61st Frost, 4621
It was customary for Latham to be gone from the Venger estate. The warrior had Celebrant business to attend to, civil war duties, Argent calls to action, and secret meetings with the rest of his mage group. The more diminutive of the Lords Venger also had affairs to attend to that kept him away from the estate, at times. These seemed more like the administrative oversight that presumably allowed the two of them to live a life of such comparative luxury and ease.
Thomas did his best not to think about the labor of the people who he would never meet that allowed him to sit in a library and eat Claudia’s scones to his heart’s content. Lorien’s reliance on the Hollows meant that there was less classist exploitation, but by elevating everyone to such storied professions as overseer of drone crews or manager of a bunch of overseers, it seemed to make some sort of sickness take hold in the hearts of many of the people here. They seemed dull, cold, incurious, and lazy compared not just to people from his homeland, but to people in every land he’d been to. It was troubling to consider. He knew enough about history to know that Lorien suffered the effects of a great deal of magical warfare; perhaps it wasn’t some great curse befell the land, and people born here succumbed to it over time? It did not bode well for his own psyche should he stay here.
Lately, he’d been considering leaving.
He was only here because Latham wanted him here, and Latham was gone quite a bit. When he was on the estate, he spent hours in closed door discussions with Wendall, and neither of them would tell him anything about them. On the occasions Latham paid him attention, he asked him about how his studies with magic were going (not well, and worse than he let on), how he was enjoying himself on the estate (he wasn’t but he lied because he didn’t want Latham to feel bad), how he was getting along with Wendall (as well as he was going to), and if he wanted to have sex (yes).
The relationship between Thomas and Wendall was not unpleasant, but it was rather transactional. The Celebrant had obliged him occasionally, giving him scraps of what he craved: lessons in statecraft, up to date information on the Lorien civil war, alternative techniques for maintaining poise when flummoxed. Wendall was getting the better deal, though, and they both knew it. Thomas was disinclined to push too hard, both because he wanted to stay on Latham’s husband’s less bad side and because he did owe the man quite a bit for his hospitality. While it was not gladly given, it was dutifully provided.
At least, it had been until Wendall was billed for Thomas’ new wardrobe, at which point the other Lord Venger’s office door closed to him. He’d been hoping to make Wendall a bit upset, maybe get a few hate fucks out of it. He hadn’t meant to actually enrage the man this much. As it was, he only saw Wendall if he was with Latham, and only in passing.
A stupid, self-centered part of him had hoped that Latham would defend his honor and they’d grow closer, but that hadn’t happened because that wasn’t how the world worked in most circumstances. Instead, Latham seemed to spend more time than ever with Wendall. Including one night where Latham joined Wendall in the other man’s bed and he spent the night. Thomas had spent the night tucked all the way on the side of Latham’s enormous bed, thinking of that night in Radenor after he’d rejected the young knight’s advances and broken his heart.
Now, it seemed like his heart was the one that was breaking. Latham was still kind, sweet, and attentive. On the occasions when he could get the man to lighten up, they even seemed to enjoy each other’s company, but it just made it worse, really. Every conversation just reminded Thomas of how little they had in common, how much more impressive Latham was than him, how much better, how much braver. He wanted to resent the man for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It wasn’t like he’d been born into privilege; they had similar upbringings down to both being orphans.
The truth was, it wasn’t Latham’s fault Thomas was rotten to the core. Everyone had seen it, really, ever since he’d been a kid. He wanted their meeting a few years ago to mean something, but most chance encounters were just that: chance encounters. He was trying to capture lightning in a bottle by being with Latham again. He was lucky that the Lord had been so busy, really, or he’d have time to reassess and he would see how comically mismatched they were. Thomas’ heart yearned for him, sure, but Thomas’ heart was stupid and yearned for a lot of things.
The flashpoint, though, was going to the library to study his stupid magic, not that it mattered, because he was too ignorant to understand any of the texts Latham assigned him, and that’s when he’d seen it, and heard it. Latham told Wendall that he loved him, and Wendall said it back. Thomas was a keen observer of “I love yous,” and these were as genuine as he’d ever heard. Which meant there was really no point in standing in the way of their relationship. Wendall was a better partner for Latham. He was refined, capable, intelligent, witty, and ambitious. They made a good pair, and he an awkward third point on a love triangle that had grown quite lopsided of late.
On his latest multi-day excursion, Latham took Wendall along with him. It was some kind of combined Argent, Thespian, and Celebrant meeting, a multi-day event that neither Latham nor Wendall seemed interested in explaining to him. He knew better than to them if they’d take him along. That would be far too high-stakes an event to have a Nameless lover cluttering up the place. Also, from Wendall’s comments, the man felt that Thomas would just steal rings from noblewoman or find someone to fuck in a wine cellar.
It stung because it wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
Thomas had been good, though, waiting for the Lords to return and dutifully trying not to go stir crazy. Then they’d been late, and his worn patience started to fray. After three days with no word from either of them, he’d had enough. He wrote a letter explaining things to Latham, or tried to, then threw it away. Then he tried again a few times, but none of them conveyed what he wanted them to. At length, he gave up. What was there to say, anyhow, that Latham did not already know.
When the servants had retired for the evening, he methodically gathered up as many valuables as he could carry, and got them out to his wagon an armload at a time. Wendall had little in the way of jewelry, but he had an impressive collection of artwork. Thomas knew better than to take any of the portraits, of course, but he pried the canvases of a few different landscapes out of the frames before carefully rolling them up and storing them safely in a pocket of his wagon meant for bolts of cloth or expensive stolen art.
He departed that evening for a moderately prosperous inn and public house in Retzen, where he checked in under a new alias just in case Latham had made all of his old ones. No one had ever heard of Armand Tonnerre, though, and this was not the sort of establishment he’d typically frequent. Too fancy for Thomas Worth, not fine enough for Lord Ashley Ryan.
The next morning, he carried the stolen art in a storage tube to a place he’d identified as a likely fence, but found his footsteps slowing, then stopping altogether. He got a warm spiced cider and tried to convince himself to go through with it.
It would be easy. A small amount of money and he’d be out of Retzen. He could leave Lorien entirely, never to return. Wendall would be furious and Latham would be disappointed, but it didn’t matter, because he’d never see either of them again. Like countless times before, he would be in the next city where new challenges awaited before they even knew what happened.
After several hours of that line of logic failing to have any impact, he stashed the art back in his wagon and decided to take a new tack. He’d sell off the winter wardrobe instead. Lorien had secondhand markets, especially for fine clothes like these. He could get reasonable prices for them, and use that to make his escape instead.
He wasn’t sure what to do about the art. He knew better than to return to the scene of the crime, but the thought of selling it off made him feel nauseated, so it felt like there was no way forward. At length, he opted to return them to his wagon. He’d figure it out later.
For now, he had to get those coats turned into farthings and get out of Retzen.
Slightly less than three hours later, Thomas was arrested by an Argent who insisted that the coats were stolen property belonging to House Venger, per paperwork provided by the household. Not that he really needed a justification; as a Nameless the man could have beheaded him for no reason and no one would have spared a thought for him. Trying to talk his way out of it failed, and he found himself whisked away shortly thereafter.
