Possession

[Taelian Edevane]

69th of Frost, Year 4621

Coming home was always a strange, warm, relieving feeling for the man. He had not always viewed Retzen as his home -- nor Lorien -- but as time came to pass, being 'Rien' became more a part of his identity. Being a Celebrant did, too, as did being a Thespian, and an Argent Knight. He was becoming more Latham Stephan Lange von Retzen than Taelian Ela'Rannoch every day, and the warmth he felt entering the halls of his estate -- and the dread whenever he thought of returning to Sil-Elaine -- was evidence enough of that. His former self, if it was not already gone, was slipping into obscurity... and rather than being powerless to stop that change, he longed for it. It was a good thing -- leaving behind that weak, fragile wallflower, and sculpting himself to be who he was ordained to become.

It was especially pleasant to return home to someone who he believed loved him -- who he was so... intricately tied to, the man weaving his fate within his, pondering a future with children filling the corridors of their home, love always a lit ember between them, if not a burning flame. Thinking on that, and longing for the bliss of that man's company with all of the fabric of his being, his descent to reality was all the more mortifying. As he stepped through the door into the halls of the Ashvane Estate, Thomas was not there... nor were a variety of fineries and sentimental things alike; Wendell's painting with his father, looking out into the summery valley, old family jewels and belongings.

As much as he wanted to imagine for a moment that they had been burgled, Taelian knew the truth. Thomas had stolen valuable possessions from their estate, and fled.

It only took hours for Wendell to return, as well, and for him to become truly furious. His features became as red as the blood of a wound, his enraged inflection echoing through the halls as Claudia and Harald stood quietly in the kitchen downstairs, gossiping amongst themselves.

Wendell was beyond angry, he was murderous. His pride had been struck -- he had allowed a man into his home, he had even allowed him frequently into his bed, only for his most valued belongings to be stripped away in the night, his husband betrayed in a simultaneous stroke. Cursing and warnings followed; 'that man' would never be allowed back into the Ashvane Estate, and if he was, Wendell would have his neck clenched until it snapped within the confines of a garrote.

Latham, of course, did not feel the same way. Thomas loved him; he knew he did. He did not doubt his thieving, but he wondered of their motives. And so, in quiet and in secrecy, he began his search. He engaged in it much the same way he had to find Thomas initially: with a mixture of the whispers of the Covenant's magi, Hollows on the streets, and official inquests. Two days later, Latham found an official record of Thomas being submitted to one 'Lord Weissen's' criminal arbitration as a Celebrant, taken from a court jail house to some odd cellar beyond the confines of the city.

He could not find out why or how he had gotten there, as much as he would dig. Another Celebrant's proclivities was beyond his ability to inquire on, even if the Nameless in question was his beloved. Thomas had been secured no documentation yet, a mistake Latham was certain to rectify. Once Thomas was retrieved, he would officialize his citizenship, even if that drew Wendell into a frothing rage.

The man spent endless hours in quiet, in the study nearest to the yard with a Shard Resonator trapped within a brass box, requesting Duke Matthias by radio again and again, going up the ladder until he finally garnered the Lord's voice on the other end for but minutes. He was given leave to retrieve his lover, and received a document with Duke Alderset's seal through portal hours later. With all of that... preliminary accomplished, he gathered his bearings -- a proper suit and, of course, Hollows and a zweihander the size of the man he was sure to confront -- and moved through the cobbled streets of Retzen's wealthy district, through the city and out into the crisp forestry beyond. He wandered for hours, searching for the imprecise location provided within the address, until he was presented with the face of a bleak, austere home. Latham narrowed his eyes, reaching into his pocket to feel for the sealed document. Latham was prepared to kill if necessary, but diplomacy could only be of benefit now that a long trail of papers followed him. He was a valuable asset to the war effort, but not an invincible one. He did not wish to cause a scandal for Duke Alderset to... 'clean up'.

Stationing Hollows on all ends of the home's exterior, the man cleared his throat and approached the door. He gripped the handle and gave it a few, cursory knocks, as he glanced towards the windows and frowned. The place seemed near-abandoned. If he was not given entry soon, he would break the door down.

[Thomas]

Thomas was disquieted by how familiar he'd gotten with his routine in Lord Weissen's prison. The guards arrived twice daily to feed them a kind of gruel that he wouldn't have fed to a pig. The bowls doubled as a commode once they were emptied, which had a certain loathsome efficiency to it. He didn't bother with any pointless theatrics, trying to get his waste to spill on them, as that would accomplish nothing but getting the tar beaten out of him, Celebrant lover or no. Other than that, they came by periodically to retrieve Maladan.

When that happened, the man would go willingly, never complaining, even if he was so weak from his wounds and blood loss that he could barely walk. It had a certain nobility to it, like Maladan had a code of honor that Thomas was coming to admire despite himself. If it were him, he doubted he would be so calm. He wasn't stoic about the prospect of physical pain like his cellmate -- the idea of being tortured by an unchecked sadist sounded terrifying. Shamefully, he was grateful that Latham's name had spared him the Lord Wilhelm Weissen's particular brand of affection.

Until, one day, it did not.

The guards arrived, as usual, and Maladan stood up, as usual, but they ignored him. Instead they came over to Thomas.

"Get up," Lars said.

Thomas hated Lars, but not any more than he hated any of the other guards. As far as he was concerned, they were all class traitors, sympathizers of the idle rich in return for little trinkets and comfort, and proof of Lorien's corrupt system that fulminated dissipation and moral turpitude. He ignored him, because the guards didn't talk to him. They occasionally talked near him, mostly about what was so magical about his sphincter that a Nameless had managed to charm a Celebrant, sometimes loudly speculating about it in his vicinity to see if it would get a rise out of him, which it didn't. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

"Hey, idiot," Lars said, cuffing him and hauling him to his feet. "I said get up. His Lordship's here for you," he added, sniggering. The other guard, Heinrich, clapped irons to his wrists and then they were on their way.

A spark of hope lit in the waterlogged tinder in Thomas' heart. Latham had actually come for him, then. He was saved. His elation was met only with concern for his cellmate, who he'd grown quite fond of. He looked right to Maladan. "I won't forget," was all he said, because it was all he could promise. But he would work on getting Maladan out. He would beg, and plead, sign any agreement, accept any stipulation, if Latham would free the other man, too. While their time together had been brief, he felt he owed Maladan that much, at least. Once they were out of prison, they could see if it was just trauma gluing them together, or if the connection ran deeper.

Heinrich prodded him with the butt of his partisan and Thomas started walking between the two of them. They were not, he noticed, heading for the entrance, though. Instead, they were heading deeper into the prison. Maybe Latham just wanted to question him, then. Maybe he wouldn't wish to retrieve him yet. Perhaps Wendall had not cooled down sufficiently, but Thomas knew the red hot fire of Wendall's rage would hit the mountains of Latham's stoic, implacable nature and be quelled in time.

He didn't fully realize what was happening until they shoved him into a dark room with enough force to make him fall forward on the slick stone floor, his hands preventing a nose first collision with the stone. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he took stock of his surroundings: racks of nasty-looking tools, a wooden table with leather straps, and a few chairs outfitted with the same. It seemed unlikely that a meeting with Latham was what today held in store, then.

"So glad to see you've arrived, my pretty young friend," a voice that was friendly and companionable called out from the other side of the chamber.

It made his skin crawl. Thomas scrambled back until he was leaning against the door to the chamber.

Lord Wilhelm Weissen stepped into what dim light the torture chamber offered. "You know, normally I love when boys like you end up in my domain. I love carving you up until no one else will have you," he said, as though he were discussing how he liked his eggs prepared.

Thomas shuddered, and said nothing.

"Two things stopped me this time around, though. One, I have my puppy, Snowy," he said, smiling beatifically. "And two, you claim to be the property of a peer of mine. I have my little peccadilloes, but I don't dare steal another man's toys." He walked closer to Thomas, who knew better than to give him the satisfaction of running.

Men like this loved a reaction. Thomas thought of stone: inert, unmoved, unchangeable, and became stone inside, too.

"But I realized something today," Wilhelm continued, gently stroking Thomas' jawline with a fingernail that Thomas couldn't help but notice was honed to a very sharp point, like a cat's claw. "Two things, really. The first is that my Puppy's attention wanders to you, of late, so I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I don't understand it, personally -- you just look shiny gutter trash to me, boy. But his eye is wandering, and I need him focused back on me."

He leaned in and licked a stripe on Thomas' cheek before grimacing.

"See? Nothing. Why does he like you?" He said, frustration mounting in his voice. "Maybe there's something special about you under this boring surface, though, and I intend to find out. Because the other thing I realized today is something so obvious that I can't believe it took me this long: while I do adore leaving little souvenirs on my puppy, I know of so many things that leave no marks whatsoever. You'll be returned to your lover, should he actually care to have you back at all, just as good as you were when you arrived. At least visibly -- and as for the rest, it will be the word of a Nameless against my own," he said, smirking. "You know you're not even allowed to speak in court, yes, without permission of one of your betters? So I think we're going to have some fun together today, and whenever else I like, until all of my frustration about Snowy is vented and I feel at peace."

He hauled Thomas to his feet easily. Like Wendall, the guards, and seemingly everyone else in this stupid country, he was far taller and far stronger than Thomas, and the smaller man knew better than to resist overly much. It would just give Wilhelm an excuse to hurt him more.

"Now then -- shall we get started?" Wilhelm asked.

He did not wait for an answer.

[Maladan]

For all the Lord's ingenuity, life seemed more bearable for Maladan when Thomas was around. He was able to distract him, amuse him, make him laugh; he just seem to have ability to bright up the whole place.

Thomas seemed to be handling it well so far, and Maladan tried to make his stay here as least distressing as possible; when he had the strength.

Life here was routine, regular and iron ~ that's the way Wiessen liked it. He allowed no distraction from boredom except his 'activities', thus completely binding the thoughts of his victims. It was a devastating tactic that worked.

Today however, when the guards came and Maladan, it turns out they had another reason to their visit. Thomas' lover had arrived for him. The initial relief was quickly replaced by something that made the elf's chest ache. Suddenly a selfish and foolish regret had fallen over him; bitterness settled in his throat at the thought of being alone again.

Still, he forced himself to smile.

"Goodbye, Thomas." The elf said, trying to convince himself to be happy for his cellmate. He knew it would come someday, he often thought about it as the days passed. Still, it didn't helped much.

All he got was a look and a sentence; but it was enough to force him to do something that Wilhelm had been striving for quite a long time, usually in vain: cry.

He waited until the sound of footsteps faded out of earshot, but then the sobs hitted him like an avalanche; he was unable to contain the feelings. Thomas helped him survive, but he knew that without him it was only a matter of time.

He was too tired to continue.

This was the end.

It took him a while to calm down, silence the sobbing. His eyes burned and a his throat became sore.

Then the footsteps returned; he was afraid Wilhelm wouldn't waste any time. He wiped his face with his worn tunic and took a few deep breaths. He stood up and went with them. Silently and obediently.

He knew the way. Maladan was wondering what he would say to Wiessen to... finally end it all. But when elf reached Lord's room, he found someone he hadn't expected.

"Thomas," he gasped. He's not an aggressive man, but now more than ever, he wanted to punch Wiessen in his face.

It only took a moment of staring into each other's eyes before Maladan's legs turned to jelly and the anger quickly faded. He felt like a frog looking right into the eyes of a snake. He felt embarrassed at the degree of power the lord had gained over him.

"Snowy, great to have you here! I have to say, your friend is funny, but he lacks your resilience."

"Wiessen. Don't. Leave him out of it, please. I'll do what you want, just... don't." Maladan's voice was shaking as he was strapped into the chair across Thomas.

[Taelian Edevane]

Another set of knocks.

. . .

No answer came, only the quiet singing of birds as the hour drew nearer to sunset.

"Jalvokuleth," he spoke lowly, the Hollows around the premises of the estate suddenly stirring into action, engaging in a watchful patrol through the grounds. Taelian gripped the knob and pulled it right out, ripping it from the door before casting it aside on the front pavement, gripping within the door of the frame and swinging it open. He was met with a darkly lit foyer, like with any proper Lord's estate, and the quiet buzzing of the halls; a clock ticking in the corridor, the sound of a furnace churning heat.

The Argent pulled his blade from his back, running his fingertips over the flat center and causing the weapon to go alight, its edges crackling with the warmth of flame. It was not 'on fire' so much as it appeared to be reflective of heat and light, with cinders running along its surface. Carefully treading through, he heard the dullest of noises emerging from some cellar below, the man shifting his focus to the pitch. He closed his eyes, letting the sound pick up around him, ether humming through the distant frequencies and amplifying them. The Knight sent out a pulse of sound, which blipped quietly through the home, descending through every room and gap until a sound echoed back, the shape and structure of the manor reverberating through him. There was a door leading into a basement area, and he quickly turned the corner to discover it. Taelian pulled on the latch, finding it to be locked, and ripping it from its hinges anyhow. He produced another Sonar blip through the cellar, scanning the area from a distance as he loomed in the shadowy upper portion of the stairs.

He could see everyone -- every man, every shape, every object, with a sense more acute than sight.

Taking in a deep breath, the man altered the pitch and projection of his voice, and yelled out as loudly as any Argent could, the voice escaping his breath only to crackle and boom like thunder as his Resonance forked each sound with power alike to a sonic wave.

"YOU ARE ORDERED TO DESIST."

Fire flooded out from his hands like tendrils, reaching across the interior of the cellar, coils of flame presenting themselves to each guard with heat so significant that they would feel their consciousness wane as they persisted near it. He stepped down, slowly, gradually, as that same fiery texture clung to the radius of his irises, his teeth grit, clamped together furiously. The man's descent found him at the bottom of the dingy stairwell, his face turning to view each guard as they cowered timidly, before flame exhaled from his breath in a single, dissipating puff, igniting the oxygen before fading into gas.

He saw a narrow path, surrounded with cells. Letting the flame fade, Latham carried his pace and approached, turning his head once he found the cell he knew held his lover and one more.

Torture -- blood. Cruelty. There was one of his kind present, significantly harmed, and then his beloved Thomas. Glaring towards the man who had imprisoned them both, Latham sheathed his blade before stepping forward, grabbing him by his collar and throwing him onto the ground. He lifted his fist high before allowing it to plummet to the features of the man below, beating him into the cellar pavement without words. Each time he attempted to speak, Latham struck again, until blood pooled around his cracked, broken teeth.

"Don't FUCKING speak," he yelled, spitting on him. His knuckles bloodied, the Draedan peered up towards Thomas, his brows narrowing to his eyes. "We're leaving," he said, dismissing the man beneath him without a single thought. "Where's Wendell's shit?"

[Thomas]

It started with a trough of water. Wilhelm pushed his head under with a ferocity that belied his friendly tone. Or, if Maladan were to be believed, this was how Wilhelm related to those he liked. His last coherent thought was that he'd better hold his breath. The shock of the cold water and Wilhelm's agility meant he flubbed his attempt at breath control, though, and ended up with lungs full of water. He tried to cough, but every attempt to draw breath made it worse. His limbs flailed ineffectually, thrashing in a vain attempt to get free.

Wilhelm hauled him by his collar, eyes alight with excitement. "You struggle nicely enough, at least."

Thomas tried to say something, anything, but just gasped and coughed up water instead.

"If it were up to me, I'd pry that tongue out of your lying little mouth, grill it, and feed it to you."

Thomas focused on his breathing, and said nothing.

Wilhelm's eyes narrowed and the grip on Thomas' jacket tightened. "By the Returning King, you're dull. Say something, will you, or I'm putting you back in the water."

Thomas tried to say something, and then Wilhelm dunked him under again. As with grifting, it seemed sadism could be enhanced with misdirection. It was worse, the second time, because he'd already felt a bit lightheaded. This time, when Wilhelm let him up, he was dizzy.

"Are you having fun?" Wilhelm asked. As always, he sounded like he was actually concerned.

Thomas looked in Wilhelm's eyes, his pupils constricted despite the lack of light. He wondered if the man had been born to this level of sadism and depravity or if there had been some tendency that had been exacerbated by his power over others, but he knew better than to ask, or really to say or do anything. Maladan hadn't talked much about his torture sessions with Lord Weissen, but the Lord himself had given Thomas all the clues he needed: he would toy with Thomas until he got bored or something better occurred to him.

It was hard to keep track of time with his head underwater, but Thomas was fairly certain the third time was longer than the first two. When Wilhelm let him back up he was dizzier than before, and he felt the beginnings of a headache blooming between his eyes. Wilhelm looked at him expectantly and he just coughed in response. Trying to breathe evenly, trying not to gasp, but his body betrayed him.

"My Puppy would view what you've just been through as a treat. To call it a lovetap would be an insult -- it's nothing. I've played with toys far younger, scarcely more than children, than you who could take far more."

The fourth time, Thomas felt nothing. The fifth, sixth, and seven times, he felt less than nothing -- just dizziness, nausea, and confusion. After that, he lost count.

Thomas felt a flash of irritation, but said nothing. If Lord Wilhelm Weissen thought him a coward, so much the better. Being baited into trying to be tougher for the man would just result in harsher punishment. He thought of one of the stones embedded in the ceiling falling on Wilhelm, and his lips quirked.

"What's funny, slag?" Thomas started to shake his head no before Wilhelm picked him up and body slammed him against the wall, shaking him. "Tell me!" The Lord demanded.

There was no getting out of this one. Thomas nodded, took a deep breath. Several insults came to mind that would make Lord Weissen even madder, but he knew the man wanted to be baited so that he could say that Thomas made him lose control, or that he insulted him so badly that he had to retaliate or lose face due to the insult on his honor. So he decided to be petty, instead. "Did you imprison your valet until he agreed to serve you, too? Because he dresses you like he's only doing his job under fear of torture."

Wilhelm backhanded him for that one, which he deserved. He was tempted to spit on the man, but he just swallowed it instead. As with many things involving the delicate egos of the upperclass, being tortured seemed mostly to be an exercise in not bruising their ego unduly. It was just bravado lighting a fire in his belly while Wilhelm decided what horrifying thing he wanted to do to Thomas next, but it was nice not to feel scared for the moment, so Thomas let it burn. In answer, Wilhelm strapped him into one of the chairs.

"More disappointing than I'd feared," he said, running the point of a skinning knife along Thomas' neck with just enough pressure not to draw blood. "I tire of you." He knocked on the door with three short, sharp raps. "Bring me my Puppy," he said with palpable excitement.

The guards walked off, and returned with a wan looking Maladan, who true to form, begged Wilhelm not to touch him, which pissed Thomas off. Wilhelm couldn't touch him, not really. At least not yet. A month from now, and he'd probably take more liberties. All it took was Wilhelm pointing a knife at Thomas for Maladan to volunteer for torture, almost begging for it. The Lord Weissen was only too happy to oblige, getting down some of the more terrifying implements that Thomas had ever seen and beating the life out of the elf, humming a happy little song all the while.

Thomas closed his eyes as it was happening, trying to pretend it wasn't, trying to pull his consciousness elsewhere, but the sounds of Wilhelm beating Maladan were far too immediate to ignore. The thuds, Maladan's muffled groans and pleas. He wasn't even being touched and he was shaking like a leaf. For a moment, Thomas thought he could smell Maladan's blood in the air, but then realized he'd bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He knew he had to do something, that it was the only thing he could do: turn Wilhelm back onto him and hope that the depraved man remembered that he couldn't actually hurt Thomas too badly without potential retribution from another celebrant. He thought about Ned. He thought about all the people he'd left behind, all the times he'd dipped on a job gone wrong. There was no escape here, though, not this time. Just an endless red smear unless Latham elected to intervene.

In the meantime, then, he couldn't let Maladan bear all of the burden. "Enough!" He yelled, projecting his voice as though he were on the stage so that it would cut through Wilhelm's excitement.

The man seemed only too happy to come over and check up on Thomas. "Something to say, guttersnipe?"

Maladan, bleeding from a dozen wounds, looked over at him from his position tied to the table and managed to grunt out a weak "don't."

Watching the man torture Maladan had shaken something loose within Thomas, though, and he could not hold his tongue any longer. "No one will ever love you."

Wilhelm blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Mal will never love you. Your family will never love you. No one will ever love you. Anything that was lovable in you, you snuffed out long ago in this very room while giggling like a little schoolboy having too much candy. I know it, you know it, we all know it, and if you weren't such a coward, you'd turn your knife on yourself and end your miserable existence rather than torturing people until you mold them into facsimiles of the real affection you crave."

It felt good for a split second, until Wilhelm punched him in the face, then did so again, and again, and again. Thomas felt a tooth crack, and hoped that if they got out of this somehow, Maladan could put it back where it belonged. Before all this, he'd rather liked his smile. When Wilhelm drew back his fist to punch him again, Thomas spit the tooth at him, before coughing a bit on a mix of spit, snot, and blood that was now flooding his mouth.

Wilhelm turned away from Thomas and grabbed a sinister curved knife. "Your loudmouthed little friend has made me mad, Puppy," he said. He no longer sounded pleasant, or happy. He didn't sound like anything at all. His voice had gone deeper and lower, and his tone was steady to the point of being a monotone. For the first time since they'd been in the room together, he saw true terror in Maladan's eyes, as his cellmate futilely struggled against the bonds that held him to the table. "You know what happens when I get so angry that I can't even feel my own happiness in your presence, yes? I take pieces of you away until I feel happy again. So what do you think it should be this time, hm?"

It was at this moment that Thomas realized he'd miscalculated, and that Maladan was going to pay the price.

Or he would have, had Latham not chosen that moment to arrive. At first, the thunderous noises outside made Thomas worried. More chaos in the prison did not bode well for Lord Weissen's mood. When all that sound and fury revealed itself to be his lover, however, he heaved out a sigh of relief, which quickly turned to delight as he watched Latham beat the Lord into a pulp. To call the fight one-sided suggested that it had sides at all: Latham beat him with the brutal efficiency of someone who'd found his true calling, and Thomas let out a cheer when Wilhelm hit the floor like a sack of flour.

He blinked at Latham's question. Blunt as always. "The painting and the jewels and the like? They're in my wagon. Or at least they were when I was hauled back here. Head to the Stärkungsmittel Inn and everything should be there, aside from a few of the nice fur coats you'd bought me. I'd paid for two weeks lodgings just in case I was waylaid, so no worries there."

He didn't really want to have too much more of a conversation while he was tied to a chair in the lair of a sadist, but he felt compelled to at least make an introduction.

"Maladan, this is Lord Latham Stephan Lange von Retzen. Latham, this is Maladan. Whatever you do, I beg of you to take him with you. If you do, I'll -- I'll do whatever you want, ok? Name your price."

[Maladan]

Maladan did not regret his decision to offer himself for Thomas. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought of himself as a broken toy, a broken creature that might never work as it should. But Thomas had a chance to move on. That was enough for him.

With the full impact of Wiessen's brutality upon him, he tried not to scream, to not scare Thomas, and wondered if his parents had felt something similar when they ran from Sil'Elaine with him as a kid.

He held himself well; though he twitched, groaned, and out of a strange instinct sometimes even pleaded in the naive prayer for a miracle. But it was only wishful thinking; in the man's eyes there was still the light of a little boy who is tearing the spiders' legs enjoying himself.

Thomas's voice cut through the agonizing scene like lightning brightening a darkened sky.

Maladan was given a moment of respite. He lowered his head and examined his chest and damage it had taken, only to regret having done so. The physician in him was internally screaming, wondering if this would finally be enough to end it all. If the moment had finally come, when Wiessen and his zeal would finally got too far... and Maladan would be free.

But the respite was short-lived. Thomas got into a conversation with Wiessen and told him something he shouldn't have ~ the truth. He looked at his companion, shook his head, indicating 'no' with his lips; it was foolish and unwise to tease this sick man, but once again, damage was done and Wiessen began to beat the crap out of Thomas's beautiful face.

Maladan struggled in the straps, but he was too weak to resist, let alone hope to break free of his bonds and save his friend from the consequences of his insolent mouth.

When the Lord finally calmed down, Maladan wanted to say something, probably some smooth nonsense that would stroke his ego a little, that would return Wiessen to more 'cuddly' practices by his standards... but instead, it appeared that he had regained his most dreadful mood.

It shivered inside Maladan, and his heart took on a higher rhythm as the knife-wielding torturer approached. The elf flicked his gaze between him and his tool. Tears began to stream down his face as he shook his head.
"Wiessen, no... please, no... please...."

Suddenly, a man appeared in the room. And not just any man. He was big, perhaps the biggest Maladan had ever seen, with slightly pointed ears and golden eyes like the sun, bearing the marks of Sil'Norai. He was somewhat unnaturally handsome and incredibly scary in his affect at the same time. He had a eyes of a killer, brutal and effective. Weissen looked like a boy next to him, sick little boy playing war.

He asked no questions and rammed at Wiessen. Maladan was in utter shock, watching the Lord take a solid beating in a face. If only the lession didn't mean his captor would take it out on him afterwards; he'd maybe even enjoy it. It felt like justice.

Still, at the instinct of a slave, he wanted somehow stop the big man, tell him to leave his captor be... but he knew it was no use. He won't stop, and Maladan won't win any mercy from Wiessen.

The man get up from the body of the pretty beaten up celebrant and turns to his lover. It was strange, Maladan imagined Thomas's chosen one somewhat... differently; although Thomas never said much about him.

They leave. That sounded good to Maladan, though he didn't understand the words that address following topic. Who is Wendall and why it seemed to by like Thomas robbed Latham and his friend of precisous items, it remained to be seen.

"Well... met?" He smiled, at lover of his cellmate, well at least tried it. End of Thomas's monolog got him surprised and confused again.

"What are you... what are you... saying...?" Would Thomas really pay a toll with this big scary lover of his for Maladan? The elf he met in prison few days ago?

When he thought about it... he really didn't want to stay here. He didn't want Thomas to stay here either. Neither Latham. None of them.

He looked up to the man, who seemed to have ultimate power over his life now. Angry man, again.

[Taelian Edevane]

Rising from the body of the imprisoner, the man reached into his satchel to pull out a small cloth, wiping his knuckles and fingers free of the blood, the red liquid staining the fabric's soft white surface. He turned to eye the two -- Thomas, Maladan, and all of their exterior wounds. Being imprisoned was one thing -- he had not expected Thomas to be tortured. Weissen should have known to leave what was not his.

As Thomas began speaking -- introducing him, in fact -- the Knight approached him and began to remove his constraints, untying them or breaking them as necessary. He was wordless throughout it all; through the introduction, the revelation of Wendell's belongings, and even the man's plea that Maladan be freed and taken with him as a part of some sort of exchange. He wondered if that was what this was -- Thomas had found another lover who he liked more, so he ran away with him with so many of Wendell's valuables, hoping to pawn them off and provide them footing for a new life together?

Whatever the case, he continued to withhold words. Maladan greeted him, and the man merely tipped his head. He was not cruel, but he was cold.

Once Thomas was free, he approached the other Sil'norai to do the same to him, removing his bondage one limb at a time until he could stand and move. Moving towards the cell door, the man turned his back to the other two, leaving Lord Weissen a near-lifeless husk on the ground. Without fully looking back, he turned his head slightly towards Thomas, and said only one thing.

"I'm not like you — I don't have a price."

- - -

They were gone from the estate. The Hollows trailed behind them like ducklings as they often did, one after another, limping and occasionally grunting and jerking their heads. Latham realized he had never revealed Lord Weissen the contents of the document he'd acquired, but that was alright; it was unnecessary, now. He had made himself clear enough, and the documents still had useful information for Thomas if no one else.

"You were lawfully imprisoned," he said, not turning his head. "Duke Alderset gave me permission to free you, but only into my custody. That is where you will reside until the end of Frost, at which point you may do whatever you like."

He shook his head, grimacing. The man changed his tone to speak in Silvain: "Fanaidh tu còmhla rium cuideachd, a Maladan." You will stay with me as well, Maladan.

As they continued to walk through the wintry forest, the man found himself becoming more and more... inflamed, a swell of emotions consuming him with each step and every breath. His convenient silence began to fade more and more, as he let off disgruntled rumblings. "Wendell and I will surely divorce," he said. "The fact that I'm coming back with you, after all you've done . . . he'll think it madness. And perhaps it is madness, Thomas, but I love you. Which is why--"

He suddenly swung his body, turning to face him with the faint glistening of tears in his eyes, his fists clenched. "Why did you do this? Why would you leave me, when I have been nothing but loving to you; nothing but kind? When I've shared my home, heart and soul with you? Why would you hurt me this way -- force me to compromise myself, ruin Wendell's trust in me... all for nothing? Why?"

He looked to Maladan for a moment, narrowing his eyes. "Is it him? One Sil'norai bloke not enough for you? Or -- what? Am I too boring, too gallant, too easy?" Latham grunted, shaking his head over and again. "You spit on me. I still love you, and I will forgive you in time, but you have done a great deal of damage to a man you lo-- I, thought you might possibly love. I suppose I was wrong."

The man looked down, frowning. "Never for a moment was I cruel to you," he whispered. "Even now... I am trying."

[Thomas]

I'm not like you — I don't have a price

It hurt to hear Latham say that to him, more than he'd anticipated. Not because it was wrong, but because he had been honest enough with Latham about his past that the man knew about some of the things he'd done for money, and he was angry enough that he thought to use that against him. He didn't cry as they trudged through the sun in the bone-chilling austere splendor that was Lorien. He wasn't interested in getting his eyelashes stuck together, for one thing, and also, what good would crying do? Latham would just think he was trying to manipulate him. He'd lost the man's trust, which would be devastating if he were trying to get something more out of him, but in this case, it was the opposite. Latham needed that so that he would accept the truth that Thomas could not be a suitable partner for him. He was more impressive than ten impressive men, and it was preposterous that he wanted Thomas at his side. He needed someone like Wendall, someone who could be the efficient overseer of his administrative duties, who could be diplomatic and write treaties and the like. Thomas' skills were more useful for things like picking pockets, putting on puppet shows for children, defrauding the gullible, and ensuring people had a good time when they shared a bed with him.

Beyond Latham being an impressive man, he was a good one. Not some kind of storybook pacifist who insisted in everyone hugging it out, as Lord Weissen could attest to were he were not bleeding out of the bloody mass of what had been his face, but the sort of person who saw injustices being carried out at a great scale and decided that he would do something about them. Thomas, by contrast, would just run away. Saving his own skin by letting others suffer.

"Latham, I'm," Thomas sighed, trying to figure out how to say all that he'd been thinking more or less since they'd been reunited, and certainly since they'd set foot on the Venger estate. It disquieted him to realize that he didn't feel he was capable of lying to the knight -- not with this question, and perhaps not ever again. "I didn't want to hurt you, and I still don't. I still love you, and probably always will. Wendall is right, though: I'm not good enough for you. I don't know that Wendall is, either, but I know I'm not. I was born in a gutter, like you, but unlike you, I've stayed there. I don't deserve you, Latham, and if you wish me to stick by your side, I will do little but hold you back. Being with you again has made me very happy. It's also made me confront all the ways I do not measure up to you, or to your new life, so I thought to flee and burn the bridge behind me so you would not look for me."

"It was cowardly, I acknowledge that, but I'm a coward. I'm not a mage, or a knight, or a lord, or any of the things you are. I'm just a coward, a liar, and like you so eloquently noted earlier, a whore, who will do anything for a price. I just don't see how we can be together when you're a hero in multiple countries, and I'm... me."

[Taelian Edevane]

I still love you.

His eyes narrowed, his fingers clenching more tightly to his palms, his throat becoming heavier and constricted as the flow of air seemed to stop within his chest. His brow visibly trembled, the man slowly shaking his head. I still love you.

It was the first time Thomas had ever said it, even though Taelian had known it for a long time. He had felt, in fact, that Thomas loved him when they were first together, even when all he ever heard was that Taelian loved a man that did not exist. A part of him hoped, and believed, that the love they shared carried on all that time -- that it never truly ended, merely took a long pause and changed as they changed. Contrary to what he'd told Thomas the first time they met again in Westfalen, Thomas had changed. He introduced himself as he truly was, and as far as Latham believed, he had lived as that man since.

I was born in a gutter, like you . . .

. . . made me very happy . . .

This was Thomas' true self -- his true words, his true perceptions. He carried with him a sense of inadequacy that was so strong, it almost felt impossible to cleave through. It was why their relationship had failed the first time around -- he could not confess to being who he truly was. Even then, perhaps, he did not feel like he would be seen as good enough, as the man that he would truthfully be, rather than the projection he cast; a shadow much more elegant and refined than the gutter-whore he supposedly knew himself as.

His words hurt Taelian. They hurt because he loved him -- because he did not want him to feel that way, or view himself that way. He wanted him to feel loved, as he was loved.

"Stop," he simply said, trembling. The man approached him, wrapping his arms around his back, forcing him within his grasp. He gripped him tightly enough that any squirming would die far before it could manifest, settling his lips against his soft hair. "You should have known I'd look for you -- I'd always look for you, Thomas." Tears formed in his eyes, which he failed to bother to wipe away. "You're good enough because I love you. You don't need to be a Knight, or a Lord, or any stupid thing. I love you -- I love you so much, and I always will, and please . . . please don't ever run away again because my heart would ache and mourn for you every day of my life if you had gone."

Clutching the fabric over his back, he buried his wet face deeper into his hair, muffling the ugly sound of a deep cry, let loose.

"I want to be with you for the rest of my life, Thomas," he wept. "Please don't go again."

[Thomas]

Thomas did try to struggle against the hug, a bit, before giving up. Latham wanted to hug him, and so he was being hugged. He could insist that Latham desist but to do so would be hurtful. He also had no good reason to ask the man to stop; he wanted it to continue.

When Latham squeezed a bit too hard though, he did pipe up: "Um, Latham -- I mean this with the utmost respect, but -- I have at least one cracked molar from when Lord Weissen was punching me. Please stop squeezing my head into your torso."

When he could get a full breath of air in again, he continued: "I also appreciate the sentiment that I can just be as I am with you. I appreciate it tremendously, in point of fact, but it simply isn't true. If you really insist on keeping me around, I have to be better, somehow. More able to take care of myself, for one thing. The sort of man who can help you accomplish your goals, whatever they may be. I know you want to bring about rights and better treatment for the Nameless of Lorien, for instance. If I'm to be with you, I suppose I need to help you with that goal, though I confess I'm unsure of what I can possibly do. That's my point, though -- you have sufficient problems as it is. If we're really going to make this work, I need to help you reduce them, not add to them."

His lips curled upwards. "I realize saying this to you after you broke me out of a horrific torture jail is a bit late, perhaps, but maybe that's a good goal, for now. No more illegal deeds, even though the thought of it churns my stomach. How does all that sound, my love?"