly possessive urge to drag his brother's head back and kiss him again--he could have lost him today, the only person in the world who matters, who is his--but the angle really is poor. He returns to Verin's hair instead, the scratch of his fingers through it methodical but gentle, practiced. He's done this more times than he can count.
They're quiet for a time. Essek washes the blood from his brother's pale hair, using a wide-toothed comb to work his own favorite shampoo through it. The silky black slip he's wearing becomes entirely soaked. At last, he gives a quiet instruction: "Rinse it out, please."
Verin sinks into the quiet between them as Essek works, bringing comfort through touch that is so familiar and yet Verin has not had this experience in a long time. His eyes remain closed, and he is unsure if he wants to sleep or just lose himself for a little while in the simplicity of it all: the warmth of the water, the caress of his brother's fingers or the comb, and the sound of Essek's breathing. He could have lost this forever.
At some point during Essek's tender care, Verin shifts to wrap one arm around Essek's leg. He goes no further, but even that offers him some comfort. He can feel the wet silk against his back, and for a moment he's quietly amused that Essek doffed all his layers only to get this one wet.
He opens his eyes again briefly when he hears the command - even with that gentle please, Verin doesn't hear it as a request - and then does as he's told. Verin rinses his hair thoroughly, his fingers following the same paths as Essek's had. Only when he's certain the soap is all washed out does he sit up again. He sinks back against Essek where his brother sits behind him. Verin turns his head to brush a kiss to Essek's knee.
"I should get out," he says quietly. The water won't go cold, not with a wizard for a brother, but if Verin is going to linger anywhere, he'd rather a bed or comfortable couch. "Do you have a robe I can use?"
Verin will not fit in anything Essek owns, but he swears he left clothes here at some point.
Verin clings to him for comfort, for support, and as he always has, Essek allows it. He stifles the shiver that would have worked its way down his spine at the brush of lips against the inside of his knee, and instead strokes his fingers through his brother's hair one more time.
"Of course. In your room," he says. "Dry off and I will fetch it for you."
Essek extracts himself from both his brother and the tub. His slip drips onto the floor as he stands. Carefully, he pulls it up over his head, dropping it with a slap of wet fabric on stone and sweeping his ruffled hair back into place. The smalls he wears beneath sit low on his hips, fine and partly sheer, black with a pattern of embroidery almost resembling feathers. By the door to the bathroom he retrieves one of his own robes and slips it over his shoulders, belting the wide sash tight around his narrow waist. This garment is even more diaphanous, dark but airy, with long trailing lace sleeves. Most notably, however, it is also quite short, brushing the tops of Essek's thighs as he pads barefoot and bare-legged back out into his bedroom.
It can't hurt, he thinks, to remind Verin of what he has been missing.
Verin's room--the only guest bedroom with a dedicated occupant--is one floor down in this tower, but it is closer to Essek's than any other. He finds the robe he was thinking of hanging where he left it the last time Verin stayed with him. It's a long, soft imported linen dyed in a geometric pattern of black and midnight blue, made for comfort with roomy sleeves and a generous allowance for broad shoulders. Essek had it made for him years ago. As he brings it back upstairs now, he considers that he may have worn it more often than Verin has. It has been one of the few comforts he's allowed himself when he misses his brother.
"Verin?" he calls when he returns. "I have it here." He holds the robe open, as if he intends to help Verin into it himself.
Verin lets go of Essek so that his brother can move without compromising his balance. He thinks little of it until he hears the heavy, wet slap of fabric hitting the tile floor. He looks then, seeing his brother in just his smalls crossing the bathroom to retrieve a robe for himself. One that is far shorter than... anything Verin can recall seeing Essek in.
He can't help but think Essek chose that particular one on purpose.
He lets go of a heavy breath and sinks down into the water up to his shoulders, lingering there for a little while longer before he makes himself get out. Verin is finishing drying himself by the time Essek returns, carrying a familiar robe. He knows he didn't take it with him on purpose the last time he was here, thinking that it would feel like a promise to return. Or, at the very least, a symbol of his comfort in his brother's home.
Unbidden, Verin's gaze flicks to Essek's bare legs as he moves closer, but only for a moment. It's clear what Essek wants as he holds the robe out and Verin doesn't resist the help. The fabric is soft, fine against his skin and so completely incongruous with everything that has happened to him in the past day. It feels like none of this should be real. He doesn't know why he feels so conflicted that it is.
Essek drapes the robe over his brother's broad shoulders, then ties it closed when he turns around again, knowing that perhaps he is being slightly overbearing in his care, but it is out of love--which he cannot say is true for much else in his life. His hands come to rest on Verin's chest, and he leaves them there as he looks up at him. He is a finely built man, his younger brother. Essek sometimes notices this objectively about other men, an observation as impersonal as any other--but it is different with Verin. Everything is.
His hands slide up until he is holding his brother's face between them, drawing him down for a chaste kiss.
"It is the least I can do," he murmurs after, brushing his thumb back and forth along Verin's cheek. "You should rest. I'll lay with you."
He moves to his bed and turns down the coverlet before getting himself, laying back against the pillows. Though he is still wearing his robe, it doesn't conceal much, especially while he is laying down. Slipping between the sheets, Essek opens his arms. "Come."
Verin leans down as Essek draws him in for a kiss. His brother has always been able to move him with the lightest touch; he is one of the few (possibly only) people that Verin yields to almost without hesitation. He would not be a Taskhand if he were seen as too pliable. But it has always been different with Essek.
He follows his brother after that tender caress and a small smile tugs at his mouth when Essek turns down the bed. And if his attention lingers on his brother's bare legs, Verin thinks he can be forgiven: he hasn't seen them in quite some time. He doesn't hesitate to join Essek when he is given the invitation. Verin slips into the bed, sore and stiff but better than he was when he arrived in Rosohna.
In the soft, familiar bed, Verin can't quite resist the urge to kiss Essek's temple. He breathes in the scent of him, more vivid than the faded remnants on a scarf he may have taken with him the last time he saw Essek. He wants to thank his brother again, and again, but he thinks he has said it enough. Or he's said it enough that Essek will gently chide him for doing it yet again.
That affection given, Verin relaxes into the pillows and immediately turns his head so that he is still looking at Essek.
"There was a moment," he murmurs, "a long, terrible moment when I thought this was gone."
The kiss to his temple brings a satisfied curl to Essek's lips. It's short lived, however, as Verin confesses how afraid he was that he'd lost this--and it is easy to infer that he could so easily have been one of the dead there in Bazzoxan. Unlike Essek, Verin is consecuted. It is a near certainty that his soul would return during Essek's lifetime. But it would be years, and it would be different. It wouldn't be this.
Essek tucks strands of his brother's loose damp hair back behind his ear. He'll brush and braid it for him again after he rests.
"I worried the same," he admits quietly. "From the moment we heard about the attack until I saw you stride into the throne room. I had to trust that you were strong enough to return to me." And he was. Of course he was. Verin is a powerful, skilled echo knight and a capable commander. Even with what he was asked to do--
His simmering anger threatens to boil over again. Fools and cowards, all of them, and Verin had paid dearly for it.
"Let me hold you," Essek says, the same tone of gentle command he's been using with Verin for a century. He lifts his arm for his brother to move closer, to wrap around him and stroke his hair when he lays his head down against his shoulder.
Had the beacon been too far away when Verin fell - like it was for so many who were left behind - then even his soul would be lost forever, consecuted or not. Verin tries not to linger on the events that didn't happen; he tries harder not to fall into the guilt of everything that did.
The gentle authority in Essek's voice when he speaks again is a comfort. He doesn't have to think, only do. He turns more toward his brother and rests against him, head on Essek's shoulder. Verin can feel the warmth of his skin through the sheer robe he wears and the familiar scent of Essek's cologne doesn't escape him. It's been so very long since he has been in this place.
Verin closes his eyes as Essek's fingers stroke into his hair, offering tenderness that Verin has not been privy to since last he was in Rosohna. Tenderness that he knows Essek does not share with most - perhaps any - others. Even here in his brother's bed it is difficult to close his mind to the sounds of chaos, pain, and fear. The hopelessness of a position lost, the desperation of those trying to survive. The scent of blood and earth and sulfur.
He takes a deeper breath to steady himself, until the only things he can smell are the mingling scents of lavender, osmanthus, jasmine, cedarwood, and white musk clinging to Essek's skin.
Verin has always responded well to his authority when he is caring but firm. Today is no different, and Essek is grateful for the ways in which his brother is predictable, perhaps known only to him. Verin's head comes to rest against his shoulder, his eyes slip closed, and Essek's darkly painted lips press affectionately to his brow. In addition to the scent of his perfume clinging to his skin, he is still wearing a full face of makeup from court today.
It's been a long time since they were last able to do this, and it is a shame that these are the circumstances leading to this reunion. They don't see each other nearly as much as they should. The time they get to spend in his home together, in his bed, is even less. Essek's desire to protect his younger brother from his own machinations is in direct conflict with how much he misses him.
Combing his fingers slowly, soothingly through Verin's hair, Essek attempts to quell the restless buzz of excess energy he can practically feel radiating from his stronger, broader body. He must be exhausted, yet he hasn't yet crashed. His mind is still whirring, replaying, reminding him of what he'd survived and witnessed today.
Essek clasps him wordlessly closer. He feels his toes brush the edge of Verin's robe and slips his foot beneath to slide his bare legs against Verin's. Should he need to do anything more to help him relax, he has plenty of options for distraction.
Verin's breath catches quietly when he feels Essek's legs against his, bare skin a sudden reminder that his brother is so exposed. He tries to relax as delicate and clever fingers brush through his hair, a gesture that has brought him so much comfort over the years.
"Essek..." He speaks his brother's name and it is neither a question nor a plea, but some strange place in the middle. A question he does not know how to ask, a plea hoping for his brother's intuitive understanding. Verin pushes himself up onto his elbow so that he can look down at Essek, searching his beautifully made up face. He knows that he's had the privilege of very few to see the Shadowhand without his armor, but as they've grown he's realized that Essek's armor goes deeper than it once did.
"I missed you," he confesses quietly, words that he's spoken already but that bear repeating. His fingers, calloused and rough but still elegant, brush against Essek's hair.
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He lifts his head and finally stands straight, attempting to regain a shred of his composure.
"Please," he says quietly. "There's no need for you to go."
Essek is the one person Verin has wanted to see throughout all of this, and while he may not wish to see anyone else, he will take comfort in his brother's familiar presence.
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"Then I will stay."
That is an easy promise to make.
Reluctant to release his brother entirely, especially while he is plainly struggling, Essek leans up to kiss him himself, softer, fingers curled beneath his chin.
"I presume you will not need my help to finish undressing?" he teases gently, an attempt to bring even a small smile to Verin's lips.
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"I can mange. Make sure the tub doesn't overflow." Verin takes a step back so he can finish undressing. He takes the time to try to steady himself, breathing deep in an attempt to calm the anxious pounding of his heart.
He strips off the rest of his layers: the quilted gambeson and trousers, the simple cotton shirt beneath, the heavy socks, his smalls. Eventually, Verin is bare, revealing further bruises from impacts felt through armor. The healing potion has closed open wounds, but the rest will take rest or further care from a cleric, and it is unlikely Verin will seek the latter any time soon.
When he's ready, he sinks into the hot water. Entirely unbidden, he feels a sting in his eyes. He does not want to fall apart here or anywhere, not any more than he has. But the water, the safety and luxury of Essek's tower, makes another defense shatter. Verin takes another breath and lets it go slowly.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm poor company and I've not seen you in... a while."
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Verin sinks into the tub at last, and Essek perches on the edge, opening a bottle to pour several drops of the oil within into the water. Verin's shoulders still look tight, drawn close to his body. When he speaks, Essek sets the bottle down and reaches for him, carding his fingers through his hair.
"You are not here to be good company. You are here to rest." And to be far from the Lucid Bastion, and any chance to further mouth off to Leylas Kryn--especially while she is far from stable. "But you are right. It has been too long." His fingers find another braid, one he hadn't started undoing, and begins picking it apart. "I am sorry. I--I should reach out more often. You are always welcome in my home, Verin. I have missed you."
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"And I did not take as much time away from the city as I could have." Which is to say, this isn't all on Essek. Time had a way of slipping through their fingers, even when they have plenty of it.
"Do you think... how upset was the Queen?" he asks, turning his head to look up at Essek. He remembers what he said, he even remembers the look she gave him, but it still feels like a blur, like it happened to someone else.
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He runs his fingers through his brother's unbraided hair, then reaches for a comb to work out the tangles more efficiently before he washes it. He glances up, meeting his eyes as Verin turns toward him.
"She was..." He grimaces. There is no use in being anything but honest with Verin about the situation he is in. "She was very angry, brother. If your den was any but Thelyss, I worry what she might have done. But I will handle Leylas. I have dealt with her in these moods before, and she relies on me." He is the Bright Queen's Shadowhand. This makes him one of the few who truly knows what she is capable of. "Though this is the worst, perhaps, that I have seen. Usually Quana, at least, is able to dissuade her, but..."
He shakes his head, then tuts as he notices one of his long sleeves dragging in the water, putting the comb down to scoop it back out.
"In any case, you should stay out of the Queen's way as much as possible in the coming days. I have arranged for the Dusk Captain to come here if you need to be consulted." His lips purse into a thinner line before he adds, almost reluctantly, "You should also prepare yourself to see Mother. I will not be able to keep her at bay for long."
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"You could take a layer or six off, you know," he says with a light, ineffectual bat at the wet sleeve as Essek pulls it from the water.
At the mention of their mother, he groans quietly and resists the urge to sink completely beneath the hot water. The scent of lavender is soothing, at least.
"There's no convincing her I died at the Umbra Gates, is there?" Of course not. She will have known some hours ago that he was here, whether Verin reached out to her or not. He is certain Deirta will have her opinions on the matter, everything from the retreat, to the protection of the beacon, to the queen's response. Verin is not remotely interested in hearing any of her opinions.
"I will not be staying with the Den," he asserts. Verin still has a home there, in part because he didn't spend enough time in Rosohna to justify an independent house. But Light, he will not subject himself to that now.
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He shares Verin's visceral reluctance when it comes to seeing their Umavi, but it is inevitable. He is mildly surprised that neither of them has received a Sending from her yet--or her assistant, if she was feeling especially formal.
"No," Essek agrees decisively. "You are staying here. After I clarified that very publicly, she cannot insist otherwise. The very last thing we need is the Umavi watching your every move."
The sash slides free with a hiss of fabric. Essek folds it over the nearby changing screen, then lets his robe slip from his shoulders. Beneath he is wearing a long tunic, and a skirt under that, and more still under that. "And I want you with me." The robe is floated to a hook by the door, and Essek deliberates for a moment before starting on the delicate hidden hook and eye closures of his tunic. It makes his pulse flutter a bit with subtle nerves, knowing that someone is watching him undress, even if it is only Verin.
"I will go with you to see her," he says. He certainly isn't inviting her here.
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But the exchange is even: Essek is one of the very few to see Verin without his.
"I will not ask you to endure her if you'd rather not." Verin is certain he can handle their mother, even if it will be reluctantly. A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Though I would be lying if I said I would not appreciate the moral support."
Verin sighs a soft curse and finally submerges himself entirely. He takes the chance to run his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp to ensure the dust is fully dislodged. He resurfaces with a heavy exhale, then relaxes against the back of the tub again.
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"Our mother is the least of what I would endure for your sake, Verin Thelyss," Essek says, couching his sincerity in a playful little smirk. "I am past due to pay tribute, anyway. It may as well be now."
A tie on each hip holds the skirt in place, and Essek makes quick work of them, allowing the whole thing to slip to the floor when it is loosened with a sound of fluttering silk. He merely lounges in the air to remove his boots and stockings, leaving both arms and legs bare. His second-to-last layer, the soft slip that sheathes his body, is nipped in at his narrow waist, but reveals his legs nearly to the hip when he moves. Which he does; this time, when he perches behind Verin upon the tub's edge, he sinks his feet into the water, slipping his knees beneath his brother's arms to let Verin lean back against him while he reaches for a bottle of shampoo. This time, he is not concerned about any fabric that may drag in the water.
"The soap is there if you want to wash," he points out idly, gesturing to several bars with varying scents and a soft bit of sea sponge beside them.
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"Well, then I will be your support and you can be mine," he demurs in a way that is almost convincing.
When he realizes what Essek is doing, Verin sits forward to allow his brother room to settle on the edge of the tub behind him, then sinks back to rest in the cradle of his brother's legs. At Essek's prompting, Verin chooses a soap. He knows he needs to clean himself; he knows he will feel better if he does. But something still seems wrong about washing away the dust of Bazzoxan and the Barbed Fields when so many others never will. His mind drifts, realizing that the Queen likely has no interest in recovering even the bodies of those lost. Their souls have long since flown - but shouldn't they have funeral rites?
Verin sinks into brooding silence. Essek has already taken care of so much and has warned him not to approach Leylas again. But this, along with so many other smaller injuries, gnaws at him.
"She will leave the dead where they are, won't she?" he asks quietly, even if he is already certain of the answer.
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There is a way to spin this, he thinks. He just has to look for it. Verin's grief and quiet, simmering anger are well justified, and must be shared by many. Perhaps this is what it takes for the Dynasty to finally see change for the first time since the Calamity.
Essek begins washing his brother's hair, fingers scratching soothingly over his scalp. He will do everything he can, for Verin's sake. If he must endure this suffering, at least let it mean something.
"Verin," he says softly, pitching his voice lower even in his own home, where he knows his own wards and protections. Perhaps what he is about to say is not treason on par with stealing two beacons and delivering them to the enemy, but it would certainly get him thrown into the Dungeon of Penance if it were overheard, Thelyss or no. "The Queen is no longer reliable or reasonable. I believe she is experiencing typhros."
That is a condition he has only learned of since becoming Shadowhand, its existence closely guarded by the Umavi. But it explains so much--as does the conspiracy to hide it.
"It is a soul sickness," he explains quietly. "Caused by an inability to reconcile memories when one has lived many lives through consecution. Its primary symptom is decay of the mind, a worsening and irreversible madness."
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He has never thought very hard about consecution, not since accepting it. It seemed like there was no other choice, especially knowing of Essek's refusal of the ritual. He had less to lose. But now hearing that the very goal of becoming an umavi puts their people in danger and no one - no one - has made any attempt to bring reason to light...
Verin covers his face for a moment, eyes closed as he reminds himself to breathe deep. He doesn't know that he can handle this information right now, the weight of it heavy on already tired shoulders. He will not be able to banish the thought now that he's been told. It is now his burden to know as much as Essek's.
"What do you want me to do with this, Essek?" he asks quietly, and he hates the hollow note in his voice. "What do you expect me to do?"
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"I have no expectation, Verin," Essek sighs, "least of all today. But I know you to be a man who prefers to hear the truth, even when it is hard." It is one of many traits Essek loves and respects him for, even if he remains selective about what he decides to share. "So I told you what I believe to be true. Neither of us can do anything yet."
His soft voice grows softer, and a damp hand cradles Verin's cheek in reverse. "All I want you to do is bathe and rest, for now."
He hates that echo in Verin's voice, too. It frightens him. His brother never sounded like this before he went to Bazzoxan. His shoulders were never so heavy, nor his eyes so sad. The Verin Essek has known for so much of his life has changed. He has been hardened and shattered by his position, the responsibility and expectation placed upon him, and on no day has that ever been more apparent than this one. Essek loves him. He wishes he had a better plan. But he will.
Leaning down, Essek brushes his lips to Verin's in an upside-down kiss, short and sweet. The dark fabric of his slip has grown wet and soapy, but he pays it no mind.
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He closes his eyes as Essek kisses him and a wet hand reaches up to lightly touch his brother's cheek. He's forgotten Essek's gown, too, and if his brother doesn't care then neither does Verin. He tips his head back further in a brief but still futile effort to deepen the kiss. This is not the best position for that, and it is better not to try much harder.
He sighs when they part and he tips his head forward again.
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There is the ugly possessive urge to drag his brother's head back and kiss him again--he could have lost him today, the only person in the world who matters, who is his--but the angle really is poor. He returns to Verin's hair instead, the scratch of his fingers through it methodical but gentle, practiced. He's done this more times than he can count.
They're quiet for a time. Essek washes the blood from his brother's pale hair, using a wide-toothed comb to work his own favorite shampoo through it. The silky black slip he's wearing becomes entirely soaked. At last, he gives a quiet instruction: "Rinse it out, please."
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At some point during Essek's tender care, Verin shifts to wrap one arm around Essek's leg. He goes no further, but even that offers him some comfort. He can feel the wet silk against his back, and for a moment he's quietly amused that Essek doffed all his layers only to get this one wet.
He opens his eyes again briefly when he hears the command - even with that gentle please, Verin doesn't hear it as a request - and then does as he's told. Verin rinses his hair thoroughly, his fingers following the same paths as Essek's had. Only when he's certain the soap is all washed out does he sit up again. He sinks back against Essek where his brother sits behind him. Verin turns his head to brush a kiss to Essek's knee.
"I should get out," he says quietly. The water won't go cold, not with a wizard for a brother, but if Verin is going to linger anywhere, he'd rather a bed or comfortable couch. "Do you have a robe I can use?"
Verin will not fit in anything Essek owns, but he swears he left clothes here at some point.
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"Of course. In your room," he says. "Dry off and I will fetch it for you."
Essek extracts himself from both his brother and the tub. His slip drips onto the floor as he stands. Carefully, he pulls it up over his head, dropping it with a slap of wet fabric on stone and sweeping his ruffled hair back into place. The smalls he wears beneath sit low on his hips, fine and partly sheer, black with a pattern of embroidery almost resembling feathers. By the door to the bathroom he retrieves one of his own robes and slips it over his shoulders, belting the wide sash tight around his narrow waist. This garment is even more diaphanous, dark but airy, with long trailing lace sleeves. Most notably, however, it is also quite short, brushing the tops of Essek's thighs as he pads barefoot and bare-legged back out into his bedroom.
It can't hurt, he thinks, to remind Verin of what he has been missing.
Verin's room--the only guest bedroom with a dedicated occupant--is one floor down in this tower, but it is closer to Essek's than any other. He finds the robe he was thinking of hanging where he left it the last time Verin stayed with him. It's a long, soft imported linen dyed in a geometric pattern of black and midnight blue, made for comfort with roomy sleeves and a generous allowance for broad shoulders. Essek had it made for him years ago. As he brings it back upstairs now, he considers that he may have worn it more often than Verin has. It has been one of the few comforts he's allowed himself when he misses his brother.
"Verin?" he calls when he returns. "I have it here." He holds the robe open, as if he intends to help Verin into it himself.
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He can't help but think Essek chose that particular one on purpose.
He lets go of a heavy breath and sinks down into the water up to his shoulders, lingering there for a little while longer before he makes himself get out. Verin is finishing drying himself by the time Essek returns, carrying a familiar robe. He knows he didn't take it with him on purpose the last time he was here, thinking that it would feel like a promise to return. Or, at the very least, a symbol of his comfort in his brother's home.
Unbidden, Verin's gaze flicks to Essek's bare legs as he moves closer, but only for a moment. It's clear what Essek wants as he holds the robe out and Verin doesn't resist the help. The fabric is soft, fine against his skin and so completely incongruous with everything that has happened to him in the past day. It feels like none of this should be real. He doesn't know why he feels so conflicted that it is.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
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His hands slide up until he is holding his brother's face between them, drawing him down for a chaste kiss.
"It is the least I can do," he murmurs after, brushing his thumb back and forth along Verin's cheek. "You should rest. I'll lay with you."
He moves to his bed and turns down the coverlet before getting himself, laying back against the pillows. Though he is still wearing his robe, it doesn't conceal much, especially while he is laying down. Slipping between the sheets, Essek opens his arms. "Come."
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He follows his brother after that tender caress and a small smile tugs at his mouth when Essek turns down the bed. And if his attention lingers on his brother's bare legs, Verin thinks he can be forgiven: he hasn't seen them in quite some time. He doesn't hesitate to join Essek when he is given the invitation. Verin slips into the bed, sore and stiff but better than he was when he arrived in Rosohna.
In the soft, familiar bed, Verin can't quite resist the urge to kiss Essek's temple. He breathes in the scent of him, more vivid than the faded remnants on a scarf he may have taken with him the last time he saw Essek. He wants to thank his brother again, and again, but he thinks he has said it enough. Or he's said it enough that Essek will gently chide him for doing it yet again.
That affection given, Verin relaxes into the pillows and immediately turns his head so that he is still looking at Essek.
"There was a moment," he murmurs, "a long, terrible moment when I thought this was gone."
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Essek tucks strands of his brother's loose damp hair back behind his ear. He'll brush and braid it for him again after he rests.
"I worried the same," he admits quietly. "From the moment we heard about the attack until I saw you stride into the throne room. I had to trust that you were strong enough to return to me." And he was. Of course he was. Verin is a powerful, skilled echo knight and a capable commander. Even with what he was asked to do--
His simmering anger threatens to boil over again. Fools and cowards, all of them, and Verin had paid dearly for it.
"Let me hold you," Essek says, the same tone of gentle command he's been using with Verin for a century. He lifts his arm for his brother to move closer, to wrap around him and stroke his hair when he lays his head down against his shoulder.
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The gentle authority in Essek's voice when he speaks again is a comfort. He doesn't have to think, only do. He turns more toward his brother and rests against him, head on Essek's shoulder. Verin can feel the warmth of his skin through the sheer robe he wears and the familiar scent of Essek's cologne doesn't escape him. It's been so very long since he has been in this place.
Verin closes his eyes as Essek's fingers stroke into his hair, offering tenderness that Verin has not been privy to since last he was in Rosohna. Tenderness that he knows Essek does not share with most - perhaps any - others. Even here in his brother's bed it is difficult to close his mind to the sounds of chaos, pain, and fear. The hopelessness of a position lost, the desperation of those trying to survive. The scent of blood and earth and sulfur.
He takes a deeper breath to steady himself, until the only things he can smell are the mingling scents of lavender, osmanthus, jasmine, cedarwood, and white musk clinging to Essek's skin.
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It's been a long time since they were last able to do this, and it is a shame that these are the circumstances leading to this reunion. They don't see each other nearly as much as they should. The time they get to spend in his home together, in his bed, is even less. Essek's desire to protect his younger brother from his own machinations is in direct conflict with how much he misses him.
Combing his fingers slowly, soothingly through Verin's hair, Essek attempts to quell the restless buzz of excess energy he can practically feel radiating from his stronger, broader body. He must be exhausted, yet he hasn't yet crashed. His mind is still whirring, replaying, reminding him of what he'd survived and witnessed today.
Essek clasps him wordlessly closer. He feels his toes brush the edge of Verin's robe and slips his foot beneath to slide his bare legs against Verin's. Should he need to do anything more to help him relax, he has plenty of options for distraction.
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"Essek..." He speaks his brother's name and it is neither a question nor a plea, but some strange place in the middle. A question he does not know how to ask, a plea hoping for his brother's intuitive understanding. Verin pushes himself up onto his elbow so that he can look down at Essek, searching his beautifully made up face. He knows that he's had the privilege of very few to see the Shadowhand without his armor, but as they've grown he's realized that Essek's armor goes deeper than it once did.
"I missed you," he confesses quietly, words that he's spoken already but that bear repeating. His fingers, calloused and rough but still elegant, brush against Essek's hair.
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