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It was, in a word, sanctuary.
Renathal panted as Theotar pulled the hair at the nape of his neck. The sting drew his muscles taut, loosened the hot anima in his veins, stole his control. Regent's control. Courtier's control. Harvester's control. Warrior's control.
The control that kept him sound throughout his innumerable days in a cage. Days that lingered within him, body and breath, knotting his soul and stifling even the curl of his toes.
Theotar understood. The other side of his coin. The chaos of madness. The need for power. Power over something. Someone. If not himself.
"Yes, my dear prince," Theotar said. He tightened his grip until a whine caught in Renathal's throat. "Just like so."
Renathal curled his fingers into the rug on which he knelt. In candlelight, they took on a sheen against the dull maroon and red of old wool. Anima glowed from within. Sinuous, burning, heating his skin until he grew pink. Theotar, sitting on his back as though riding side-saddle, drew his nails across Renathal's shoulder.
"You've gone pink and white. My colours." He tugged Renathal's hair. "I never forgot. No matter how fierce the light became."
Renathal laughed, a dry little thing. "I never forgot how many courtiers asked why only you could enter your petit maison. Why you kept the Countess so close. You never told them."
"And let them know she and her Stonewright were in on the secret? That I writhed on the prince's cock? My dear."
Theotar's cheer. Like Sinfall before Denathrius's betrayal. Like Redelav Tower in the old times, when they spent the darkness pressed together. Sane Theotar. Clever Theotar. A soul redeemed through joy rather than sorrow, who carried his joy wherever he went.
The same joy that yet gleamed behind a fog of the Ember Ward.
Renathal turned his head to look back over his shoulder. "Please, my love."
"Please what?"
"Please, anything."
Good Theotar. Joyous Theotar. He slid from Renathal's back and to his knees, and kissed him. Kissed him again. Again. Soft, simple, nothing more than the kindest of touches.
By the Maw, Renathal needed such kindness, given the days ahead.
He sighed at the sting of Theotar's fingernails against his throat. Theotar kissed him once more, took Renathal's beard between his teeth, tugged it. Grinned. Renathal pressed his face to the crook of Theotar's shoulder. Small Theotar. Delicate Theotar. Gaunt and fragile, his hand engulfed when Renathal clasped it.
"More."
"My prince."
Blessed Theotar. Precious Theotar. From whom a wretched title became the sweetest of songs.
Their clothing lay beside the rug, hidden in shadows made deeper by the cold stone walls standing witness. From the scattered mess, Theotar drew a slender wooden rod. A parasol rib. Renathal arched against its scrape along his spine. Theotar pushed his hair over his shoulders, though he wrapped his fingers in enough strands to ache. He tugged. Renathal gasped and went taut, a dog on its lead, a soul on its chain.
Released from power for a few precious minutes. Redeemed. And renewed. A newborn venthyr with the dearest of sires.
The rod struck his arse. He shivered.
"Tell me to stop," Theotar said.
"Never."
"Never?" Theotar drew the rod along the curve at the top of Renathal's thigh.
"Please, never."
Renathal pressed against the rod's tickle. A strike, a sting, another. Anima rising hot in his skin. He shifted his knees, a wider stance, the base of a statue, and whimpered when Theotar drew the rod from his scrotum to the small of his back.
"I shall stop, my prince, when the anima grows cold within me. I shall never stop so long as tea remains."
Renathal chuckled. "Your bloody tea."
"Only bloody when nothing else is available."
Witty Theotar. Indomitable Theotar.
Another sting. Another gasp broken in Renathal's throat. He pressed for more, only for Theotar to yank his hair and tut.
"My prince, if you wanted to act of your own accord, we ought to have played a different game."
Frustrating Theotar. Bloody impossible Theotar.
"Would you bind me to hold me still?" Renathal bowed his head against the tug of his hair. "Ask Draven to pin me to the floor while you have your way with me?"
"Really, my dear, there's no reason to bring him into it."
Renathal laughed. He had not laughed much in far too long. Anima swirled and bound his wrists, and his ankles as well. It glided over itself like vipers, red and black and every colour in between. He tested the bond, only for the vipers to slither up his arms and force him to his forearms.
"Really, my prince, you think so little of my skills?" Theotar's voice held a grin. Renathal looked up at him--so strange, such an angle, so different from gazing down. Gazing amongst others. "Ought I bind you more thoroughly?"
As if he had ever been free of Theotar's bonds. Perhaps they formed around his sluggish heart when Denathrius made him, lying in wait until joy and tea and tenderness brought them to startling realization.
"Yes, please," he said, and Theotar kissed him. Tender Theotar. Beloved Theotar.
Renathal returned it, pressed for more, whispered primal absolution against Theotar's tongue. Theotar shivered and struck his slender rod to Renathal's shoulder. He stroked the spot, the pink welt rising, shimmering with anima, and ducked to kiss the mark. Renathal's belly tingled, a frisson of hope. Enchanted Renathal. Devoted Renathal. Happy Renathal.
Happy within their cell beneath Sinfall. Their petit maison, where only walls and tapestries watched, keeping their secrets until the moment death itself failed, and the Shadowlands crumbled to dust.
Perhaps their dust would mingle, just as their anima yearned to mingle from beneath their skins.
"Would you have me?" Renathal said.
Theotar fell still. Drew back. "My prince?"
"Please, dearest friend."
Theotar sat on the rug and leaned against his knees. "You would---"
"Writhe on your cock."
The fiery gleam in Theotar's eyes rose to an inferno. "My prince, I--your station--I---"
"There are no stations here." Were it not for the anima binding Renathal's forearms, he would have taken Theotar's hand. "I am no prince, and you are my Theotar."
Theotar stared. Just as Renathal opened his mouth to say he would rather they be happy than well-fucked, Theotar kissed him, tongue and teeth and the prickle of fangs. Blood and anima between their mouths. Theotar's hands in his hair, Renathal pressing for every part of him.
So much for relinquishing control.
"Your mouth is the finest tea," Theotar said, and bit Renathal's lip. "It tastes of you."
"And you would know what I taste like."
Theotar chuckled and sucked Renathal's lip, drew it into his mouth, teased it with his tongue. The grey of his skin flickered as anima rose beneath. Renathal closed his eyes---
He cried out at the slap of Theotar's rod across his flank. Again it fell, over and over, its burn and rise meeting the pull against his bottom lip. He shivered and thrust his tongue into Theotar's mouth. Tasted his own anima, his own blood. The tea Theotar so craved. So worshipped.
Holy Theotar. Holy, and divine.
The darkness of the divine.
The dear, holy darkness.
Renathal drew back. Gazed into Theotar's eyes. "How would you have me?"
Theotar swallowed. His eyes burned. "In every way."
"Every way?"
"Perhaps not in the middle of Court. The guests would insist I share."
Renathal laughed. "I thought you enjoyed sharing at your parties."
"Not when the tea is so delicious."
And there it was. The quirk of Theotar's mouth, the glee that lifted him from gaunt to glorious. The enthusiasm that moved in his hands as he spoke and gestured and wove stories with his fingers. He danced: not as courtiers might to music, but as motes of dust did in candlelight. As fireflies danced among anima mist late in the evening. As stars danced in the sky.
Renathal could only dream he might one day dance as Theotar did.
He nodded to his forearms. "Would you have me like this, or might I touch you?"
Theotar drew his fingers through the anima binding Renathal's arms and feet. It floated away, strands curling around each other, fine as spider's silk. Rose to the ceiling and tumbled. Theotar drew it to his hands, his dancing hands, where it spun at his fingertips, swirling, weaving fleeting images, lifting and turning and reaching to join with him. The strands flickered, and their light danced into Theotar's veins. Lit his skin. Illuminated his smile, his great, shining smile, and the creases of laughter around his mouth. He shone. He shone and danced, even in the holy dark.
"You are wondrous," Renathal said.
Theotar looked at him as though he, too, was mad.
Renathal ran his fingers over Theotar's hair. He traced his widow's peak, stroked the skin at his crown, took down the braid at the back and carded it loose. Theotar huffed.
"It always takes me ages to get it right again!" he said, but loosened the knot in back and combed with his fingers until his hair lay around his shoulders, thick and wild. Renathal drew it aside so it bared one side of his neck.
Beautiful Theotar. So very beautiful.
"Come here," Renathal said.
Theotar did. He settled against Renathal's chest, narrow and lithe as the cats that prowled Sinfall for rodents, startling the dredgers as they went. Renathal nuzzled his chin, mussing his beard and earning a huff. Vain Theotar. So terribly vain. Theotar ran his dancing fingers over Renathal's ribs.
"You'd still let me have you, my dear?"
"Until the skies crumble."
Theotar pressed his forehead to Renathal's. Brushed their noses together. Pulled his hair.
Renathal shivered. Theotar pulled again, harder. Renathal whimpered and tightened his grasp on Theotar. On his love. On the only soul that would ever hold every part of him.
He pulled Theotar to sit across him, no longer side-saddle, but as one might ride a war-beast. Gazed at him. Wound his fingers in Theotar's hair as though it was anima. Trailed his other hand over bones where they sat sat beneath the surface. Traced the rise and fall of muscle under the veil of his skin, the play of shadow and substance, sinew and flesh. Theotar's fingertips pricked Renathal's shoulders where he squeezed. Renathal tipped his head back. Offered himself. Theotar gripped his throat.
"Like so, my dearest prince."
The weight of his palm and his words filled Renathal's chest and flooded his belly. His voice was a river, and the rain, and the bursting of banks. Rain, a rarity in Revendreth. As transparent and vital as Theotar's gaze. The rising crook at the corner of his mouth. His clever, wicked mouth.
"Come here," Renathal said, taking Theotar's hips, his slender hips, in his hands. "I want to taste you."
Theotar's lips fell open. His knees tightened against Renathal's ribs. "What? My prince--Renathal--I thought I was giving the orders!"
"It's been so long, my dearest. Let me do this."
And there it shone. There, in the black of Theotar's eye, the honeycomb the Ember Ward left in its wake. The certainly of the soul that, no, it would never deserve what it needed. What it craved. Even a soul redeemed in joy could learn sorrow.
Renathal drew him closer. Cupped his cheek and stifled the terror in his eyes. No, the Ember Ward was not kind. Never kind. The light, the terrible light, threw error into relief. Made it greater than it could ever truly be. Seared it into the mind, into the heart, into the self. Light and mirrors. Deadly things, when one feared what one might see.
"My beautiful Theotar." Renathal cupped Theotar's jaw. "The dearest of souls. You are my joy."
Theotar shivered. Anima flared between their skins. He bent and kissed Renathal, panting, seeking, finding water in a drought, pressing his tender mouth all around Renathal's, the edges of his lips. Demanded. Sought. Thrust forth with tongue and teeth and anima, and fingers wound in Renathal's hair. The balm of his mouth. The tea of his soul, steeped long and deep, yet ever sweet. Ever hot, ever potent, ever and always.
Renathal urged him. Urged him to kneel, towering, awkward and near, and drew him into his mouth. Theotar whimpered and bent to grip the floor, to pull the hair in his grasp, to fuck until he stilled and shuddered, taut, bowed, pressed against Renathal's tongue and throat. Renathal moaned around him. Theotar jerked, jerked again, gasps softer than feathers and finer than wine.
He smelled of flesh and soil.
He smelled of home.
"My dearest--my dearest prince--oh, my dear---"
Renathal hushed him with a press of his tongue. Theotar pushed forth. Again and again, taking what was offered. Renathal held him, hands on his back, tracing his ribs, counting his spine. A living rosary. Living beyond the veil of death.
Theotar wrenched free. Renathal reached for him, for more, but Theotar looked at him in such a way as to make him stop.
"You don't want--want to have to wait," Theotar said between breaths, "for me to have you."
"You suggest your prince is an impatient man?"
"My prince is a man." Theotar sat on Renathal's chest, elbow on his knees, smirking with promise. "Men are never patient."
"Really?" Renathal took Theotar's hips, squeezed, kneaded, took two handfuls of his arse. "And how many men have you known?"
A flicker. A moment from life. Theotar smiled, but turned his face away.
"Enough to keep me from Bastion, my dearest one."
A moment. Quiet. Taut between them. Theotar met his eyes, looked away.
"I would know them all again if it meant I have you."
Well. There was only one thing for it.
Renathal kissed him.
Theotar shuddered. Clung to his hair. Pulled and pressed and bit his own tongue, and shared his anima, hot in Renathal's mouth. His blood. The touch of his skin, the tang of his soul.
"On your side, my dear."
Renathal obeyed. Drew Theotar's hand to his belly and held it, held it, until he lost the boundary between them. Theotar pressed against him, as they used to in Redelav Tower, belly to back, their situations reversed, pressed his open mouth over ribs, between scapulae. Warm. Gentle. The prick of fangs and absolution of kindness.
Kind Theotar. Oh, his kind Theotar.
His Theotar.
"We really should do this in a bed next time," Theotar said against his arm. "Oh! My aching bones!"
Renathal chuckled. "Your bones? You're the ache in my backside!"
"Give me enough time to get to that."
"You would try a man's patience?"
Theotar bit him.
Renathal rolled onto his front, laughing. Theotar went with him, a barnacle, a lichen. Laughing with him. A lilting song for only the two of them. Glee. Joy. Such joy.
Renathal looked back over his shoulder. Drew up his knee. Bared himself as he would to no other. "I would ache for you."
Theotar's breath hitched. "My dearest friend."
"Always."
Theotar lifted his hand. Anima sparked on his fingertips, wove itself to jelly. "You still have never...?"
"Only with myself." And Theotar's name on his tongue.
"My dear." And Theotar kissed his shoulder, his arm, the side of his neck, where anima burned bright. Renathal tipped his head, and Theotar nipped. Renathal shuddered as blood and anima slipped to the surface, and sighed as Theotar licked it away. Theotar squirmed as he did, his cock a stone against Renathal's back.
"Are you determined to prove my impatient manhood?" Renathal said. "Stop rutting that thing against my spine and put it in me!"
Theotar squeaked. His cock twitched. Renathal chuckled.
"You will tell me if," Theotar said as he moved lower. So small, small enough to carry. "If you, I mean, if---"
"If I'd rather you writhe."
"Oh, my dear."
Renathal shifted enough to make his point. Theotar murmured against his skin and, as though taming some skittish creature, eased his finger, wet with anima jelly, around and inside.
"Ah!" Renathal could not help but press for more. Smooth and taut. Gentle and slow. A twist. A tug. A shiver that left him starved. No wonder Theotar always writhed so.
"More, my prince?" Theotar's voice sparked like anima, warmed like blood.
"More and more."
And Theotar, generous Theotar, did as Renathal bade.
Soon, so very soon, Renathal squeezed his cock as though it might save him. "Theotar. Please, Theotar."
"But I'm having so much fun!"
Renathal looked back at him. Theotar sighed.
"Yes, to the festivities. To the party!"
Ridiculous Theotar. Utterly ridiculous, and correct.
"Tell me if?" And Theotar drew his hand away. "If?"
"Yes."
Theotar kissed his side, lips callused where his fangs pushed and rubbed. Renathal knew the calluses, would press his fingers to his own in his time in a cage, close his eyes and pretend they were Theotar's. He would know Theotar's mouth anywhere, everywhere. In life or in death, in sin or in salvation. In joy or sorrow. In love or....
In love. And so he would remain.
It stung. Not ever so much, but there was no gentle taper of fingers. No gradient from one to many. But he closed his eyes, breathed, hugged tight Theotar's arm around him. Smiled at the kisses to his back. Relinquished control.
Grew safe.
Understood why Theotar clung so in the dark.
"My prince," Theotar said against his skin.
"Yours."
Theotar kept his pace, slow and even, until Renathal's breath began to hitch. Break. Turn to whimpers and whispers and pleas. Renathal gasped when Theotar took his cock, fingers still slippery with anima, and frigged. Renathal pushed for more, squirmed, writhed. The air smelled of skin, of lust, of the tonics in Theotar's hair. Theotar moaned against Renathal's back, burying himself again and again. Whimpered and set to fucking. Fast, slick, urgent, rutting even as Renathal responded in kind.
Renathal closed his hand over Theotar's and frigged with him, faster, the motion stuttering as they ground together, rutted like beasts. A piece of sinew stretched within him, from his cock to Theotar's, winding tighter and tighter, stealing his breath and breaking free in cries. Words. Promises in a primordial tongue.
"My dear, please," Theotar said, and his voice split. He muffled his cry against Renathal's back, thrust once, twice, short and sharp and desperate, drawing Renathal to the edge of a cliff, a song he would follow into the Maw, and gladly.
Theotar seized, pulled close, cried out against Renathal's spine. Renathal tightened his fingers over Theotar's and frigged and frigged, and Theotar squeezed, and the dark, the holy dark closed around them, the red glow of anima mist, and he broke apart like a soul redeemed, his voice echoing, echoing, as he writhed.
Silence. Stillness. The sound of their breaths. The slip and cool of anima and other things.
Theotar crawled over Renathal's side and settled against him, rather like a cat. Renathal kissed his head and, when Theotar looked up, his mouth.
"No wonder you always insisted on being the one to writhe," Renathal said, and Theotar huffed.
"I'm sure you'll return the favour." He snuggled closer. "On a bed. The floor is terrible for my complexion."
"Anything you wish."
"Anything?"
"... Within reason."
Theotar laughed. Kissed him. Tucked his head under Renathal's chin. "There you go, spoiling my fun."
Renathal shook his head. Theotar. Silly Theotar.
His sanctuary, and there to remain.