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145 » foot outside the window when we pay rent
[For a long time now, the forces of the Abyss have been instructed to attack and kill Dainsleif on sight. It isn't surprising, even if Dainsleif is every bit as Khaenri'ahn as the other cursed, twisted leaders of the Abyss: relations between their current prince and their former captain simply soured to the point that Aether decided Dainsleif was better off dead than allowed to suffer until such time as the curse of Celestia was purged from their souls at last. So they were ordered. So they were told.
(And really — really, there isn't any logic in it. Really, the reason Aether had initially taken up the mantle of defying the gods to restore Khaenri'ah to its former glory was because of Dain to begin with. Because he wanted Dain to smile at him again; because he wanted them to be able to travel together again; because he'd lost something the same way Dain had, that day the skies came crashing down. Because he couldn't stand the thought of ever seeing Dain like that again, on his knees, almost in penitence to the cruel gods, crushed with the weight of what he'd done.)
Still, other than the order to kill him on sight, Dainsleif was never made a target of the Abyss's forces. Until, without warning, new orders came from their prince on high: Call off all other operations. I want our armies to take Dainsleif alive.
Aether is bathing in his quarters when the Abyss Mage comes to report that they've captured Dain, as ordered. It wasn't easy, of course. Dain was never going to make it easy. But they have ways of subjugating him, now that they've run experiments on that device they discovered in the Chasm. Even Dainsleif can't escape the curse of Khaenri'ah, and Aether planned to use that to his advantage.
The losses are as follows: two contingents of their soldiers, a lesser dragon, thirteen homunculi. But even so, the operation was a success. The Twilight Sword has been collared and chained, Your Highness, and awaits your judgment in the dungeons.
Interesting, Aether says in response. And then, in a tone that is almost distracted but could never possibly be for how ruthless the Abyss knows him to be: Good. You are dismissed.
The Abyss, predictably, is a dark place, with little in the way of natural life, but Aether's "palace" boasts what few luxuries their forces can manage. The lifeless branches of petrified trees decorate the cold stone walls, as if in imitation of floral arrangements; rugs of tattered silk line the halls. Defying gravity, streams of water run upward along the walls in violation of the laws of Celestia. For five hundred years, this has been his home. And for five hundred more —
Aether's footsteps take him to Dainsleif's cell, where he stops and simply stares at his prisoner with eyes of cold amber.]
...Dain.
[Aether's voice is soft and quiet, perhaps even unexpectedly so. He lifts one hand, and the magicked bars dissolve; as he steps through them, they re-form behind him. He isn't bothered. He doesn't mind being in the cage of the beast so long as he still holds its leash.]
I never thought I'd see you like this again.
(And really — really, there isn't any logic in it. Really, the reason Aether had initially taken up the mantle of defying the gods to restore Khaenri'ah to its former glory was because of Dain to begin with. Because he wanted Dain to smile at him again; because he wanted them to be able to travel together again; because he'd lost something the same way Dain had, that day the skies came crashing down. Because he couldn't stand the thought of ever seeing Dain like that again, on his knees, almost in penitence to the cruel gods, crushed with the weight of what he'd done.)
Still, other than the order to kill him on sight, Dainsleif was never made a target of the Abyss's forces. Until, without warning, new orders came from their prince on high: Call off all other operations. I want our armies to take Dainsleif alive.
Aether is bathing in his quarters when the Abyss Mage comes to report that they've captured Dain, as ordered. It wasn't easy, of course. Dain was never going to make it easy. But they have ways of subjugating him, now that they've run experiments on that device they discovered in the Chasm. Even Dainsleif can't escape the curse of Khaenri'ah, and Aether planned to use that to his advantage.
The losses are as follows: two contingents of their soldiers, a lesser dragon, thirteen homunculi. But even so, the operation was a success. The Twilight Sword has been collared and chained, Your Highness, and awaits your judgment in the dungeons.
Interesting, Aether says in response. And then, in a tone that is almost distracted but could never possibly be for how ruthless the Abyss knows him to be: Good. You are dismissed.
The Abyss, predictably, is a dark place, with little in the way of natural life, but Aether's "palace" boasts what few luxuries their forces can manage. The lifeless branches of petrified trees decorate the cold stone walls, as if in imitation of floral arrangements; rugs of tattered silk line the halls. Defying gravity, streams of water run upward along the walls in violation of the laws of Celestia. For five hundred years, this has been his home. And for five hundred more —
Aether's footsteps take him to Dainsleif's cell, where he stops and simply stares at his prisoner with eyes of cold amber.]
...Dain.
[Aether's voice is soft and quiet, perhaps even unexpectedly so. He lifts one hand, and the magicked bars dissolve; as he steps through them, they re-form behind him. He isn't bothered. He doesn't mind being in the cage of the beast so long as he still holds its leash.]
I never thought I'd see you like this again.
no subject
There's some merit to the idea. He doesn't entirely despise it. Is it better to be dead than to be plagued by the guilt of failure, the frustration of biding one's time? Years pass in the blink of an eye, like this, and time seems to lose almost all of its meaning; it's hard to know what day it is, what time, only that the sun rises and falls like it had before, and even so, the Abyss continues in the darkness. The fruitless pursuit continues on, and while he can praise Aether for his determination, it's the driving force of both of their stubborn desires that puts them, decidedly, at odds now. A part of him feels sorry for the sister that desires to find her brother just as he had been, warm and sunny and alive; he doesn't know where that brother has gone, now.
Maybe it's a moment of weakness that makes it easier for them, or maybe his recovery period is too long. He should have known that the events in the Chasm would lead to something even worse than what he witnessed himself--should have known that Aether might change his mind like a butterfly squirming out of its cocoon, bursting out the top without care for those around it. It's easier to contend with the comfort of death, however impossible, than it is to contend with capture: and he doesn't make it easy, and Aether has to know that he wouldn't, and that makes it more despicable. The cell that he's put into is impossible to escape, though he hadn't tried--it's just something he knows. The shackles that keep his hands twisted together can't be wrangled open, the chain at his throat, throbbing with each swallow, is impossible to pull away from.
When Aether joins him, he's sitting pin straight and rigid on the stone bench that's been placed at the back of the cell, eyes closed, hands resting lightly in his lap. What else is there to do but rest, in this place? Expending energy screaming or crying for help has never been something he's done; assessing the situation and discovering the best course of action, logical, has always been the shrewd, sharp dagger of talent in his mind. ]
Like this?
[ He repeats, droll, and his eyes open--Aether moved past the bars with ease, and standing before him, he looks warm, pleasant, slightly damp from a shower or a bath or a dip in a lake. The smell of his bath salts, or his soaps, or whatever it must be, feels sickening: and here he is, in a dark, damp cell, smeared with dust and dirt and his own blood, caked in around his jaw, dried underneath the slender material of his gloves. ]
You are quite fond of nostalgia. I suppose that hasn't changed.
no subject
[Standing at the edge of the cell, Aether looks at Dainsleif and thinks of flowers. He thinks of trees, and the grass that once flourished beneath their feet, and the way the wind had felt in their hair and between their fingers, so many years ago.
None of these things will come back to him now no matter how hard he wishes for them — but here, by the force of his own will, and with lives he was willing to sacrifice, he has brought Dain back to him. At last, after so many years, he has brought one thing back.
The sweet floral scent upon his wrists — does it sicken Dainsleif, truly? Aether can't know that as he comes closer, as he crouches low to meet his disheveled, tattered knight at the same eye level. That in itself might be a surprise — if this were about revenge, somehow, if this were about betrayal, surely Aether would stay standing — but what must come as even more of a surprise is the way he reaches out and touches Dain's bloodied jaw with his bare fingers. The way he tips Dain's jaw just the barest bit, to look at him properly. Take him in, in full.
Even dirtied, and bloodstained, and wounded, and feral — even after all these years, Aether still thinks that Dain is the most beautiful thing in the world.]
You haven't changed.
[And is that true, really? It feels as though he's changed an awful lot. They both have. But Aether just looks, for a long time, and doesn't say anything more. He stays quite still, like a statue that has forgotten how to move. A puppet, coursing through its motions on abyssal strings.]
no subject
He doesn't move, when Aether crouches down in front of him, although he finds it a touch surprising, and just like that, a touch alarming, all the same. Why should the great Prince of the Abyss lower himself to the preconceived level of those that betray him? What can he hope to gain, like this, except some mild manner of forgiveness by placing himself where his own eyes can look at him properly? It should scream of control, or trickery, or some sort of trap, and yet: all he sees, when Aether lowers himself, are Aether's bright eyes, watching him the way someone might watch the beautiful ornamental fish in a pond. A longing for their freedom, perhaps, or some enjoyment from seeing them so close, undisturbed.
He holds that gaze for a moment, studies it. A part of him, rightfully, expects to see nothing of the person that he accompanied, that he perhaps even loved, for a time, in there, as though all hope has been extinguished, but he finds that not to be the case. Somehow, that's more disturbing.
After a moment, he can't look any longer: his gaze wanders, traces up the wall of the cell before looking down, pointedly, at the rough, dirty knee of his pants. ]
Don't let yourself get all marked up with my blood. Wipe it off. [ Not so much a command as a gentle instruction--not really full of any sort of emotion at all, really. ] Is there something you wanted?
[ It's better to get down to business, whatever the business of the night may be. He can't say he's entirely against the idea of ending it all, of being freed from this curse, but at the same time, it feels--unfair, in a sense. There's no reason why he should suddenly be relieved of the burden that he deserves, and looking at Aether, he feels this all the more. It's not just a city, or its people, that he let down, but: a special someone, that he should have known better how to protect.
Patient, he takes in a breath, lets it out slowly, and squares his shoulders back, as though he's waiting in line for a drink, rather than waiting for a sentencing. ]
Well? You aren't here to stare at me, I'm sure.
no subject
Dainsleif looks down, and Aether can't help but find that endearing, too. He's like a sulking puppy, a shy kitten, ears low and pawing bashfully at the ground.
(There's fear in his deep blue eyes, hiding behind that stoic face, and Aether knows that. He just doesn't think that that's a bad look on the man, either. He quite likes the fear in Dainsleif's eyes — just not that flatness, that dispirited demeanor. They'll work that out of him soon enough. When Celestia falls, he won't have to look that way at Aether ever again.)
Perhaps, Aether thinks, Dainsleif needs a demonstration of what he means to the prince of the Abyss; it's been so long, after all, and there have been so many misunderstandings between the two of them. He needs to learn.
And so, without hesitation, Aether leans forward, and licks a stripe through the blood on Dainsleif's face. It's metallic, but strangely tasteless, too, as if the curse of Celestia threatens to erase his very existence from the world. It only makes Aether want to chase his taste even more, for fear that they don't have much time left with one another. Opening his eyes, Aether draws back, blood coloring the lines of his lips; he licks them clean, and then smiles.]
I missed you.
[The traveler who no longer travels leans forward and wraps his arms around Dainsleif's shoulders. Hands laced together, ever so delicately cradling him close.
Cuffed and shackled, Dain might still be able to push him away, but is that dangerous, in such a situation? Is that wise?]
I missed you, Dain.
no subject
It annoys him, then, that Aether forces him to compromise on those ideals. It annoys him that Aether goes to such lengths to go against his words, that Aether's breath feels hot on his skin in a way where it should feel dead and cold; it annoys him that the feeling of Aether's tongue, drawn up through a line of his own blood, stirs something inside of him that he had long since locked away. There's blood on the lines of Aether's lips, when he draws back and then comes in close again--a bit more of it, surely, gets smeared on him as he leans in close.
The arms around his shoulders make them stiffen, but he doesn't push him away. It is dangerous, and it's not wise.
Instead, his own hands link together, palm to palm, fingers grinded in between fingers, knuckles clenched tightly together. ]
That's what you've come to show me? [ His voice is still the same, quiet boredom from before, but there's a small hitch in his breath; having Aether this close is pulling up memories that he had buried, memories that flood in, unbidden, as though desperate to be recognized. ] Very well. I understand.
[ The risk is, of course, closing his eyes: when they shutter, he remembers lying in a bed with Aether's beautiful hair draped out around them, warm in the light; he remembers Aether's smile, his laughter, the bravery and the kindness that he showed to everyone, the desire that he showed behind closed doors. He remembers a man that he would have died for, a man that he should have died for, and a man led astray: and what is he to do now, what could he possibly accomplish? He's never been able to convince Aether of anything, at least not so far. It wouldn't be hard to fake affection for him--mostly because it wouldn't be fake.
With a deep breath, he sighs. ] Perhaps you might take me to wash up. No more of my taste on your tongue.
no subject
[Playfully petulant, Aether rests his cheek against Dainsleif's chest for a time, indifferent to the fact that the man won't touch him, can't touch him with his hands cuffed like this. In a way, it wouldn't even matter if Dainsleif couldn't feel that faint affection from five hundred years ago stirring in his breast: the depth of Aether's madness is that he would love Dainsleif even if the man himself snarled at him and tried to tear him apart.
But since he won't. Since he won't, wouldn't, never would, not his Dainsleif, his perfect Dain. Since he won't, they can enjoy this moment — this fragile, fleeting peace. Aether can rest his head over Dainsleif's beating heart and listen to the hitch in his voice, and he can pretend that instead of five hundred years of fruitless struggle, he spent all that time indulging in the time that Dainsleif has left before Celestia, at last, comes to collect on its promises.]
...I missed you.
[Thinking about it for too long makes him want to cry, so he resolves to stop thinking about it. Weakness has crept into his voice again, and the truth of the matter is that the so-called prince of the Abyss hates himself for how weak he really is. But he won't falter, even so. He won't break, even so.
He was strong enough to bring Dain back by force.]
...You'll look better without the blood, though. And I want to help you wash.
[Aether stirs, lifting his head of glorious golden hair so that he can peer at Dainsleif with warm, honey-gold eyes. He pulls back, stands up. Takes Dainsleif by the elbow to help lift him to his feet. Effortless — even a little gallant. The way he used to be.]
Come on. Let's go.
[Back to his private bathroom, where he was bathing. Back to the cold marble and the hot bath, where Dainsleif can bathe with him too.
Albeit with the cuffs still on.]
no subject
Perhaps he had been caught in that wave, as well. Now, it leaves him on a cold beach, drenched in the sand, with bits of the sea crawling over him, desperate to pinch at ripe skin in the hopes of making it bleed.
It's of no surprise that Aether lifts him up, from where he's seated, but it is of some surprise that he remains shackled, even while doing so. A part of him had expected that Aether's soft sorrow might will him some mercy, but it is a calculated move, and one that he finds he respects, no matter how begrudgingly. For the tenth time, his hands strain on one side of the cuffs to the next, but the way they give is hardly forgiving, and he isn't capable of breaking through them.
So, he follows. The path upwards, away from this dungeon, is as he expected it would be: as they walk, his shoulders go rigid, a firm, unbending line of silent pride; even drenched in blood, beaten and sore, he won't cower or clamor at Aether's back like some fearful follower. Instead, he observes his surroundings in quiet determination, as though trying to remember everything just in case it's necessary. By the time the doors open to the bathroom, he's steeled himself for the sight of luxury.
And it is luxurious, at least compared to where he's been forced to bathe lately. The marble looks cold, dark and pretty, and the tub is curved and spacious, the whole of the room open and wide. With a glance towards Aether, gauging, he then looks back to the bath and lifts his shoulders once with a sigh. ]
...If you removed these, you wouldn't need to help. [ It's stating the obvious, but there is a small shred of humor in his voice, as he lifts his hands. The cuffs make a soft, clanging sound as the chain between them moves. ] I suppose you understand that.
no subject
[There's some humor in this, a bitter kind: as seemingly empty-headed and affectionately mad as Aether is currently acting, they both know full well that only cold-hearted determination underlines the Abyss Prince's actions at the end of every day, and the speed with which Aether has just declined Dainsleif's request belies his true motives. His veneer of sweetness, the soft golden glow about him that Dainsleif once knew and cherished — it, like everything else, has been tainted by the Abyss, where the survivors of Khaenri'ah rock their tortured souls back and forth, mumbling incoherently about fate and the cruelty of the gods.
Aether wonders if Dainsleif hates him now. He can't imagine that he doesn't; he's hated Dainsleif, too. For not understanding; for not forgiving him his wild dream, his impossible ambition to make everything right. Because all of this, in the end, has been meant to make things right; all of this has been for Dainsleif. Even in the torturous mess of hating him, Aether seeks his forgiveness for sins that no one save the gods in Celestia have the power to forgive.
Nevertheless. With effervescent, false tenderness, Aether leads Dainsleif to the edge of the tub, where a decorative set of stairs provides a makeshift stool of sorts. He makes Dainsleif sit down, the better to address their height difference — then he sets about removing the former guardsman's clothing. It's not an easy thing to manage; Dainsleif's old uniform was largely ceremonial and not meant to be easily worn or removed. Still, Aether's patient. He knows where to find the hidden hooks and zippers, how to undo the belts holding his vest together at the back, what the lovely, pale column of Dainsleif's throat looks like once it's been bared to the elements.]
Would you like me to remove them?
[It's coercion, he knows, but he doesn't mind. Coercion will get him everything he wants in the end.]
Tell me that you love me. If you tell me that you love me, then I'll take them off.
no subject
As Aether leads him to the edge of the tub, forces him to sit at the decorative stairs, he knows that, even more than the uniform, Aether will strip him of so many of those things. Hatred, retribution, desire, pain: as slim fingers work at the outer layer of his uniform, he finds the act of being laid bare akin to the way a chef might fillet a fish. It's important to leave just enough skin; it's important to do away with the bones and organs with precision and care. Aether gets him undressed from the waist up, the fabric loose around his shoulders, and his breath, flexed through pale skin, shows only calm disregard. ]
Is that the price?
[ Turning, his gaze lands on the bathroom wall--but his throat, bared now to Aether's gaze, works once, twice, almost like he's holding something back. Perhaps it's some of that anger, or disappointment, or maybe it's that he hasn't thought to say words like that in quite some time.
With another soft sigh, he brings his hands up, lays them out, shackled, against his thighs. ]
I love you. [ It isn't like it's a lie: his voice has its usual pallor, like a ripe fruit that's been left out in the sun for too long, dry and absent. ] And I'm tired, of loving you.