Chapter 1: By whelming guilt of fallen cursed
Chapter Text
They were staring at him. Not incredibly unusual, as people had always sensed something in him, but this time, everyone in the room knew exactly who he was. What he was.
He, however, had eyes for one person and one person only. He traced his movements across the floor, counting the smiles, his own lips twitching with his bursts of laughter. He tilted his head as if listening to his words, eyes glued to his lips as if primed to drink the sounds right off of them.
Oh, how he longed to join him, even for just a short while. In the past, he had been a fool, thinking decorum of any importance. Now, he knew what a horrific waste that had been. He should have been right there with him, basking in the warm feelings swirling inside him, seizing every moment.
It was too late now. Much too late.
Aaron de Coste sighed heavily, forcing his eyes away from his beloved Baptiste and looking at the goblet in his hand instead. He was swirling the wine half-heartedly, not a single sip taken. Gabriel must have downed a few drinks already when he pushed it into his hands. Aaron’s lip twisted in a smirk. Sweet of him, surely, but wholly inappropriate.
He glanced about, wondering if he should leave it somewhere for someone else to appreciate – someone who could taste it at the very least. He had been forcing himself to eat and drink nearly every day, determined to maintain as much of his humanity as he could – despite the foul taste of ashes filling his mouth whenever he did.
That night, however, he didn’t have it in him.
That last night of an era.
Spotting an opening in the crowd, he slipped to the nearby window and glanced out, eyes upturned. The stars would have stolen his breath – if he had any left in his chest. He tried to remember the names of constellations, but they were all but a blurry memory of his tutors scolding him for not paying attention. Thirty years later, he had to give it to them – daysdeath had been ended and the stars shone down on him, cold and distant. He shivered when he thought of the heaven surely lying beyond them – just as cold and distant to him. Just as unreachable.
He hadn’t had many regrets in life, but that night, he found himself finding tiny little things to add to the list – knowledge he didn’t learn as a boy, his distance from the people he loved, the mistakes he had made in that one fateful battle.
He gritted his teeth, shoving the goblet onto the sill – the stem almost snapping off at the strength he used. He took a deep breath, determined to calm himself down and push the painful memory away – yet another useless, desperate tactic of trying to preserve himself in the face of forever.
Suddenly, there was warmth at his back.
‘I am tired of your sulking all night instead of asking me to a dance.’
He was utterly powerless, turning as if bound by magik. Baptiste stood before him, grinning, one hand extended.
The one he had broken that awful day.
They had shared a life together and Aaron prided himself on being able to read the other man like a book. It took him but a heartbeat – he supposed – to take note of the desperation to forget the last time they were in Dún Maergenn. But the blackthumb’s smile danced in his eyes and Aaron’s Dead heart almost pulsed at the realisation that the offer was genuine.
Despite the perpetual chill of his body, he was burning inside. Wasn’t that what he had been yearning for the entire night? The shame and the guilt still gnawed at him in his every waking moment but perhaps he could ignore them – just for this one night.
He reached out, fingertips tingling with his determination to protect these mended bones with everything he had. To shower them with soft love and gentle caresses whenever given the opportunity.
And then he caught the stares.
He paused, feeling the eyes on them, hearing the outraged whispers, seeing the disgusted grimaces. He glanced to Baptiste, blissfully unaware – or uncaring – of the people around them.
Aaron’s heart broke when he realised he couldn’t do it. And then it shattered when he saw the smile drop from the blackthumb’s lips when he read him in turn.
His fingers closed around Baptiste’s wrist and he tugged gently, desperate to get away. Baptiste followed him, even after they left the banquet hall and walked through the maze of corridors. When they stopped, the blackthumb recognised the vicinity of their chambers.
When Aaron turned to look at him, he saw disappointment glinting in those dark eyes but still, Baptiste was willing to indulge him.
And so, he suppressed a smile that was trying to worm its way onto his lips and turned to the ornate doors in front of him. The hinges were old and rusty, unopened for years – perhaps not even when Niamh herself still walked these halls – but they were nothing to his accursed strength.
The doors opened to a simple balcony. No grandiose affair, to be sure, but it still had been built for some nobleborn lady or lord. Back in its prime, it must have been covered in greenery, the multiple pots now cracked and empty. But even like this, dilapidated and cluttered, under the blanket of stars, the modest balcony felt magnificent. And more than that, it felt private. Intimate.
It also faced the direction of the banquet hall, the music faded but flowing still through the air.
Aaron walked out onto the tiles, paused in the very centre and spun on his heel. A smile tugged at his lips, unrestrained now, and he bowed as if he were facing the Emperor himself. ‘May I?’ he asked, lifting his eyes.
Baptiste’s smile had returned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling from delight. He walked up to de Coste and took his hand. Since it had technically been Aaron asking him this time around, he let him lead without a word, falling into the familiar steps with ease.
They swayed together, spun and twirled. At one point, Aaron dipped Baptiste, startling a burst of laughter out of him. They ignored the brief pauses between different music pieces, their feet still carrying them – much like they had in the early days, when their dance lessons happened in silence, save for de Coste’s soft humming to guide their rhythm as he introduced a small piece of his old world to his lover.
For a moment, they were back in Aveléne, the cherished home they had built and lost. For a moment, they danced not on an old, decrepit balcony, but among their own halls, swathed in warm familiarity.
Eventually, the tunes faded as the minstrels took a break – presumably for a speech or two – and the two stilled. Usually, Aaron would take a step back and bow, thanking Baptiste for the immense pleasure, still playing the role of a lord at a ball. But this night, he stayed right where he was, cocooned in the blackthumb’s warm embrace.
Closing his eyes, he nuzzled into Baptiste’s neck and inhaled deep. He both heard and felt the rumble in the other man’s chest as he chuckled at his sudden show of tenderness, hands slipping to Aaron’s waist, mirroring the fashion in which the coldblood held onto him.
De Coste ignored the loud pounding of Baptiste’s blood rushing in his veins, his thirst soaring to heights that would terrify even the man he had been when Kiara Dyvok took his life. He focused instead on the heartbeat itself, on the air filling his lungs, and the soothing warmth of his body. He would sooner claw out his own heart and toss it into the slowly approaching dawn than let the beast so much as think of harming his Baptiste.
‘Is everything aright?’ Baptiste’s baritone cut softly through the silence.
Aaron peeled himself off of him and looked up to meet his eyes. A soft, sad smile danced on his lips as he took in the blackthumb’s face, the handsome features and the wrinkles, along with the salt and pepper gracing his temples. He must have shaved earlier, the smoothness of his chiselled jaw taking a few years off of his appearance. The cuts and bruises from the final battle with Margot’s forces had finally healed, and de Coste marvelled at the thought that that would be how he looked from now on, no longer troubled by daysdeath and the horrors dwelling in its shadows.
And so, he let his smile touch his eyes and he nodded. ‘Oui. It finally is.’
Albeit confused, Baptiste returned his smile, then kissed Aaron’s forehead.
A fire roared within de Coste, so far contained beneath the veneer of detachment – but the small gesture punched through the walls of ice he had built as if they were nothing. He pressed himself against the blackthumb, meeting his lips for the first time in far too long.
For a heartbeat, Baptiste didn’t react – and then his arms wrapped around Aaron, pulling him closer, kissing him back as if their lives depended on it. Their hands roamed their bodies, retracing old paths before moving swift to the tantalising shortcuts.
They collided with the wall, the rusty fitting on the door digging into Baptiste’s bicep. Reminding himself that while he may no longer need air, his love most certainly did, Aaron tore his lips from the blackthumb’s, laying siege to his throat instead. The thirst reared back and de Coste pushed it down with a growl, Baptiste jerking beneath him. He pressed desperately against his lover as his blood rushed down, whether by habit still or unconscious thought, he knew not.
And he had not a care in the world.
‘Wait.’
De Coste blinked, trying to clear the haze from his mind, his body still chasing their shared passion.
‘Aaron, stop.’
Clarity returning in full force, the coldblood jerked back, Baptiste’s hands grasping at the air where he had just stood. Belying his death, Aaron was panting heavily, eyes wide in dismay.
‘I apologise, I should have asked—’
‘No, no. There is no need for apologies, I—’
Aaron was wringing his hands, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Please forgive my actions. It was not my intent to cause you distress, and—’
Baptiste reached out and closed his fingers around de Coste’s, stilling his nervous movements and silencing him. The Dead man looked up, pleading. The blackthumb held his gaze, swallowing thickly.
‘I want to,’ he whispered after a long moment, eyes sweeping the blonde man’s figure head to toe with a spark of poorly concealed hunger. ‘God help me, I want you so badly.’ He smiled sadly, brought Aaron’s hand to his face and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. ‘But not now.’
De Coste nodded sharply. ‘Of course—’
‘Not here.’
Aaron paused and finally looked at his beloved. Awful pain was etched in every beautiful feature of his handsome face, tears shining in his dark eyes.
Dún Maergenn had been nothing but the epitome of misery for them. They had lost everything here – from their people to their freedom to their bodies. To themselves. He didn’t have to search long within to know he didn’t want anything more to do with this accursed place either.
‘I love you.’
A smile pushed through the storm on Baptiste’s face. ‘I love you,’ he echoed, light shining in his eyes once more.
Aaron stared, heart seizing at the grim realisation that he would never see him in true light. The daysdeath had been ended, the daystar would rise again – and Baptiste would cross beyond his reach, bathed in blessed sunlight.
He bit the inside of his cheek, willing his face to maintain the soft smile and not let his grief bleed into his expression.
‘Come on, let us get back to the others.’
‘If you don’t mind, I would like a moment.’ Aaron looked away with a sheepish chuckle. ‘I will join you once I regain my composure.’
The rich baritone of Baptiste’s laughter filled the night about them and the blackthumb inclined his head, mischief playing in his eyes. But he nodded in understanding, planted a soft kiss on Aaron’s cheek and slipped out the door.
‘I’m going to try to find Gabe. Meet us at the liquor table?’
‘I will,’ Aaron promised, the lie slipping easy from his lips, and he watched his love, his heart, his very life walk briskly away.
Dead tongues heeded were Dead tongues tasted, after all.
He should have foreseen it, he scolded himself. He should have known Baptiste wouldn’t want to be with him like that. Not in that wretched hell and not after what had been done to them. Perhaps he truly paid no heed to the Blackheart’s disgusting touch upon his skin – which Aaron took with a grain of salt anyway, for how could anyone, even sweet as his man, not be repulsed by the filth that monster had marked him with – but if his own lingering chills were anything to go by, he most certainly still felt what the Wolfmother had done to him.
Besides, he must have heard the awful stories of the ruined corpses leaving that bloody boudoir, surely. Who was to say an accidental cut in his lip wouldn’t set the beast off, especially after days without so much as a drop of blood? It had been near a week since he caught and drained that rat, and comparing its blood to the blackthumb’s would be more than just an affront. He was starving and at times, there was little more he could think of. Why would he ever put his beloved Baptiste in the position to take that risk?
Cursing himself a complete fool, he stormed off the balcony and into his chamber. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. No point wasting what time he had left on empty feelings.
He opened his eyes and took the chamber in, the space mostly devoid of personal touches, save a few unfortunate recreations such as paintings and maps, crafted in desperate moments of pining for a life lost. It would all go to waste now, he expected, as he couldn’t imagine anyone embracing the remnants of the foulest of Elidaen’s scourges, but he found he did not care for these measly possessions whatsoever.
Steeling his resolve, he reached for three envelopes lying on the table, fingertips tracing the carefully written names gracing them. He looked at the letters, gentle fingers of sorrow hooking between his ribs.
Mlle Lachance
Chevalier de León
Capitaine Baptiste Sa-Ismael
He smiled softly, images of the three shining in his mind’s eye – his friends and his famille, and the sea of joy and grief between them.
He turned on his heel and walked out of his chamber, his feet taking him to Baptiste’s, just a short walk away. He snuck inside, forcing himself to ignore any and all objects within, knowing he would be tempted to study them and stay always just a little while longer to marvel at the man’s genius – until it would be too late.
As he stood over Baptiste’s bed, he let his feelings overtake him and kissed the envelope, then placed it carefully on the blackthumb’s pillow. He looked at it a moment, thumb gently brushing the ink, his love’s lingering familiar scent filling his nostrils and blanketing him in comfort.
‘Farewell, my love,’ he murmured, voice breaking.
He hastily slipped out of the chamber, bloody tears welling in his lashes as he blinked furiously to disperse them, determined to see his plan through without further delay.
He was under no illusions he would be allowed into Dior’s chambers, and he doubted the girl-turned-saint would take the letter without asking questions. So it was with a wave of relief that he spotted a familiar silhouette standing in front of an old portrait in the hallway, studying it with a vacant gaze.
‘Celene,’ he called, and the last Liathe turned her head in his direction.
She inclined her head, her face hidden still beneath her mask. ‘De Cossste.’
The two coldbloods gazed at each other for a long moment, not saying anything, the air hanging heavy and undisturbed between them. Eventually, Aaron cleared his throat.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We were hopeful to be allowed to ssstay at the Grail’s side until the night ends. I was on my way now but was distracted with the words of the others.’
De Coste nodded and reached out towards her, the second letter clutched in his hand. ‘I will not keep you, then, but can you please give it to her for me? And give her my thanks. For everything.’ Celene took the envelope, nodding without a word. ‘Merci.’
The pair stood in silence a while before the woman – an eternal girl – chuckled. ‘You did not impresss me when we first met.’
De Coste laughed quietly and shook his head. ‘My apologies. I was a bit of a bastard back then, sure and true. Gabriel can attest to that.’
‘We are honoured to have fought by your ssside, capitaine.’
She watched him swallow thickly, dark amusement colouring her hidden smile.
‘May God forgive us,’ he said softly, blue eyes shining, ‘and may He open the gates of His eternal kingdom to our unworthy souls.’
‘Véris.’
The two coldbloods watched each other, the thin line of understanding between them now more tangible than ever. Eventually, de Coste bowed and the two went on their way without another word. The first dawn in nearly thirty years would be waiting on no one, least of all a pair of vampires.
De Coste ignored any passersby, keeping his ears open for voices he recognised, desperate to avoid the people they belonged to. His time with the living had come to an end and he had no wish to indulge in his futile fantasy any longer. He was what he was and tonight his story’s final chapter would come to an end, once and for all.
To Aaron’s surprise and relief, Gabriel’s chambers were unguarded. Nobody wanted to bother the hero in case he needed rest, he supposed. De Coste smirked to himself. Not before he drank his weight in vodka, apparently.
The Dead man snuck inside and looked around. Old clothes lay in a heap on the floor by the foot of a massive bed, despite the servants’ offers to wash them. A few empty bottles lay scattered around, two full ones awaiting their turn on an otherwise empty table.
Aaron’s brow furrowed, pinpricks of guilt dancing on his skin as he was once more reminded of his friend’s poor condition and his own absence from Gabriel’s side. He shook his head, trying to reason with his conscience, reminding it that he had had a lot to deal with himself. Besides, there were others who could shoulder some of Gabriel’s suffering.
His line of thought was cut off when he caught sight of what he came there for in the first place.
Ashdrinker lay on the covers, the silvered dame resting on one of the pillows. Aaron fancied he could hear a soft sigh, imagining a woman lounging in bed after going through hell – and near literally.
He approached the bed carefully, gritted his teeth and let his cold fingertips graze the blade.
‘Bonne soirée, Ashdrinker.’
P-p-pretty lordling, the sword sighed in his mind. It has been too long. What are ye doing h-here? Where is Gabriel?
‘By now? In the banquet hall, attempting to drink Baptiste under the table, I imagine. Truth told, I came to see you and ask a favour, if it please.’
Ye know I can’t s-s-say no to ye.
Aaron was quiet for a moment, contemplating his words. ‘There is something I need to do.’ He glanced at his boots. ‘And I would truly appreciate company for it.’
He described his plight to her, feeling twinges of the blade’s sympathy in his mind. A part of him wanted to bristle at that but the other felt oddly comforted by the care. Eventually, Ashdrinker expressed her agreement to his plan under the condition of letting Gabriel know they would be gone, and de Coste assured her he had explained everything in his letter.
And so the two left – not before she had him dashing across the chamber rearranging the placement of the envelope no less than three times – and snuck out of the keep, Aaron’s hand placed on the hilt at all times, even though Ashdrinker was quiet for most of their walk, only commenting once or twice on the stars they could finally see.
To their shared relief, everyone seemed to celebrate within the dún’s walls, leaving the courtyard deserted. They were nearly at their destination when Aaron felt eyes on his back.
‘What are ye doing, de Coste.’
The coldblood turned slowly and came face to face with Lachlan á Craeg, the young silversaint’s handsome features twisted in a rage. They may have fought side by side in the past months, but it was apparent he still had no warm feelings for the coldblood.
De Coste stared at him, judging him silently. He wasn’t sure how much to reveal, and how much he could keep to himself. In truth, he was hoping Lachlan would just leave, fed up with the mere sight of him.
In the end, the silversaint made the choice for him when he reached for one of his wheellock pistols, his other hand closing on the hilt of his silversteel blade. His jaw was set and his green eyes blazed in the darkness.
‘That sword does not belong to ye, leech,’ he hissed, tensing.
‘I’m going to pray, boy,’ Aaron spat, pointing to the sepulchre looming behind him. ‘And Ash expressed her preference to go with myself rather than stay in Gabe’s chamber all night.’
‘Gabe goes nowhere without her.’
‘Well, he did tonight. Something about new beginnings.’ De Coste purposefully relaxed his posture, making sure the other man took notice. ‘Give it a rest, youngblood. Just wait a few hours more and it will be all over.’
The silversaint scoffed, hand dropping from his sword. The other one stayed on the pistol, however, his thumb caressing the steel tenderly. ‘Do ye truly expect me to believe ye’re going to pray?’
‘You have seen me do it on the road.’ Aaron’s ire rose to the surface again. ‘You know I pray for absolution, and I do it often. What changed tonight?’
‘Ye’re going to the Sepulchre of the Mothermaid, armed with Gabriel’s sword.’ Lachlan lifted an eyebrow. ‘Law the Second.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, á Craeg?’
‘I can call ye worse, if ye like.’
Suddenly, the fight left de Coste. He looked east, gaze unfocused. He struggled to see the point in arguing, especially now. ‘It’s been ended. The curse of daysdeath. And the curse of coldbloods. At long last, the daystar will rise on the morrow. But we will not.’
The look of surprise painting Lachlan’s face did nothing for the Dead man. The silversaint looked him up and down, for once at a loss for words.
‘So oui, I am going to say my last prayers in the sepulchre, where I can then rest when the dawn comes. Whether I turn into a pile of ash or a heap of rotten flesh, I believe a tomb is the place to do so. I requested Ash’s presence to keep me company in these last hours. We used to speak in Aveléne, and I have found myself missing the conversations.’
He didn’t like the way Lachlan watched him. But after a tense while, the silversaint spoke softly, ‘Ye don’t want him to see ye die again.’
Aaron closed his eyes, jaw clenching, hands balling into fists.
‘Does he even know?’ De Coste’s eyes opened and he stared at the younger man. ‘Ye don’t think it’s unfair to him?’
‘If you tell him, I will find the time to kill you before dawn.’
Lachlan opened his mouth for a retort but de Coste was losing his patience.
‘He watched me fall, then come back as one of those devils. He watched me being flayed, night after night, for weeks, and couldn’t do naught about it. He had been thralled by the very leech that killed me and destroyed our home, and subjected to things he would sooner die than do himself. He heard me profess love for the Blackheart and he had to fight me while I spat vile filth at him.
‘It has been a long time since I last saw joy on his face – until tonight. So if there is just one suffering I can spare him, I will do so, no matter how painful it be. He will understand eventually.’
‘Ye truly love him.’
Aaron’s face twisted. ‘Of course I do. More than anything.’
The silversaint studied him carefully before he finally nodded. ‘Aright, de Coste. I won’t tell him. I swear.’
Aaron studied Lachlan carefully, trying to gauge his sincerity. There was something close to shame hiding in his green eyes, and de Coste couldn’t help but think back to their time on the road to Sul Adair, when the young silversaint would sit by the fire with him and Baptiste and laugh at the stories of their time at San Michon, and even more so if they involved Gabriel. He had never truly warmed up to him but Baptiste could magik his way into everyone’s good graces, and he had caught the two of them discussing this thing or that more than once.
‘I’m sorry, de Coste.’ Lachlan’s brow furrowed when Aaron flinched. ‘Everything in me is screaming that ye are the enemy. That if I don’t kill ye, if I lower my guard around ye, ye’ll kill me and everyone I care about. I keep ignoring what I saw these past months. As much as I disagree with some of yer choices, ye didn’t deserve yer fate. I’ll…’ He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. ‘Perhaps I will say a prayer for ye during mornmass.’
De Coste stared at the silversaint, at a complete loss for words. Eventually, he bowed his head. ‘Merci, Lachlan. I ask you keep my whereabouts a secret from others who might ask, as well. I do not wish for company, save, of course, that of Ashdrinker and the everlasting presence of the Almighty.’ Some tension melted from Aaron’s frame when the young man inclined his head. ‘Take care. And rejoice in the sunlight for the brothers we’ve lost.’
Perhaps there was more to be said but neither of them knew how to get there. So, with a final look at the paleblood, de Coste turned and kept on walking until he found himself in front of the sepulchre. He glanced at the massive entryway and his Dead heart clenched in intrinsic fear at the thought of setting foot on holy ground.
Enter and be welcome, those who seek forgiveness in the light of the Lord.
Except this holy ground was open to the likes of him. There, the condemned might seek reprieve much like the innocent souls they no longer possessed.
And if that wasn’t incentive enough, he was keenly aware of the pair of eyes still following his every move. He wasn’t particularly surprised, and he expected to have that unwanted company for a while yet, until he proved his intentions. Annoying, perhaps, but wholly understandable.
So he entered the Sepulchre of the Mothermaid, blinking to adjust his sight to the dim light within. Ever since Dior’s untimely burial, the building had been tended to. There were lanterns littering the massive space, casting gentle illumination all over the enormous chamber. Scaffoldings clung to the ceiling and the walls, securing what precious stonework remained. Motes of incense still fluttered about, picked up only by the fledgeling’s sharpened senses.
And while the invitation had been extended to all, de Coste still felt the weight of the holy pressing down on his shoulders. Gritting his teeth, casting brief glances to the multitude of ruined tombs around him, the coldblood ambled to the mighty vault in the heart of it all, the glint of silver irritating his Dead eyes.
And yet, tension he hadn’t even been aware of seemed to melt from his shoulders with each step he took. He had missed the hallowed and the holy, farther away than it had ever been – until his steps took him inside the sepulchre. At long last, his tormented soul basked in the light of the Lord.
Or, rather, perhaps, of the Mothermaid.
De Coste peered down at the silver form of a woman, flowers carved by the commonfolk from old wood adorning her braided hair. He bowed his head, his hand trembling ever so slightly on Ashdrinker’s hilt.
Go on, pretty l-lordling, the blade murmured her soft encouragement.
And like the man aching for forgiveness that he was, de Coste dropped to his knees. His hands flew to make the sign of the wheel, his mouth opening for a prayer like it had done thousands of times before – like he was still Aaron de Coste, Lord of Aveléne and son of San Michon, the Almighty’s devoted servant.
He spoke the words, whispered the passages meant for priests, and chanted the hymns. He spoke the names of Aveléne’s residents, all those who had been killed that night, all who had been taken and slaughtered – and by his own doing – begging for redemption for each lost soul. He was uncertain how long he had knelt there, grovelling before the Almighty, sensing Ashdrinker gradually losing her focus but valiantly keeping her word of bearing him company nevertheless.
And when he said all the prayers he possibly could, throat raw from all the words he had spoken, he looked up at the mosaic of San Michon and the name of the Martyr brought tears to his eyes, blood welling in his lashes.
He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to the edge of the empty tomb, ignoring the sting of silver on his cold, pale skin.
‘I know my presence is an affront to your resplendence, O Mothermaid,’ he whispered. ‘I know the curse I carry is heavy and my sins too many to atone for in all the lifetimes a coldblood could claim for himself. But I had a mother once and her heart was ever open to her son’s pleas. So I beg you hear me now, blessed Mothermaid.
‘For I do not beg for forgiveness for myself, but for the one whom I love with every mote of my being.’ De Coste’s voice quivered but he carried on. ‘My Baptiste is a good man. The best of them all. I pray you do not let him suffer. And for any affronts you may see in him, give him salvation and redemption.
‘If punishment is to be received for what we have indulged, then please lay it all on me, and spare him the condemnation. I implore you, let me suffer all the retribution for the both of us. Cleanse him of his sins and put them all on my shoulders to bear. As much as I long to reunite with him after death, I would sooner have him seated at the Almighty’s side, far beyond my reach, than to lay my eyes on him ever again. Let me burn in Hell’s fire for all eternity but spare his immortal soul the torment.’
He opened his mouth to say more, to beg and grovel, to plead his lover’s case, but his voice hitched and it was all he could do to stop himself from breaking into a sobbing fit. He pressed his forehead harder into the silver, his skin sizzling softly now, hands clenching into fists as his body shook.
‘Please,’ his voice pushed through his gritted teeth. ‘Please.’
Ye’ve done good, chérie, Ashdrinker whispered, comforting him with the phantom caress of her touch in his mind. She did not say they would be fools not to heed his fierce plea, that he could rest easy now, knowing his beautiful man was safe from this unjust harm.
Eventually, he peeled himself from the tomb, the sting of silver burning his body lessening instantly, and looked at the Mothermaid’s face. ‘Véris,’ he whispered, making the final sign of the wheel and rising to his feet.
He wasn’t quite certain when he had stopped sensing the pair of eyes staring at his back, but he realised Lachlan had finally granted him the solitude.
He looked around at the rows of tombs around him, feeling lighter than he had in what had to be near a year. There was still an awful weight within him but he knew he would never be able to shake it, even if he walked Elidaen for as long as the Forever King had. Now, however, he had been able to confess his sins and pray on hallowed ground at the very least – something he had believed lost to him ever since he took his dying breath.
His gaze landed on the stairs leading to the massive vault below. Unhurriedly, he approached the opening of the staircase and looked into the darkness. He glanced at a nearby lantern, eyes narrowing in innate loathing for the flame inside as he grabbed it, then climbed down. A faint sound of trickling water grew louder in his ears the lower he went.
Finally, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking the massive chamber in, a few flickering lanterns bathing the space in extremely faint illumination, just barely enough for a coldblood such as him to be able to make out the bas-relief of the Wars of the Blood covering the circular walls. He saw the elaborate constructions responsible for draining the fetid, stagnant water in an attempt to preserve what remained of the enormous graveyard for the fallen Esana.
For a moment, he felt cold fingers of panic wrapping around his throat. What if he had been wrong to turn down Celene’s offer to join their order? What if he could be absolved after all, and threw it all away like a fool for the sake of retaining what was left of his humanity?
T-three nights of boundless crimson thirst, Ashdrinker mumbled suddenly, startling de Coste. The blade had been silent since his prayers and the coldblood had near forgotten her presence.
‘What?’
By whelming guilt of f-fallen cursed…
De Coste stared at the silvered dame, remembering Gabriel’s explanations of her worsening condition after her tip was broken.
‘I’m sorry, Ash,’ he murmured, knowing he couldn’t do anything to help. The sword didn’t say anything else, however, and the Dead man carried on. He walked over to the massive statue of the Redeemer and the traitorous priests and stopped by the empty tomb of Mother Maryn.
The coffin had been covered again and the angel capstone, albeit broken, pulled back on top of it. De Coste shivered when he realised he was the only living thing in that chamber, surrounded by centuries-dead bodies.
His mouth twisted in a dark smirk. Living might have been slightly far-fetched.
He lifted his head and looked over the huge necropolis, turning on his heel. And with a heavy sigh, he slipped to the ground, back pressed to the marble box behind him.
This felt like a good place for a vampire to die, again.
De Coste placed Ashdrinker in his lap and ran his fingertips down her blade, carefully tracing the jagged edge. He was silent for a while, attempting to clear his head, before he suddenly snorted, shaking his head in amused yet bitter disbelief.
‘I have truly always been a coward,’ he sneered. ‘I have died once already, yet here I am, scared of what’s to come.’
There be no shame in fear, Ashdrinker spoke softly, recovering her lucidity again. As long as ye do what’s right.
De Coste tilted his head back, his skull connecting with the marble behind him with a dull thud.
Tell m-me a story, pretty lordling.
The coldblood chuckled. ‘And what story would you like to hear, demoiselle?’
Oh, stop it, ye dirty charmer. The blade fell silent as she thought. Tell me of Aveléne. So I can keep her memory alive.
De Coste’s brow furrowed. ‘You have stayed in Aveléne yourself,’ he reminded.
Tell me what ye see when ye close yer eyes. Tell me of how she became yer h-home.
And with a heavy sigh, Aaron did. He told Ashdrinker of how he and Baptiste had come to the decision to settle in the city. How they started rebuilding, each day painfully slow and exhausting. He told her of the first folk who came to them seeking a new life and a shelter to protect it.
And he told her of his life with the blackthumb. Of the love they shared. Of their mornings, and secret dance lessons, and goodnight kisses. The way it felt to wake up to Baptiste’s soft snoring and to fall asleep to the weight of his body pressed against his. Their boundless love and passion, and the kisses he couldn’t possibly count.
He told her of their vows also. He told her of the day Baptiste promised to perform the red rite for him when sangirè became too much for him to bear. He told her the funeral plans, and how Baptiste’s face twisted in pain as they spoke but his resolve never once wavered even if his voice did, and how they cried together before falling to their passion, revelling in how alive they had been.
I know everyone’s death.
A gasp was punched out of Aaron’s Dead lungs when the blade’s whisper cut through his mind, silencing all his other thoughts instantly. His eyes stung and he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, fangs digging into his lip.
He will be oldoldold. A-almost blind and deaf. Happy.
De Coste felt the sticky pathways his bloody tears carved on his cheeks as they spilt. He felt as though his chest had been stuffed full of black ignis and he was tethering dangerously close to the verge of an explosion.
‘Will he be alone?’ he whispered, voice tiny.
No, chérie.
His heart was still tight with fear for what awaited him in just a few hours – and then the eternity beyond – but the relief he felt was enough for him to face his end with courage. For he now knew his love was safe for the years to come, and no divine assurances could bring him even a sliver of comfort this knowledge gave him.
Ashdrinker’s voice rang in his head again, but this time the blade took it upon herself to tell him stories of her own. She told him briefly of her journeys with Gabriel, then went back in time, long before either of them had been born. She told him of those who yielded her before, some names familiar, some he knew he would have forgotten much like the world had.
Too soon, her stuttering worsened, the stories interrupted by confusing recipes, songs and ancient poems, some in dialects de Coste couldn’t even begin to decipher.
Hours later, while staring thoughtlessly at the ceiling, the coldblood became aware of a new sound. Despite his efforts, his predatory nature picked up careful footsteps and an elevated heartbeat. He waited until the source of the sound approached him before he spoke.
‘She knows a surprising number of nursery rhymes.’
Glancing to the side, he was greeted by the sight of Gabriel’s worried face. The other man looked over at where Ashdrinker sat propped up by Fabién’s statue, the tip of Aaron’s boot touching the blade so he could still hear the sword’s voice.
‘She’s gone incoherent a while back.’
‘Yeah. She does that a lot these days,’ Gabriel murmured, eyes pulled back to his old friend. After a moment, he sat down by his side, wincing when he realised just how moist the ground was. ‘Couldn’t have found anything less fetid, could you?’
De Coste chuckled. ‘Apologies for not accommodating your refined tastes, Peasant.’ He cast a furtive glance at Gabriel. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’
‘Lachie couldn’t meet my eyes when he told me you had gone here. I think he was a little conflicted.’
‘Good,’ Aaron scoffed. ‘He swore not to tell anyone.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And he called me a liar.’
The paleblood’s eyes locked on the starsteel looming before him, picking at the hem of one of his boots. ‘Is it true?’ he asked, voice hushed.
De Coste took a deep breath before remembering, once again, there was no need for it anymore. He nodded slow and shifted his foot, finally letting Ashdrinker go.
‘Are you certain?’
The coldblood looked sidelong at his oldest friend. He took in the tensed muscles in his jaw and the fire burning in his grey eyes as he stared stubbornly ahead, desperately avoiding his gaze. ‘I can feel it, Gabe,’ he said quietly. ‘Celene can, too.’
Gabriel’s hands clenched into fists and his mouth twisted. After a moment, he pressed his hands to his face and exhaled shakily before hunching over helplessly. He leaned to the side until his head came to rest on de Coste’s shoulder. His hand searched for his brother’s cold, pale fingers and closed around them with a force that would have shattered a mortal man’s bones.
‘No words can describe the depth of my hatred for this sick fuck.’ Gabriel glared at the statue of the Redeemer, still furious with his part in the hell they had been living in for all these years. De Coste chuckled, letting his head rest on top of the other man’s.
‘Will you watch over him?’ he asked eventually.
Gabriel took a deep breath. ‘Of course. He doesn’t only belong to you, Lordling.’
He truly had gotten soft, Aaron mused, when Gabriel’s half-hearted attempt at humour brought tears to his eyes. Granted, the way his voice broke wasn’t of much help with his already woeful mood, but he expected better of himself nonetheless.
‘Merci,’ he whispered, squeezing Gabriel’s hand back, albeit with much more consideration for his unholy strength.
They were silent for a moment, before the younger man sniffled. ‘I’m sorry, brother. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to defend your home and your people, as you were ready to defend Dior and me.’ Gabriel swallowed thickly. ‘And I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you.’
‘Don’t be daft, de León.’
‘And I shouldn’t have left as I did when you needed me, after the battle. You and Baptiste—’
A sharp jab to the ribs had Gabriel choking on his words. The paleblood looked up at his friend in outrage, meeting his glare square on, mouth open for a deluge of insults.
‘Remember when Greyhand skewered us both on our way to Skyefall?’
De Coste’s eyes widened in surprise at the memory, expecting abuse or perhaps even a scuffle rather than to be brought back to the years of their youth. Against himself, he felt the corners of his mouth lifting as his bright blue eyes sparkled, a glimpse of life amidst his perfect, Dead features.
‘We were such insufferable brats,’ he chuckled. ‘If not at each other’s throats already, then planning how to start something new. I bear no love for Greyhand, but I do feel for the time he had to spend around the two of us.’
‘Oh, but I hated you,’ Gabriel shook his head with a smile. ‘I remember calling you a snake in my mind when ever I laid eyes on you. I was so certain you had snuck out of the Barracks to set La Cour free just to get me killed.’
Aaron burst out laughing. ‘Believe me, you could not have been farther from my mind at the time.’
‘Not enough mental capacity to think of two lads at once, eh?’
‘Sod off, bastard.’ De Coste shoved Gabriel, accidentally almost pushing him into the muddy ground.
He cast a cursory glance at Gabriel when his friend cried out in outrage, cursing him out while wiping his hands on his britches and complaining about the smell. De Coste’s smile faded as he turned away and stared ahead.
‘Apologies, brother. I still forget to mind my strength every once in a while,’ he said flatly, gaze growing distant.
After a brief, tense moment, Gabriel’s hand latched onto his upper arm – and then slid down his back as the younger man continued wiping the mud on his frockcoat instead. ‘No worries, brother. Even as palebloods, we all grew stronger than we anticipated.’
A grin bloomed on his face when de Coste’s lip curled, his head turning slowly as he glared at where the offending touch happened. A lordling through and through, sure and true.
Gabriel laughed and slapped Aaron’s back, happy to have defused the tension between them. He knew they had to grow more serious eventually, but everything within him told him to do what little he could to lift de Coste’s spirit and see him smile. His heart clenched when he realised this was his very last opportunity and he was running out of time.
This would be de Coste’s farewell, and while he disagreed with the absence of a few people – one more so than the rest – the choice was not his, and he felt he had no right to force his hand. Not at his very damn end, at least.
Aaron was grumbling something under his breath, inspecting his garments and making sure Gabriel hadn’t left any stains on the fabric. With an odd sense of detachment, the paleblood wondered if it would even matter – if de Coste were to burst into ashes, the clothes would be ruined anyway. Then again, had he been Dead long enough for that to happen or would his body only decompose to the state it would now be if he hadn’t Become?
He inhaled sharply, jaw clenching. De Coste looked at him and studied his face awhile.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something, brother, but never got the courage to follow through, and I regret not being there to listen,’ the coldblood started carefully. ‘What happened to them? To Astrid and—’
‘Don’t.’
‘But, Gabe—’
‘I said DON’T,’ Gabriel growled, glaring at his friend. Seeing the guilty look on Aaron’s face, he felt a wave of regret hit him as he realised his friend had been only trying to help – but he couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t. ‘It’s too much.’ He pressed his hand against his chest, closing his eyes. ‘Too much heartbreak.’
‘I understand. But if you change your mind, you can always talk to me, aright, Gabe? Well, always within the next couple of hours, that is.’
Gabriel only opened his eyes when Aaron settled back next to him after his joke received no reaction, the two staring off into the darkness ahead, the glum view matching their mood. After a while, the former silversaint glanced to the side, studying de Coste’s profile.
‘Can I ask a favour, brother?’ he whispered.
The coldblood turned towards him, nodding already.
‘While I attend to your man… Look after my angels for me, aright?’
He watched a shadow fall on de Coste’s face and his heart seized when he saw guilt blooming on his features.
‘Gabe… I–’ Aaron started. ‘Where I’m going… You know they won’t be there.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Gabriel.’ Aaron’s voice hardened. ‘You know the Testaments as well as I do. My soul is damned and there is no saving it. If I could, I would do everything in my power to get to them and keep watch. But no matter how badly I wish it so, I will not be able to. I’m sorry, brother.’
‘She Became.’
His heartbreak be damned, the words slipped before he could stop them. Gabriel knew he would not be able to keep his composure if he saw the shock on Aaron’s face, so he focused on his hands instead. Try as he did, he had not been able to remove all the dirt from beneath his nails. Dior had teased him about it endlessly during the feast.
‘My Astrid. She died, and then she awoke. If the Wolfmother took your soul, then Voss took hers. And Patience?’ Gabriel snorted bitterly. ‘Born from sin, shared by a nun exiled by her imperial father, and a holy brother hellbent on breaking all of his vows, half a monster himself. Mark my words, we will all end up there, sure and true.’
The silversaint turned his eyes towards the statues towering over them.
‘Unless this is hell and we are already living in it,’ he hissed.
De Coste hummed but his gaze landed on the suspended figure of the Redeemer rather than the priests that murdered him. In silence, the two brothers contemplated their lives and where they had been led – whether by their own actions or by God’s design. All too soon, de Coste felt like the walls were about to cave in on them, and he swallowed thickly, for once not annoyed by the action as his attention was pulled to his shaking hands.
‘I don’t want to die like this,’ he whispered.
‘Aaron–’
‘Tell me something good, Gabe.’
And he did. For what felt like hours, he told de Coste stories of his famille, his mama and his sisters. He told him even of his stepfather, focusing on the precious few good memories rather than the bleak heap of suffering, fear and hatred that clouded most of his days. Even if he hadn’t known the lordling – along with his past – as well as he did, Aaron’s expression would have told him that he knew exactly what was being left out.
After some time, de Coste himself spoke as well, bringing up his own brother Jean-Luc and how they grew up together, and how their mother doted on them. The Baron de Coste, like Raphael Castia, was only ever mentioned in passing.
They then moved to Gabriel’s life in Sūdhaem, memories of his beloved wife and daughter joining Aaron’s recollections of the life they shared oh so briefly in Aveléne. However, as they moved from one topic to another, his inserts grew shorter and more concise.
‘Do you ever think about your real father?’ Gabriel asked suddenly. ‘The Ilon coldblood?’
De Coste shrugged. ‘The leech is dead and that is the end of it. May he burn in hell.’
Gabriel looked over at his friend when the shrug morphed into a violent shiver, all thoughts of Wulfric gone from his mind. The sight had him flinching despite the many years of training. Aaron looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, pale skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. It would have looked unnatural on him even years ago but now, as a coldblood, the sight was jarring. De Coste appeared half-dead already.
And it truly hit him then – the curse had been lifted and the coldbloods would perish. But so would this man he had known half of his life.
And soon, he realised.
Gabriel swallowed thickly, unable to take his eyes off de Coste.
‘How long until dawn?’ he rasped.
Aaron smiled sadly. ‘Not long.’ But there seemed to be no fear in him now, only exhaustion. His hands were quivering so bad he had to clench them into fists. He then pressed them to his chest, slumping over. ‘It’s cold. Colder than it used to be,’ he murmured, slurring his words.
He tore his empty gaze from the Redeemer on his wheel to look at Gabriel. He managed a weak smile.
‘Methinks the daystar is just about to rise. At last. Been long enough. When it’s possible again, plant a little garden in my memory, will you? Roses, perhaps?’ His gaze grew distant again. ‘Maybe he’ll want to tend to them.’
Gabriel grabbed him and pulled into a crushing hug, Aaron going without a word. He felt smaller in his arms, more frail than ever before. He could only guess how much strength it took for the other man to return the embrace. There was a wet sob rising in his chest and he battled it valiantly, blinking rapidly, when he felt de Coste press his face into the crook of his neck, searching for the smallest modicum of heat to warm his horrifyingly cold, Dead and dying body.
‘I love you, mon ami.’
Aaron mumbled something softly, and while Gabriel was quite certain he understood the sentiment, his heart shattered when he realised he couldn’t make out his exact words.
And then, too soon, God Almighty, so much too soon, he felt de Coste exhale softly against his neck and his body went limp in his arms.
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, cradling the back of Aaron’s head and rocking them gently back and forth. He nuzzled more into him and at last, a broken sob tore out of him, heart cleaving.
He wept for his friend, his oldest rival, his brother – no longer Dead. Just dead. Again. And again, he had been unable to do anything whatsoever. A wave of helplessness hit him then, stronger than before.
What was it all for?
All the pain and suffering they had gone through.
All the loss and sacrifice.
What were they supposed to do with these tattered remnants of themselves, of their lives, of everything they held dear?
He needed to find Dior.
He needed to know she was aright. This living saint and daughter he had found and loved.
Or else he was tempted to drive Ashdrinker into his own chest.
He rose to his feet, carefully picking Aaron up as he went. He placed him gently on the stone slab beneath the angel capstone. He gazed down at his brother, at the peaceful expression on his beautiful face – that beautiful face he had known for so many years. It lost the frigid perfection of a coldblood – still beautiful but in a softer, mortal way. How ironic that his second death had him looking as he had in life, the loss ever more painful.
Gabriel gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists. He arranged his body to appear as if he were merely asleep, hands clasped over his chest. His fingers brushed over Aaron’s, acutely aware of the absence of his beloved silversteel blade. Perhaps Baptiste could forge a bouquet of flowers for him to hold for all eternity instead.
He inhaled sharply at the thought of the blacksmith. He knew de Coste had left him a letter also, but he still had to face the man, and he wondered if he was strong enough to survive that.
He shook his head, cursing under his breath – at the Almighty, the pompous cock surely delighting in their suffering, at the Wolfmother, even at Aaron himself for leaving them all behind. And most of all, of course, at himself.
Gabriel leaned over the lordling and kissed his scarred brow, words of what should be his final farewell stuck in his throat.
Eventually, he walked over to where they had abandoned Ashdrinker and grabbed her, sheathing her swift, making ready to leave this accursed place. But then his need for comfort mounted to unbearable heights and he wrapped his hand around the blade’s hilt and pulled her out of the scabbard.
‘Ash—’
And with this darkened veil r-r-reversed,
By whelming guilt of fallen cursed;
Three nights of boundless crimson thirst,
Sh-shall retrieve the lives dispersed.
‘What?’ Gabriel snapped, brow furrowing in anger, fangs growing long and sharp in his gums. His reaction was unfounded and he knew it, but he was in too much pain to care. ‘What are you talking about, Ash?’
A few things happened then.
He staggered on his feet, feeling an odd sensation in his veins and tingling in his mouth. He heard an awful snapping sound, a wet smack, a gasp and a pained cry.
But the noise did not come from Ashdrinker.
Chapter 2: Shall retrieve the lives dispersed
Chapter Text
He spun on his heel and looked in horror at de Coste – his body, laid to eternal rest only moments ago, was convulsing and thrashing as if in unbearable agony. The hands resting on his chest were now clawing at it, and Gabriel realised his ribcage was sunken in, shattered. The man’s eyes were open, pupils dilated from pain. A wet gurgling sound was coming from his throat, interspersed with choked wheezes, and as Gabriel watched, he saw a trail of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
He stared in horror, frozen to the spot. Greyhand would have berated him for his lack of reaction – or perhaps he, too, would watch in dismay as one of his apprentices— did what exactly? Was de Coste’s soul truly headed for hell, and suffering the punishment already?
Retrieve the lives dispersed lives dispersed.
Gabriel stared at Ashdrinker in his hand, his heart hammering in his chest. Shaking, he approached the scene, his instincts screaming at him to be wary – coldbloods were some of the most dangerous predators, and who could tell if de Coste hadn’t lost himself by now, this whole night nothing but a ploy to draw him away from everyone and drink him dry.
But then Aaron’s eyes found his somehow, half-lidded from the pain, and Gabriel saw the tears spilling from their corners. And with a jolt, he realised they were clear, no trace of blood in the liquid. De Coste’s lips were parted as he struggled to breathe, and Gabriel almost fell to his knees when he realised he couldn’t see his fangs – not because they were hidden, but rather short and dull.
Aaron de Coste was neither dead nor Dead.
He was alive.
But he would not be so for long, given his condition. Somehow, he had been brought back to life – but at the very moment of his death, and with the injuries that had killed him once already.
His mind brought up a memory of Aaron here, in Dún Maergenn, while still under the Blackheart’s dark influence.
“Oh, Gabriel. You fail everyone you love. Why would I be different?”
Teeth gritting, he slammed Ashdrinker into her scabbard, that old familiar rage unfolding within him. Damn him to the hell and back but he was not going to fail his beloved brother again. Dead tongues heeded were Dead tongues tasted, but these words came from Nikita Dyvok’s poison rather than his friend, and that leech was long dead.
De Coste’s bloodied lips were moving as if he was trying to say something, and Gabriel knew him well enough to know even in such poor condition there was only one thing – one person – he could possibly be thinking about. Something about Gabriel telling him how much Aaron had loved him, most likely.
He shook his head, eyes hardening. ‘Apologies, brother, this is going to fucking hurt.’
And before de Coste could react, he hoisted him into his arms. He barrelled up the stairs, Aaron still convulsing within his grasp. He growled when his steps jolted pained keening out of the other man, but he simply could not allow to slow down to ease his suffering.
His heart skipped a beat when he ran through the ornate doors of the sepulchre, seeing the light.
If it were any other day, he would have stopped and marvelled at the miracle unseen for nearly thirty years, but as it were, his eyes could only follow the traces of sunlight dancing on de Coste’s skin, ascertaining he wasn’t burning at its touch.
‘DIOR!’ he bellowed as he sprinted through the courtyard. ‘Where the fuck is she?! I have a dying man here; bring me the Grail now!’
He stormed into the keep, his lungs burning. He was only vaguely aware of the flurry of movement around him, and the raised voices became a background noise more than anything.
He burst into the main hall, people jumping out of his way, some youngster with a worried face swinging the banquet hall’s door open for him and ushering him inside. Immediately, his gaze landed on the white-haired figure hunched over another, drenched in red.
Dior swung around and her eyes widened as she took in the new sight.
‘Sweet Mothermaid!’ the girl cried and hurried over to where Gabriel laid de Coste on the floor, Lady Reyne á Maergenn right on her heels.
Dior fell to her knees at Aaron’s side, the man barely conscious, drenched in blood spilling from his gasping mouth and seeping from his massacred chest. His eyes were rolling back in his head and the choked, wheezing noises made the hair stand up on the back of Gabriel’s neck.
He took a step back, watching Dior unwrap bloodied fabric from her hand and slice her palm, his mouth twisting in guilt. Belatedly, he looked around the room, and realised it was near empty – a surprising development after a celebratory banquet thrown for a literal saint walking among them.
But then he spotted Lachlan glancing their way from where he stood next to the person Dior had been tending to when he burst in. He stared at Celene, his sister sitting on a chair, shaking, staring into nothingness with one hand pressed to her neck, her porcelain mask removed.
Gabriel’s voice caught in his throat when he realised the horrifying scar marring her face was gone, the skin smooth and perfect, her teeth once more hidden by red lips, restored and alive. Her skin was pale still but her eyes were grey once more, the whites actually white.
His fingers itched and he fought the urge to make the sign of the wheel, utterly overwhelmed. Lachlan walked over to him, focused on de Coste. Heart pounding, Gabriel followed his gaze and watched as Dior smeared her blood all over his chest, having torn his frockcoat and shirt open, while Reyne did her best to get Aaron to drink from a goblet she held, the two girls working in tandem.
Gabriel glanced towards the sepulchre and the massive figures hidden beneath it. ‘Don’t you dare let him die, bastard,’ he murmured. Then, his gaze shifted to his erstwhile apprentice. ‘What happened here, Lachie?’
The young silversaint raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Yer sister collapsed at dawn, much like de Coste claimed.’ He looked over at the Liathe. Unlike his old mentor, he had no qualms about making the sign of the wheel and hurried to do so. ‘But then she awoke, and she was screaming. Took us a while to figure out what was going on, but then Dior rushed to save her. And here we are.’ He looked back at Gabriel. ‘I see ye had a similar experience.’
The older man nodded slowly, wrapping his hand around Ashdrinker’s hilt. ‘Ash knew.’
‘What?’
‘The prophecy. There is a third part, and she knew it.’ Gabriel recited the new verses and watched as Lachlan shook his head.
‘Three nights of drinking a leech’s blood to make a scorched, and three nights of no blood to undo the curse. Seems almost… too easy.’
Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Too easy?’ he echoed. ‘They would have died if it weren’t for Dior.’
Lachlan murmured something under his breath but Gabriel’s attention was pulled by the wet wheezing gradually changing to loud panting, and the violent seizing ceasing.
He approached the scene and knelt by Aaron’s legs. He studied the other man’s body – quivering and bloodied but alive. He reached over and clasped his hand on Dior’s shoulder, and the girl glanced his way, a radiant grin splitting her tear-stained face.
‘Merci, Dior.’
‘He’s my friend too, old man. And I owe him my life, besides.’
Gabriel chuckled, conceding her point. ‘Véris.’ He felt the sting of tears in his eyes when he met Aaron’s befogged gaze. ‘How are you feeling, prettyboy?’
De Coste didn’t answer, struggling to sit up instead. Gabriel supported him, cautioning him to take his time. As soon as the older man was stable, he started patting his chest. Once he was certain he was not dying anymore, he slumped against Gabriel.
The silence was broken unexpectedly by a low rumble in his stomach.
Gabriel glanced over at his sister, watching them silently by now. She met his gaze, only a little less dazed than de Coste, and nodded.
‘Aright, let’s get them to the kitchens.’
The small party made its way over, Lachlan shooing away the curious onlookers, although not much incentive was needed after seeing the two known coldbloods covered in drying blood. Gabriel supported Aaron, weak and in a state of shock still, but gradually regaining his strength. Celene was able to follow them without aid, albeit Dior and Reyne kept an eye on her nonetheless.
Gabriel exchanged a glance with the two girls and noted how tired Dior looked. Instead of basking in the sunlight – for the very first time in her entire life – and then getting well-deserved sleep, his adoptive daughter had been forced to spill her blood yet again. He felt a pang of guilt but seeing the happy tears on her face and the beaming smile on her lips, he knew she would not have had it any other way.
Once in the kitchens, Gabriel sat Aaron on one of the chairs, Celene opposite him, and the two seemed to drift off. He cursed the absence of cooks and set to prepare something hurriedly, Lachlan coming over to join him, the two clashing now and again, neither trusting the other’s cookery.
Dior leaned over Aaron as he pressed his hands to his face, breathing deep. On impulse, she cradled his head and hugged it to her chest, crying again, her memories flooding with the images of the brave capitaine fighting Kiara in front of the Blackheart, crying in his cell, on his knees before being branded.
‘Oh, Aaron,’ she whispered, kissing the top of his head. ‘Everything will be aright now.’
One of his hands came to rest on her forearm, squeezing gently and startling another wave of tears out of the living saint.
Before long, Gabriel placed two steaming bowls in front of the two returned souls. By then, some of the shock had ebbed away and they began to eat. The former silversaint watched as Celene shut her eyes and de Coste frowned, then pressed a hand to his mouth.
‘It’s so bad,’ he whispered, amazed and appalled at the same time.
And then both of them started crying, and everyone stared at them in dismay before Gabriel remembered that as coldbloods, they would have tasted nothing but ashes. He shook his head with a chuckle, insulted yet too relieved to hold a grudge. He motioned to Lachlan and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll fetch Baptiste. I think they will have need of each other.’
The Ossian nodded, casting a cautious glance at de Coste. ‘He ran off when yer sister fell. I’ve no ken where to.’
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed but before he could question him further, Lachlan took another step towards him, voice dropping to a whisper.
‘He’d read the letter and was desperate to know where de Coste had gone. He went so far as begging on his knees. I doubt he’ll do anything stupid before making sure, but be careful, Gabe. So much suffering may have a man lash out.’
Gabriel nodded, heart seizing in his chest. He could sympathise with the big man’s pain – even though Baptiste would soon be able to hold his love in his arms again. He smiled softly to himself, winked at Dior and left the room to search for the blackthumb.
He didn’t think he’d have much trouble finding the man, seeing as they hadn’t run into each other as he sprinted from the sepulchre. He went in the direction of their chambers, feeling giddiness bubbling up inside him. The loss of Astrid and Patience was a wound that would never close, he knew, but for once he had good news for someone he loved.
He paused in front of the door to Baptiste’s room, knocked and promptly entered. The chamber was empty, a fire started hours ago now reduced to embers. There were some papers with complicated designs strewn about the table, with a half-empty bottle of vodka in the middle of the chaos, but it bore an uncanny resemblance to the one the blackthumb had with him on their way to the dún already.
Gabriel left the room quietly and walked across the hall to Aaron’s. He took a deep breath and carefully pushed the door open.
‘Baptiste? Are you in there?’
He spotted the big man immediately, sitting on the stone floor with his back to the bed, knees pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on top of them. The smith’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and the tear tracks had not yet fully dried. What must be Aaron’s letter was clutched tightly in one of his hands, the paper creased.
Gabriel knelt next to him, resting his hand on Baptiste’s shin.
‘Are you aright?’
Fast as lightning, Baptiste’s expression darkened and anger flashed in his eyes. ‘Aright?’ the blackthumb echoed.
‘Baptiste, Aaron— he—’
‘No, no,’ the big man stopped him and hid his face in the crook of his arm, expression falling. ‘Don’t say it. Please don’t say it,’ he said, voice breaking.
Gabriel chuckled. ‘You’ll want to hear me, brother.’
Baptiste’s shoulders slumped and with enormous effort, the older man slowly pulled himself back up. He reached above and behind him to place the letter on the bed, then pressed his knuckles to his eyelids. ‘Where is he, Gabe?’ he whispered, needing to see his lover’s body for himself.
‘Well, I’ve just left him in the kitchens, sobbing into porridge and crying about how bad my cookery still is. I’m assuming he’s still doing so as we speak.’
Baptiste glowered at him, and while he was just a man, Gabriel felt his stomach drop when he saw the fury rising within him.
‘I love you, mon ami, but I’m going to knock your teeth out if you say something like this again.’
Gabriel rose to his feet and extended his hand to the other man. ‘Just come with me, aright?’
Baptiste’s expression was unreadable and God Almighty, he seemed so tired then. As if he had slept not a night since the ordeal with the Dyvok, and aged for himself and Aaron both in the meantime. Gabriel led his broken friend to the kitchens, noting how he dragged his feet and tried his best to melt into the floor ere having to face what awaited on the other side of the door.
And once they entered…
‘It’s so disgusting,’ Aaron sobbed, picking up on Gabriel’s footsteps. He pawed at his eyes, catching a few tears.
‘They should lock you in the dungeons for making this,’ Celene piped up, her face just as moist as de Coste’s.
Lachlan was standing by the small fire with the pot in hand, clearly having refilled the two bowls at least once already. Why he hadn’t left yet eluded Gabriel, but he reasoned it probably had to do with the time they had spent on the road and the blood they spilt as they fought for the future of humanity, side by side. After all, you don’t choose your famille. The silversaint was smiling, enjoying the razing, and Gabriel was fairly certain it had not stopped when he left.
Suddenly, Baptiste came from behind him, fresh tears dancing on his lashes and spilling down his cheeks. One hand pressed to his mouth, he slowly approached the man he loved and thought gone.
He took a few steps, then Aaron noticed him and the two stared at each other, emotions building in the air around them, before Baptiste dropped to one knee next to de Coste’s chair. He reached out and stroked his cheek, gentle, his touch barely there. Aaron leaned into it, eyelids fluttering briefly.
‘’You look a mess, love,’ Baptiste whispered, not trusting his voice. A soft smile was gracing his lips, his eyes shining in wonder. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, oui?’
Aaron nodded, ready to follow him anywhere. The blackthumb glanced at the bowl in front of him and asked whether he wanted to eat some more before they left. De Coste hesitated, then turned back to the dish and managed a couple more spoonfuls before he whimpered, ‘It truly tastes like shite.’
‘You are what you eat,’ Gabriel growled from where he stood with Dior, holding the girl’s hand, Reyne’s arms thrown about her waist from her other side. All three had tears in their eyes.
They gazed at each other and the two men shared a chuckle. Before long, however, Aaron glanced to Baptiste, then back to their friend.
Gabriel smiled at him. ‘Goodnight, Aaron.’ He looked to the big man and nodded. ‘Baptiste.’
The blackthumb crushed Gabriel in a bruising embrace that said more than any words could, before he and Aaron left the room, their fingers brushing. Lachlan approached Gabriel and the two girls at his side, head spinning from witnessing a true miracle happening before his own eyes.
‘It’s been a very long night. I reckon it’s time for some sleep,’ Gabriel announced, squeezing Dior’s hand. ‘We can talk more later, and I’m sure Phoebe will want all the details when she gets back. I will walk you two, and then Celene, too.’
Lachlan cleared his throat, glancing in the woman’s direction. ‘I think I’ll go pray before bedding down.’
‘Lachie…’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘If you don’t mind waiting a while, I… I thought I might join you.’
The young silversaint stared at him, acutely aware of his old master’s burning hatred for the Almighty, but didn’t question him. Watching his closest friend die and come back to life again might have changed his view once more, he suspected. He nodded, holding back a biting remark but seeing the way Gabriel’s mouth twisted in an answering smile anyways.
In the washhouse below, Baptiste was busying himself with drawing a bath. He and Aaron had been mostly silent on their way there, apart from making sure they were both aright.
Dún Maergenn’s residents had enjoyed quite the ingenious inventions, Baptiste mused, studying the system of pipes that fed hot water into massive tubs, most likely heated somewhere nearby by a few fires, if he had to guess.
They had found one of the smaller rooms, with just one washtub, hoping to enjoy some privacy. The dún appeared deserted for the most part and they likely worried for no reason, but they preferred to make sure nevertheless.
Baptiste glanced towards Aaron, still staring off into the distance.
‘Do you need help with that?’
De Coste snapped out of his haze and followed the smithy’s gesture as he indicated his bloodied shirt and frockcoat. He shook his head and removed the coat, noting one torn lapel and missing buttons, most likely by Dior’s hand as the girl rushed to access the wound to save him. He frowned, reminding himself to thank her properly. He removed the shirt cautiously, its condition even more appalling, a grimace slipping onto his face as he pulled it off his body.
Immediately, Baptiste’s strong hand latched onto his upper arm, gentle but steady. Aaron looked up into the soft dark eyes shining with concern. ‘Are you in pain?’
De Coste managed a small smile. ‘Merely remembered echoes of it. Dior’s blood healed it all. By dusk, I will be good as new, I swear.’
Placated, the big man nodded. Then, he turned towards the tub and grabbed a cloth, soaking it in the warm water. Facing Aaron once more, he began running it over de Coste’s chest and belly, attempting to wipe off the congealed blood.
‘I can do it myself.’
Baptiste met his eyes. ‘I know.’
But he made no move to hand him the cloth, content to do it himself.
Few were aware of it, but when the blackthumb strived for perfection, no force in all of Elidaen could stop him. He was careful but meticulous, determined to do his very best. His swipes were powerful and firm and his grip secure when he held Aaron’s arms in the air to reach each and every dip between muscle. De Coste’s skin itched under his touch and at one point the blonde man realised he had shifted to stand closer to him.
Aaron nearly followed when Baptiste took a step back to appraise his work. Satisfied, he nodded before meeting de Coste’s gaze and motioning for the tub. ‘Get in and rinse off. I will find something to dry you off with.’
The shock of this entire situation had faded by then, yet Aaron found himself not only willing to follow commands, but eager to do so. He unlaced his britches and tugged them down, along with his boots. The humid, heated air brushed against him, half-swollen from the simple ministrations. Baptiste walked briskly away without a word, looking anywhere but at Aaron, both men resolute to ignore the fact.
De Coste climbed into the tub and almost immediately, the back of his head thumped against the ridge. Baptiste looked up in alarm, but his worry soon gave way to a soft smile when he saw the other man sighing deeply, seemingly melting into the warm metal.
After a moment, Aaron opened his eyes, grabbed a lump of soap from a nook in the ridge and ran his hands down his body – not just to clean himself fully, but to ensure his bones were truly healed and no longer a threat. It seemed he had forgotten just how crippling the agony had been, near beyond his darkest imagination.
His slow kneading helped chase the last vestiges of pain away and he found himself watching the distorted linework of the ink on his skin. Or rather ash, he supposed, as the ink had been carved out of his flesh. The Draigann’s bride – Alix, Aaron remembered – had lost none of the detail as she worked. He had worried whether the coldblood had kept them as they had been, after she teasingly suggested changing the Redeemer’s likeness gracing his back to that of Nikita.
Bile rose in Aaron’s throat when he remembered that day. He wondered whether he had it in him to request Baptiste check for him. He hated the Blackheart with all his being, sure and true, but no words could describe the horrors he would inflict upon the Wolfmother for all the pain and suffering she had caused his beautiful man. And knowing how much Baptiste loved him in turn, he doubted he could ever remind him of his own dark assailant.
Perhaps Gabriel, then.
Eventually, de Coste glanced towards Baptiste and saw him holding a large piece of cloth, waiting for him patiently. He would have preferred not to let go of the soothing heat just yet, but the need to be close to his love would ever outweigh any discomforts he might suffer. He climbed out of the tub, the blackthumb stepping close and taking charge once again.
As he worked dutifully on drying him off, Aaron noticed the stirring in the blackthumb’s britches. He hastily looked away, daring not glance his way again, cheeks burning and flushing bright red.
Once done, Baptiste wrapped the cloth around de Coste and watched him nuzzle into it. He chuckled, deeply amused, shaking his head.
‘We should get you to your chamber now. Before the heat seeps away and you get cold again.’
The serene expression faded from Aaron’s face and the blonde man regarded him carefully. ‘Baptiste…’
‘I meant no offence, love,’ the blackthumb hurried with explanations. ‘I just—’
De Coste promptly took hold of his hand and guided it to his own neck, not breaking eye contact. Cautiously, he pressed his fingers below his jaw and waited, studying his face. He watched his brow furrow as the blackthumb struggled to understand what was going on.
And then he froze, eyes widening. Aaron felt his fingers press harder against his skin, making sure he wasn’t awfully mistaken. An overwhelming flash of desperation crossed his face and he exhaled sharply, tears dancing in his lashes.
‘And with this darkened veil reversed, by whelming guilt of fallen cursed; Three nights of crimson boundless thirst, shall retrieve the lives dispersed,’ de Coste recited, voice barely a whisper.
And there it was, right beneath his fingertips.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
‘Oh dear God,’ Baptiste choked, quivering, tears spilling down his cheeks. ‘Oh, Aaron. You’re… You—’
De Coste’s lips tugged into a dazzling smile, his own tears soaking into his beard. He saw Baptiste’s eyes following their trail, noticing how clear they were. Desperate to resolve his doubts once and for all, Aaron’s smile grew wider until his canines came into view. They were perhaps slightly longer than the next man’s but nothing compared to what hid within a coldblood’s maw.
Baptiste sobbed, his knees giving way under him. De Coste clutched him, holding him up as the big man wept, utterly overwhelmed.
‘Oh Lord. Oh God,’ he gasped, voice breaking. Slowly, he slid to his knees despite de Coste’s efforts, and looked up at his love. ‘H-how?’ he managed.
Aaron chuckled and took his face in his hands.
‘The prophecy had three parts, not two. Ashdrinker knows how everyone will die, oui? I assume she came to know it, as it would not be my death after all. She had been slipping before she said it, hence I believed her to be confused and reciting… I don’t know, an old poem, mayhaps?
‘But I have not tasted blood in three nights and more.’ His eyes locked on Baptiste’s. ‘And here I am.’
The blackthumb breathed deep, attempting to collect himself. Suddenly, Aaron laughed.
‘Before you get up, love, lest you fall again. Dior lifted the curse of daysdeath, oui, but the curse of vampires also. None shall walk this earth now, save those who shunned their thirst.’ He ran his fingers down Baptiste’s jaw, marvelling at how he held all of the man’s attention. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No highbloods. No wretched. And no palebloods either.’
Baptiste’s eyes closed and Aaron felt a cold touch of worry running down his spine.
The blackthumb gripped him harder and pressed his face to his belly, to the cloth still holding somewhat onto his figure. De Coste had to strain to hear his words, clearly not meant for him. ‘Praise be to you, Almighty God, for allowing us to grow old together. Merci, merci, merci.’
It took a while for their tears to dry and their voices to steady after that, but eventually, Baptiste climbed back to his feet, neither knowing how to follow this revelation. Aaron adjusted the cloth around himself, beginning to feel terribly self-conscious about his missing clothing. How ironic, he thought, a shadow of a smirk on his lips, for a man who used to strip half bare to battle.
Suddenly, Baptiste chuckled softly, earning himself a puzzled look from de Coste. The blackthumb took a step closer and his hand came to rest on Aaron’s cheek as he gazed at him, eyes soft like molten chocolat.
‘All these years, and it’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ he whispered.
De Coste inhaled sharply, tears welling in his lashes. His eyes flickered to Baptiste’s lips and when the big man caught it, he leaned in and pressed their lips together – a mirror to their first ever kiss.
It was even sweeter than it had been back then, the bitter undertone of all they had suffered since that day dimmed by the bright joy and hope for the future. Baptiste wrapped his arms around Aaron and pulled him closer, determined to close the gap between them, the two revelling in the tender emotion of it all.
Slowly, the blackthumb’s lips slipped onto de Coste’s neck. The blonde man sighed, eyes slipping shut, and wrapped his arms around Baptiste’s shoulders. Try as they might, they were – as ever – unable to rein in their yearning and lust, their bodies seeking each other out without fail.
‘You didn’t want to…’ Aaron whispered, blood roaring in his ears. ‘Earlier…’
‘I was a fool,’ Baptiste rasped, and his husky voice went straight to de Coste’s cock, straining now against his belly. The blackthumb pulled back to gaze into his lover’s eyes. ‘We stood against the Endless Legion. You stood against death, and twice. And I let two dead leeches get between us.’ He shook his head, his eyes blazing. ‘They thought they could claim what wasn’t theirs.’
Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of de Coste’s hair and pulled his head back.
‘But you are mine, Aaron de Coste,’ the big man growled and Aaron’s whole body jerked against him, a starved whimper slipping past his open mouth. ‘You’ve always been mine. And I, yours. We won’t forget it again, will we?’
‘Never!’ de Coste moaned, his hands already slipping into Baptiste’s britches.
The big man claimed his lips again, pushing them until they hit the wall. This time there were no rusty door fittings or background music to distract him from the man in front of him and this absolute, all-consuming want burning within him.
It had been far too long since they last enjoyed each other’s bodies, and the thought had his heart seizing in his chest when he thought back to Aveléne. He pushed the pain away, determined to focus on nothing but the man he loved, and the life once more burning within him.
He captured Aaron’s wrists and brought them to the stone above them, their hips snapping together, that damned cloth at last slipping to the floor. De Coste tilted his head back and bit his lip in a poor attempt at stifling the noises spilling from his mouth, barely noticing the cold stone at his back.
Baptiste could only imagine how powerful everything must feel to him, after the devastating pain of what had once killed him.
Suddenly, he was struck with the realisation he should have prayed, offering endless thanks to the Lord for returning his heart to him.
His eyes shone when he looked to the tattoos covering the trembling body before him. No longer silvered ink but scars, carved into this flesh he loved above all else. He whimpered when he realised the weeks of flaying, while a torture to them both, meant the skin before his eyes had never known his reverent touch.
He looked up at where Naél and Sarai were hidden from his view, pressed against the old stonework. He then glanced down, remembering with stark clarity the beautiful portrait of the Redeemer on Aaron’s back. Unable to help himself, he pressed his lips to the rose blooming closest to him, his free hand slipping to the tailtip of the snake, pressing into it. He set out to caress each impeccable detail, each raised line, until there were no spots that hadn’t been marked by him once more.
The two angels kept them company, observing from their holy perch on Aaron’s skin the two lovestruck sinners, the two devoted servants of their God and Master. And the Redeemer, this eternal guiding presence at their backs, gave them His blessing.
Head full of the imagery, Baptiste slipped to his knees, hands caressing de Coste’s flexing thighs. The blonde man blinked in surprise, confused until he peered into his lover’s face and saw nothing short of devotion painted there. His eyes blazed with intent and the blonde man wondered briefly if he would burn should the blackthumb’s control slip.
And Baptiste knew better than him just how close to that point he was. His head was spinning, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his mind both befogged and alight with his revelations.
Wouldn’t his worshipping of Aaron be a praise to the glory of the Almighty?
He was no Redeemer, certainly, despite the similarities. Besides, the Redeemer’s actual blood coursed through the veins of a girl very much alive, somewhere in this dún.
But he came back by His design and His mercy.
And so Baptiste, on his knees like the faithful believer he was, and holding onto Aaron’s body as if it were the chalice, devoted himself to worshipping the clear testimony to Almighty God with everything he had to give, and then some.
He wrapped his lips around the flushed head of de Coste’s cock, eyes fluttering closed, words from the Book of the Redeemer on the tip of his tongue as it caressed the throbbing vein on the underside, then toyed with the loose skin protecting him.
Know only joy in thy heart, blessed child. For on this day, life is thine.
He hollowed out his cheeks and sucked, head bobbing with passion few could hope to possess. A guttural moan spilt from Aaron’s lips, one of his hands slipping to the back of Baptiste’s head, the other latching onto his shoulder to steady himself.
Every tiny sound escaping de Coste’s careful guard sent jolts of pleasure the blackthumb had never known until then. For all he cared, he should have been preparing to bury Aaron, thereby every tiny token of life had his heart fluttering, unfurling its wings so it might soar and compete with the Angelic Host.
De Coste’s hips jerked, Baptiste’s nose brushing the soft hairs, and the blackthumb hurried to caress his balls, but the blonde man intercepted his hand and entwined their fingers, squeezing, begging for more contact.
Tears were spilling from Baptiste’s eyes, whether from his boundless ecstasy, the pious dedication, or Aaron’s depth in his throat, he knew not and cared little. He was shaking, aching, delirious from the pleasure.
‘Baptiste,’ Aaron chanted the litany of his name, a prayer unto itself, unable to stop himself from thrusting his hips. ‘Baptiste, Baptiste, my Baptiste.’
The blackthumb pulled back, yearning for his taste, his smell and his heat the moment his mouth let go of him. ‘Give it to me,’ he begged, turning pleading eyes to him.
‘No,’ Aaron breathed, and Baptiste thought he might cry before the blonde man gazed down at him, flushed and enticing, and more beautiful than ever. ‘Take it from me.’
Baptiste surged to his feet, murmuring a hasty “véris” under his breath. The front of his britches was soaked through and should he have half a mind for anything other than having de Coste right then and there, he would have felt the sting of embarrassment. But the look of utter adoration on Aaron’s face pushed the thoughts of anything and anyone else out of his mind, leaving behind nothing but this starved, scorching need.
He unlaced his britches, hands shaking, tearing them halfway down his thighs before yielding and abandoning the attempt. De Coste wasted not a moment, wrapping his legs around him, rutting mindlessly against his belly, his cock weeping clear liquid between them.
Baptiste spat onto his fingers and reached for de Coste, mindful of his comfort even amidst all-consuming madness. Sensing his actions, Aaron spat into his own palm, wrapping it around the blackthumb’s cock and pumping impatiently.
And then Baptiste caught his hand, guided it to grip onto his back, took hold of his arse, and finally, finally brought them together.
Their bodies fused, Aaron arching within his grasp, their voices coming together. Everything became a blur, a medley of friction, pleasure and want. Their joining was the same as it had ever been, yet so utterly and devastatingly new. It was his Aaron he felt, heard, tasted and smelled. Yet the man swaying with him, wrapped so tight and hot around him, had just been born anew today, no longer cursed by the accident of his birth nor by a tragedy shattering Baptiste’s entire world. And he laid his claim as he had ever done, his most feverish wants and prayers, against all odds, heard and granted.
This was their here and their now and their forever.
Painfully close already, it took them but a moment to reach their peaks, their lips smashed together, tasting the sounds of each other’s ecstasy. Their breaths mingled, their hearts beat together, and their immortal souls adjoined for evermore.
Baptiste staggered, crushing Aaron between himself and the stone wall, both panting loudly. The blackthumb lifted his head and saw his love crying, and the wetness on his own cheeks spoke of the same response. They gazed deep into each other’s eyes and held the other tight as they dared, riding the aftermath together.
They would never be able to tell who started the vicious circle of “I love you”s but it mattered little. Truths needed to be said, and if they overdid it, so what?
Slowly, they came back to themselves and Baptiste felt his cheeks burning when he realised what he had just done, quickly making the sign of the wheel and promising actual prayer when Aaron wasn’t looking his way. He placed a chaste kiss on de Coste’s lips and peeled himself from him, his heart seizing when the other man reached for him on instinct.
He grabbed his hand and smiled. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he whispered and kissed his knuckles.
Walking on shaking legs, he retrieved the first cloth they had used earlier, dipped it in the now lukewarm water sitting still in the washtub, and walked back to clean the two of them off. Making quick work of it, he then drained the tub and dropped both cloths as well as Aaron’s ruined garments into it, begging forgiveness from whichever unlucky soul would have to clean up after them.
He removed his shirt, only half-unbuttoned in their haste, and offered it to de Coste. ‘It’ll hide more on you, and it’s either that or the britches.’ He looked down and winced. ‘And trust me, you don’t want them right now.’
Exhausted laughter bubbled from Aaron’s chest and Baptiste soon followed his lead, covering his eyes with his hand.
‘Sweet Mothermaid, will we ever learn.’
‘Fat chance,’ de Coste snorted, struggling to button up the shirt with his trembling fingers but managing it eventually. He didn’t bother tying his boots after putting them on, the only salvageable element of his prior attire.
Finally, Baptiste took his hand, their fingers entangling immediately, and the two set out on the long walk to their chambers, at ease with the silence between them.
The night had been long for everyone but folk were bound to begin rising soon, and de Coste felt a wave of trepidation wash over him at the thought he might be spotted looking as he did.
But then he gritted his teeth, his free hand clenching into a fist. Hadn’t this whole night started with him condemning his lifelong pursuit of decorum yet still clinging to it when people looked his way?
He was the lord of nothing now. What cared he, if folk saw him half-bare, dressed in nothing but his lover’s shirt?
‘I can carry you, if you like,’ Baptiste offered, mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Aaron’s lips tugged into a carefree grin but his eyebrows lifted proudly. ‘I believe you meant to ask if I could carry you?’
The blackthumb laughed and Aaron realised it was all he needed. That was his home, and ever had it been. This one man at his side – preferably without the shirt, as he was.
And if someone saw them walking hand in hand, smiling like moonstouched idiots, Aaron could only envy them the view.
Baptiste’s chamber would become theirs, the two silently agreeing they would rather not share the bed he had slept in as a dead man. The door closed behind them just before the sounds of the dún waking began reverberating through the keep.
They approached one of the windows, walking into the sunlight and sharing a relieved smile. Aaron wrapped his arm around Baptiste’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder as they looked out into the courtyard and the people swarming in it, crying and laughing, praising the girl who brought the end to their nightmare. After a while, Baptiste tugged them towards the bed. ‘Methinks it’s time we got some rest.’
And then they lay together again, as if they were in their twenties rather than nearing their forties, muffling each other’s cries with kisses which continued long after their shared pleasure had faded.
Later, Aaron was scratching Baptiste’s scalp as the big man struggled against sleep, the pleasant weight of his body crushing de Coste to the mattress, and his mind’s last waking vestiges were going through the past few hours. ‘Old, almost blind and deaf, but happy and not alone, eh?’ he murmured, lips tugging into a brilliant smile, eyes welling with the happiest of tears.
The blackthumb lifted his head from where it lay on de Coste’s chest, half-asleep already, and frowned. ‘What did you say?’ he mumbled.
Aaron chuckled softly and caressed his cheek.
‘Nothing, love.’ He kissed his forehead. ‘Go to sleep.’
Baptiste watched him a moment longer, frowning, and de Coste nearly burst into laughter at the lovely sight he made.
‘Go to sleep, prettyboy,’ Aaron repeated.
Baptiste rested his head back on his chest. ‘You’re the prettyboy.’
Aaron did laugh this time, then laughed harder when Baptiste shushed him, grumbling ‘Go to sleep,’ in return, until the blackthumb rolled them over and crushed him between his body and the bed.
Wrapped in the blanket of Baptiste’s arms, Aaron immediately began to drift to sleep, thoroughly exhausted by the many horrors and joys of the day. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of what he may see once he closed his eyes, after months of a coldblood’s dreamless slumber.
But then the room filled with the noise of Baptiste’s soft snoring and the tightness around Aaron’s chest eased. He kissed the blackthumb’s brow and shifted to avoid the ray of light shining directly into his eyes.
‘We’re going to dance at tonight’s feast,’ he promised. ‘And then I’m going to kiss you goodnight.
‘For every night to come.’
Jeveuxmecoucher on Chapter 2 Thu 03 Apr 2025 08:32PM UTC
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Medu_Nefer on Chapter 2 Fri 04 Apr 2025 10:07PM UTC
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